I love Delhi auto-rickshaw drivers.
If you are a tourist to delhi, don’t waste your hard-earned money and get duped by the cheat tour conductors. Rely on the auto-rickshaw drivers for a nice detour.
I was in the national capital on Sunday for some official work. Although, I am no lover of a place with rude people all around, I was not averse to a sight seeing.
But then, I had no money or time to indulge in luxury.
I had to go to this famous grey market Palika Bazaar from Connaught Place, where my guest house was.
The auto driver agreed promptly, lowered the meter and started for the journey of my life.
We went through alleyways and treaded the six lane roads. We almost hit a motorcyle and escaped getting banged by a speeding bus.
I saw the Parliament at my left, and after sometime, at my right side. I saw a gang of children playing with red heart-shaped balloons in front of the famous India Gate. I saw them again -- now fighting pitched battle for the few remaining balloons, with their parents trying hard to pacify them.
In short I saw everything twice, thrice wih my driver telling me which is what.
"This is the backside of Jantar Mantar," he said.
"This is the entrance of Jantar Mantar," he guided me after half-an hour.
After about two hours, I landed at Palika Bazaar. The auto rickshaw guy charged me only Rs350 which I gladly shelled out.
After having my bag full of pirated softwares and computer games, which, if bought legally would cost me a fortune (NOOOOO, I will not name them, in case you go complain and burn my arse), I waited near the bazaar gate to get an auto. I asked a localite where do I get auto to go to my address at Conought Place.
He replied, “Venchod, dikh nahi raha hein woh tower?” (***** can’t you see the tower there?)
And so I walked home. Thanking my auto-rickshaw guy for showing me Delhi at a throwaway price.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
clash of the titans
We were set to conquer the world. Conquering our opponent team was just the beginning. If you were there in Bengal, you could have sensed the air was heavy with the smell of sulfur. We all Mohan Bagan fans burst so many crackers that since then our poor earth has started behaving erratically. Everyday in the newspapers you might find some grey-haired environmentalist warning about the next impending ice age. You might think all this has been caused by the increasing fossil fuel burning, but no!!!! It’s all because of the prelude to that much anticipated ‘clash of the titans’ as newspapers wrote as a run up to the match of the century -- the great Mohan Bagan versus the ordinary East Bengal. And you guessed right. The air turned yellow and heavy. Good luck if England is chillier than ever even this year. That’s our contribution. But if Sudan or Somalia is facing drought, we don’t take responsibilities for that. That’s the handiwork of those louts who support East Bengal – but that’s another story.
It’s ten years now, but feels like yesterday. Since a week before the match, the vernacular dailies had no news in their pages except some kind of pre-match analysis of the game. There were full-page cartoons of the captains of the both sides. “Clash of the Titans” under this headline the two captains were facing each other with hatred in their eyes. With square jaws (Mohan Bagan’s was squarer) and red eyes (you know whose was redder), two captains were staring each other. The cartoons soon became the topic of the evening debate. We successfully identified 37 weak points of the East Bengal captain. His eyes were reflecting a hint of fear, his biceps were not as fully developed as ours, and he was a tad thinner and oh gosh!!! The horns on the Viking helmet that he was wearing … they were almost blunt and bent facing each other. Whereas, our captain’s helmet was like … ‘come here and leave your eyes’ types.
I cannot list all the thirty sevens here but enthusiasts can email me.
Yes, you guessed it right. There were a round of cracker bursting. The air turned mild yellow across Bengal.
We were excited because we had a new coach for the team. The great coach, who went to watch the soccer world cup in the United States, painstakingly researched the real reasons for the better performance and invented a new technique.
A keen observer that he is, he found out the winner, Brazil team’s goalkeeper, always keeps a water bottle (a lucky charm) just behind the left bar of the goal post. He discovered the goalkeeper always touches his forehead on the left bar first and then runs to the right bar, touches it and then jumps to touch the cross bar.
He also discovered that the lead Brazilian striker has gold in his teeth and the main defender always pulls his pant before hitting the field. Before every corner kick, the player (whoever he is) scratches his head. And oh yes, most of them have short hairs to cut through the air. Those who were finicky about the aero dynamics were entirely bald.
The entire match he was busy noting down the real reasons of the successful Brazilian team and came back to India with a world-conqueror smile.
He was also convinced that in a game like football, speed is the keyword. Skill comes second. Speed is everything.
He was quick in implementing his findings. All the players of our team parted ways with their fancy hair. Our goalkeeper learnt the art of saluting the goal posts. Our lead corner taker, who only parallels Beckham, soon started scratching his head and so on. The striker’s teeth were covered with gold.
Oh yes, our coach did not forget to bring a Brazilian water bottle with him which duly graced the left bar.
He also invented a new tactics. Indian football is Indian football because players don’t run much. These lazy players are content with kicking the ball whenever it comes near their feet. Kicking is their work but where it lands is not the their concern. But the inherent mechanism is such that the ball always will land up to the right person. Say, for example you passed (or miss-passed as you western snobs might think) the ball to the opponent team, the player concerned again will pass it to his opponent. It’s a nice show of brotherhood and game spirit. India never attacked anybody in its 3000 years of history. Footballers know that very well. They don’t attack each other even in the finals. They also feel ashamed if they accidentally score a goal. So most of our matches are goal less or decided over the penalty. In matches with foreign countries they are ready to absorb the shocks. They get to eat all the goals, they give none … narrow minded fellows.
But this time it was different. Our aggressive coach was hell-bent that he would uproot this practice of a peaceful coexistence and will turn the peace-loving grass grazers into fierce warriors. His tactics was simple. When the ball is with you, the whole team start attacking. The whole team, if need be the goalkeeper, should come up to the opponent’s box. And when the ball comes to our box, the whole team should spring into action to defend the motherland. He called it the Indian blitzkrieg. Thanks to him, many got to know about the famous Hitler tactics. We didn’t mind when our East Bengal rivals were also illuminated. After all, they always need illumination. We were quite happy to educate them, as we have always been in the lead role of educating our countrymen.
Our coach also learnt that pre-match war of words is as important as in-match skills. So he was quick in calling the opponent’s feared (as they claim) striker Omoleja as omelette. Their captain Baichung, who was hailed by the EB fans as the scorpion of the hill, as the ‘earthworm of the hill”. He called for the Nigerian ‘Cheema’ to have a ‘jeevan beema’ or life insurance.
So, the stage was set. And the crackers were getting costlier with the passing time. They were in short supply and you have to wait in queues to grab a box of chocolate bomb. The earth was getting threatened to get covered with green-maroon flags. Wherever there was a shortage of maroon, we were quick in painting the entire nearby clothes available after our team’s jersey colour.
Such was the hatred for the opponent’s orange-yellow jersey that kids refused to have orange or lemon icecreams. They just demanded that their icecreams be coloured either maroon or green or both. So the now famous ‘MohanBagan Icecream’ was conceptualised.
Eden Garden! The great stadium with a seating capacity of 1 lakh 30 thousand was over-pouring with supporters of the both teams. All the Mohan Bagan fans came in flocks to abuse the East Bengal fans that also came in equal numbers to get tormented and humiliated by us.
And the clash of the titans began!!!!!
Just as the referee blew his whistle, the ball was on to our side. Eleven players charged like a tsunami. There was absolute panic in the East Bengal box. Red-yellow jerseys were scattering here and there not understanding what to do.
Back in the gallery at the Mohan Bagan stand, the environment was electrifying. We were shouting beyond our capacity. We were teasing the poor East Bengal fans, who were dumbstruck by the sheer velocity of the attack, with friendly abuses which they deciphered as dirty slangs. Half of the people in our box were half naked as we pulled out our jersey and were rotating it above our head. Mexican waves rolled half of the stadium at out side. The world has never seen such aggressive attack in a football match ever.
But then, as one of our players, forgetting the aggressiveness that his great coach has taught, passed on the ball to a player of the opponent team as a sign of old camaraderie. And that bugger, without even considering returning the favour, going against the curtsy, hit the ball towards our empty goal post. The goalkeeper who was also assisting the attack ran like an arrow to defend his turf.
The East Bengal fans started hollering like a pack of dogs.
But then they did not see our full plan. At the same electric speed that our team attacked, they again came down to defend their box and the day was saved. The ball was again at the opponent’s box.
We again started hurling friendly abuses to the other team’s fans, sitting at an aisle apart, separated by a fence.
Again the opponent was baffled. But our team could not take advantage of the situation or may be they could not forget they are gentlemen. None of their shot came near the goal post, but ended up on the defender’s feet who was prompt in kicking it towards our box. With no art, no game spirit, just like a robot, he was taking the ball from our skilful strikers and passing it on to his hungry striker waiting at our box. Only because of that striker has a fluke luck of scoring goals somehow, our great goalkeeper could not leave his goal post to assist his lightening fast comrades. Bastard!
The wave of attacks and quickly regrouping happened for some more time.
Our group went up, came down, went up again, came down again, went up like a storm, came down like a wave, attacked again like Roman centurions… but could not come down this time.
They were tired. Out of breath. Panting like dogs. Just within the first ten minutes of the game.
And they never recovered.
Game and war have ethics. You are not a great warrior if you violate the ethics and win the war. East Bengal did precisely that. Taking advantage of our tired team, they just walked and scored their first goal. Nobody gave them a fight when they scored the second.
There was a pal of gloom among us. I was not in a position to speak. I had ruptured my vocal chord shouting for my team. Many were experiencing the same, for we were communicating in gestures. Our opponents, louts as they are, were creating sound pollution without even noticing that there might be some old people with heart ailment who could pop it if they continue to shout like this.
These uneducated lots were hurling dirty slangs at us. The same words that we uttered in a great game spirit, they were uttering those words with a tone that clearly was insulting.
We didn’t expect this from them when clearly both were Bengalis. But then, they have a different history. It is clear if Mohan Bagan plays against Brazil or any other country they will support Brazil or that country only because they are anti-Mohan. Traitors!
But we were not there to flout rules. With due respect to the spirit of the game, dumb, we were watching the match. Some were walking towards the gate even when the match was only fifteen minutes. All our body builders and our pride left us and the stadium.
But then the opportunity came again.
We always knew they have the worst kind of defence. They scored a self-goal out of utter complacency. The goalkeeper was playing with the ball when it slipped from his hand and hit the net.
That was a moral booster. We started shouting again. The words that they were using for us were duly returned with extra cheese smacked on them.
Our team also recovered a bit, or so we sensed. We started forecasting doom for the East Bengal team. Perhaps they also sensed so.
Only to stop us, expert fence climbers as they always are, they adopted the same technique as our tem and came at an electric speed. Climbed our fence, beat us and again at the same manner went on to their gallery. Before we could react, the police came in between. We always knew the police are on their side. We always have seen that.
With bleeding nose and injured pride we started singing for our team. But those bastards were again panting like dogs. Before long the omelette and the earthworm of the hill had score hatricks each.
May be these barbarians, remembering the game spirit, stopped scoring goals and instead started playing with our players. Passing ball through their shaking legs and hitting them with the ball to claim a throw and again to pass it through their shaking legs. It was devastation.
We came home battered and bruised. Our team had let us down. The saddest day of our lives.
And then it started. Yes, these East Bengal fans started bursting their crackers.
Now we knew why the crackers were so costly to get. Bloody hoarders!
Remember, what our first Prime Minister Nehru had to say about hoarders? They should be hanged from the first lamppost. Alas, since we lack leaders like him today, not a single East Bengal fan was hanged.
They went on bursting the crackers. Without giving a damn about the old people, patients in the hospital or school children preparing for the exams.
Their bloody noisy celebration went on for days … weeks. They didn’t stop until the air turned red-yellow, the colour of their jersey.
So now you know what is the real reason for the global warming. Since winter comes before summer, we take full responsibility for the chilling winter weather in England, but we won’t and don’t take responsibility for the Somalian drought. Period.
It’s ten years now, but feels like yesterday. Since a week before the match, the vernacular dailies had no news in their pages except some kind of pre-match analysis of the game. There were full-page cartoons of the captains of the both sides. “Clash of the Titans” under this headline the two captains were facing each other with hatred in their eyes. With square jaws (Mohan Bagan’s was squarer) and red eyes (you know whose was redder), two captains were staring each other. The cartoons soon became the topic of the evening debate. We successfully identified 37 weak points of the East Bengal captain. His eyes were reflecting a hint of fear, his biceps were not as fully developed as ours, and he was a tad thinner and oh gosh!!! The horns on the Viking helmet that he was wearing … they were almost blunt and bent facing each other. Whereas, our captain’s helmet was like … ‘come here and leave your eyes’ types.
I cannot list all the thirty sevens here but enthusiasts can email me.
Yes, you guessed it right. There were a round of cracker bursting. The air turned mild yellow across Bengal.
We were excited because we had a new coach for the team. The great coach, who went to watch the soccer world cup in the United States, painstakingly researched the real reasons for the better performance and invented a new technique.
A keen observer that he is, he found out the winner, Brazil team’s goalkeeper, always keeps a water bottle (a lucky charm) just behind the left bar of the goal post. He discovered the goalkeeper always touches his forehead on the left bar first and then runs to the right bar, touches it and then jumps to touch the cross bar.
He also discovered that the lead Brazilian striker has gold in his teeth and the main defender always pulls his pant before hitting the field. Before every corner kick, the player (whoever he is) scratches his head. And oh yes, most of them have short hairs to cut through the air. Those who were finicky about the aero dynamics were entirely bald.
The entire match he was busy noting down the real reasons of the successful Brazilian team and came back to India with a world-conqueror smile.
He was also convinced that in a game like football, speed is the keyword. Skill comes second. Speed is everything.
He was quick in implementing his findings. All the players of our team parted ways with their fancy hair. Our goalkeeper learnt the art of saluting the goal posts. Our lead corner taker, who only parallels Beckham, soon started scratching his head and so on. The striker’s teeth were covered with gold.
Oh yes, our coach did not forget to bring a Brazilian water bottle with him which duly graced the left bar.
He also invented a new tactics. Indian football is Indian football because players don’t run much. These lazy players are content with kicking the ball whenever it comes near their feet. Kicking is their work but where it lands is not the their concern. But the inherent mechanism is such that the ball always will land up to the right person. Say, for example you passed (or miss-passed as you western snobs might think) the ball to the opponent team, the player concerned again will pass it to his opponent. It’s a nice show of brotherhood and game spirit. India never attacked anybody in its 3000 years of history. Footballers know that very well. They don’t attack each other even in the finals. They also feel ashamed if they accidentally score a goal. So most of our matches are goal less or decided over the penalty. In matches with foreign countries they are ready to absorb the shocks. They get to eat all the goals, they give none … narrow minded fellows.
But this time it was different. Our aggressive coach was hell-bent that he would uproot this practice of a peaceful coexistence and will turn the peace-loving grass grazers into fierce warriors. His tactics was simple. When the ball is with you, the whole team start attacking. The whole team, if need be the goalkeeper, should come up to the opponent’s box. And when the ball comes to our box, the whole team should spring into action to defend the motherland. He called it the Indian blitzkrieg. Thanks to him, many got to know about the famous Hitler tactics. We didn’t mind when our East Bengal rivals were also illuminated. After all, they always need illumination. We were quite happy to educate them, as we have always been in the lead role of educating our countrymen.
Our coach also learnt that pre-match war of words is as important as in-match skills. So he was quick in calling the opponent’s feared (as they claim) striker Omoleja as omelette. Their captain Baichung, who was hailed by the EB fans as the scorpion of the hill, as the ‘earthworm of the hill”. He called for the Nigerian ‘Cheema’ to have a ‘jeevan beema’ or life insurance.
So, the stage was set. And the crackers were getting costlier with the passing time. They were in short supply and you have to wait in queues to grab a box of chocolate bomb. The earth was getting threatened to get covered with green-maroon flags. Wherever there was a shortage of maroon, we were quick in painting the entire nearby clothes available after our team’s jersey colour.
Such was the hatred for the opponent’s orange-yellow jersey that kids refused to have orange or lemon icecreams. They just demanded that their icecreams be coloured either maroon or green or both. So the now famous ‘MohanBagan Icecream’ was conceptualised.
Eden Garden! The great stadium with a seating capacity of 1 lakh 30 thousand was over-pouring with supporters of the both teams. All the Mohan Bagan fans came in flocks to abuse the East Bengal fans that also came in equal numbers to get tormented and humiliated by us.
And the clash of the titans began!!!!!
Just as the referee blew his whistle, the ball was on to our side. Eleven players charged like a tsunami. There was absolute panic in the East Bengal box. Red-yellow jerseys were scattering here and there not understanding what to do.
Back in the gallery at the Mohan Bagan stand, the environment was electrifying. We were shouting beyond our capacity. We were teasing the poor East Bengal fans, who were dumbstruck by the sheer velocity of the attack, with friendly abuses which they deciphered as dirty slangs. Half of the people in our box were half naked as we pulled out our jersey and were rotating it above our head. Mexican waves rolled half of the stadium at out side. The world has never seen such aggressive attack in a football match ever.
But then, as one of our players, forgetting the aggressiveness that his great coach has taught, passed on the ball to a player of the opponent team as a sign of old camaraderie. And that bugger, without even considering returning the favour, going against the curtsy, hit the ball towards our empty goal post. The goalkeeper who was also assisting the attack ran like an arrow to defend his turf.
The East Bengal fans started hollering like a pack of dogs.
But then they did not see our full plan. At the same electric speed that our team attacked, they again came down to defend their box and the day was saved. The ball was again at the opponent’s box.
We again started hurling friendly abuses to the other team’s fans, sitting at an aisle apart, separated by a fence.
Again the opponent was baffled. But our team could not take advantage of the situation or may be they could not forget they are gentlemen. None of their shot came near the goal post, but ended up on the defender’s feet who was prompt in kicking it towards our box. With no art, no game spirit, just like a robot, he was taking the ball from our skilful strikers and passing it on to his hungry striker waiting at our box. Only because of that striker has a fluke luck of scoring goals somehow, our great goalkeeper could not leave his goal post to assist his lightening fast comrades. Bastard!
The wave of attacks and quickly regrouping happened for some more time.
Our group went up, came down, went up again, came down again, went up like a storm, came down like a wave, attacked again like Roman centurions… but could not come down this time.
They were tired. Out of breath. Panting like dogs. Just within the first ten minutes of the game.
And they never recovered.
Game and war have ethics. You are not a great warrior if you violate the ethics and win the war. East Bengal did precisely that. Taking advantage of our tired team, they just walked and scored their first goal. Nobody gave them a fight when they scored the second.
There was a pal of gloom among us. I was not in a position to speak. I had ruptured my vocal chord shouting for my team. Many were experiencing the same, for we were communicating in gestures. Our opponents, louts as they are, were creating sound pollution without even noticing that there might be some old people with heart ailment who could pop it if they continue to shout like this.
These uneducated lots were hurling dirty slangs at us. The same words that we uttered in a great game spirit, they were uttering those words with a tone that clearly was insulting.
We didn’t expect this from them when clearly both were Bengalis. But then, they have a different history. It is clear if Mohan Bagan plays against Brazil or any other country they will support Brazil or that country only because they are anti-Mohan. Traitors!
But we were not there to flout rules. With due respect to the spirit of the game, dumb, we were watching the match. Some were walking towards the gate even when the match was only fifteen minutes. All our body builders and our pride left us and the stadium.
But then the opportunity came again.
We always knew they have the worst kind of defence. They scored a self-goal out of utter complacency. The goalkeeper was playing with the ball when it slipped from his hand and hit the net.
That was a moral booster. We started shouting again. The words that they were using for us were duly returned with extra cheese smacked on them.
Our team also recovered a bit, or so we sensed. We started forecasting doom for the East Bengal team. Perhaps they also sensed so.
Only to stop us, expert fence climbers as they always are, they adopted the same technique as our tem and came at an electric speed. Climbed our fence, beat us and again at the same manner went on to their gallery. Before we could react, the police came in between. We always knew the police are on their side. We always have seen that.
With bleeding nose and injured pride we started singing for our team. But those bastards were again panting like dogs. Before long the omelette and the earthworm of the hill had score hatricks each.
May be these barbarians, remembering the game spirit, stopped scoring goals and instead started playing with our players. Passing ball through their shaking legs and hitting them with the ball to claim a throw and again to pass it through their shaking legs. It was devastation.
We came home battered and bruised. Our team had let us down. The saddest day of our lives.
And then it started. Yes, these East Bengal fans started bursting their crackers.
Now we knew why the crackers were so costly to get. Bloody hoarders!
Remember, what our first Prime Minister Nehru had to say about hoarders? They should be hanged from the first lamppost. Alas, since we lack leaders like him today, not a single East Bengal fan was hanged.
They went on bursting the crackers. Without giving a damn about the old people, patients in the hospital or school children preparing for the exams.
Their bloody noisy celebration went on for days … weeks. They didn’t stop until the air turned red-yellow, the colour of their jersey.
So now you know what is the real reason for the global warming. Since winter comes before summer, we take full responsibility for the chilling winter weather in England, but we won’t and don’t take responsibility for the Somalian drought. Period.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
wake up!
i am so fed up! all these arrogant bastards and bitches have stopped blogging. these proud arses think they are super busy and have no time to even write a few paragraphs (even one simple graph!).
i call and warn all my blog friends to resume writing. and as a note of admission they should comment on this blog saying that they have posted a new one in their erstwhile brilliant blogs. comeon friends, isn't it true that we became so close to each other because we had a passion for hitting each others' blog and pulling each others' leg. comeon .... are you really that busy????? if you are so, admit it here. if you don't admit, post!
please, please, please for God's sake ... shuv, kaushik, sayantani, scout, ace, fool on the hills, rubaru, nautilus ... please start blogging! as for me, i lift the moratorium
of course, i am not taking vincent's name here. he is the only one who kept the promise.
rest, i need a new post within five days. even a small sentence will do. but please start typing. i am tired of my life, i need to depend on you. please give me reason to live, to laugh, let's share each others' pain. let's celebrate together, just as we used to do earlier.
i just lifted the restriction on my blog. i had thought that some people i detest read my blog. i still believe they try to come here just to nitpick and screw my happiness later. for them my message is GO FUCK YOURSELVES!
but i am missing rip van's comments. and kaushik, the desi sahib has vowed not to hit my blog unless i open it for public. so be it.
i have one more reason. i thought i would be able to write stories here that i would share with my closest friends. i had this illusion that i am a factory of stories.
the mirage has disapperaed. i have realised ... i am not that talented. just an ordinary guy. from the core of my heart, i believe in simple living and high thinking.
yes ... i am a blogger!
my blogger friends, please revive. please make it a movement one more time.
i call and warn all my blog friends to resume writing. and as a note of admission they should comment on this blog saying that they have posted a new one in their erstwhile brilliant blogs. comeon friends, isn't it true that we became so close to each other because we had a passion for hitting each others' blog and pulling each others' leg. comeon .... are you really that busy????? if you are so, admit it here. if you don't admit, post!
please, please, please for God's sake ... shuv, kaushik, sayantani, scout, ace, fool on the hills, rubaru, nautilus ... please start blogging! as for me, i lift the moratorium
of course, i am not taking vincent's name here. he is the only one who kept the promise.
rest, i need a new post within five days. even a small sentence will do. but please start typing. i am tired of my life, i need to depend on you. please give me reason to live, to laugh, let's share each others' pain. let's celebrate together, just as we used to do earlier.
i just lifted the restriction on my blog. i had thought that some people i detest read my blog. i still believe they try to come here just to nitpick and screw my happiness later. for them my message is GO FUCK YOURSELVES!
but i am missing rip van's comments. and kaushik, the desi sahib has vowed not to hit my blog unless i open it for public. so be it.
i have one more reason. i thought i would be able to write stories here that i would share with my closest friends. i had this illusion that i am a factory of stories.
the mirage has disapperaed. i have realised ... i am not that talented. just an ordinary guy. from the core of my heart, i believe in simple living and high thinking.
yes ... i am a blogger!
my blogger friends, please revive. please make it a movement one more time.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
a good news
read this article in my co-writer cum editor's blog. it just now got selected for a spirituality issue of a magazine. congrats dear friend!
may you shine like a star! you are a star! i am proud of you!
may you shine like a star! you are a star! i am proud of you!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
****room
God! What has happened to me? Six months of stay in Mumbai as a journalist and I cannot go to the bathroom anymore!
OK, before you dirty minds start thinking what clever yet nasty comment you will write, let me clarify quickly.
Almost everyday I have to go to this five star hotel or the other to attend press conferences (the names of the foods their sound like poetry). Once I did the mistake of asking a liftman where the ‘bathroom’ is. He gave me a surprised look and rectified my mistake, “you mean the washroom?”
“Yeah, indeed. I am sorry,” I had to apologise.
Now invariably when I have the urge to release some extra liquid out of my body, I go to the ‘washroom’.
My dear ‘bathroom’ is now dead in my life. Probably it will never come back again unless I go back to my home in Calcutta where ‘washroom’ is where the well is (to wash your feet and hands) and bathroom is where you actually do things …
But in Mumbai, there are only washrooms or the most illusive 'restroom' (heck! the first time I heard this word, I thought people go there and sleep). May be I have become civilised or the whole world has become brown sahibs. Only Mumbadevi knows!
Please allow me to stop here, washroom beckons …
OK, before you dirty minds start thinking what clever yet nasty comment you will write, let me clarify quickly.
Almost everyday I have to go to this five star hotel or the other to attend press conferences (the names of the foods their sound like poetry). Once I did the mistake of asking a liftman where the ‘bathroom’ is. He gave me a surprised look and rectified my mistake, “you mean the washroom?”
“Yeah, indeed. I am sorry,” I had to apologise.
Now invariably when I have the urge to release some extra liquid out of my body, I go to the ‘washroom’.
My dear ‘bathroom’ is now dead in my life. Probably it will never come back again unless I go back to my home in Calcutta where ‘washroom’ is where the well is (to wash your feet and hands) and bathroom is where you actually do things …
But in Mumbai, there are only washrooms or the most illusive 'restroom' (heck! the first time I heard this word, I thought people go there and sleep). May be I have become civilised or the whole world has become brown sahibs. Only Mumbadevi knows!
Please allow me to stop here, washroom beckons …
Sunday, May 04, 2008
the anchor
When the rickshaw took the turn and the waving hands of the people so familiar disappeared, he felt a heart-wrenching pain.
For what he is going? Where is he heading to?
He could hear the murmur of the roots getting pulled out from the assuring piece of dirt that was its home for twenty-four years.
The familiar background, where he was born and grew up -- his friends, the dangling aerial roots of the banyan tree where he spent at least a thousand hours hanging and pretending to be a monkey with his gang, the pond where he learnt swimming -- everything was slowly moving out of the sight.
How he wished the rickshaw to have a jet engine, everything would have zoomed past and would look like a thin hazy string. But the rickshaw puller is not even at his normal speed. As if, he is also under the spell of this gloom.
The earth has a gravity and the particles in it have their own share of the force. They don't exercise their power, thank God! But whenever you pluck something out of the system, they do their best to undo the damage.
Now they were exerting their power to pull him back, he was determined not to listen to them. He had turned his face from them. He was searching intently for something in his handbag, but was not sure what the object might be.
Everybody was there at his home to see him off, in fact all his friends and the neighbours, except his sister and father. She had gone to the court where she is interning under a senior lawyer. Father left in the morning for the office. Rain, storm, earthquake, nothing can stop this man from going to the office at the right time.
But he was half expecting that she would be there for him to pack his bags. He thought his sister loves him. His believes were now a little shaken. Anyway, she is the most selfish woman he has ever seen. She even didn’t let him take his favourite books with him. They both had pooled their fund that they received time to time from the guests at the house, to buy some books, mainly of Satyajit Ray and Shibram Chakrabarty, their favourite authors. But she did not let him take those, citing that the property of the house should be left where they are. Selfish woman!
But he has to admit too that in his twenty-four years of life, he hasn’t come across many women.
He tried his best to forget everything. But it's like pouring a drop of lemon juice on the milk when you have gone to the extremes as raising a cow to get the milk. He could feel his blood pressure rising.
No he doesn't care about his family. Nobody is there for him. Nobody was there ever. Of course, mother will always be concerned. Moms are afterall moms! They are borne to worry about their children. She was crying all day long, careful not to show her tears to him. He was crying too. Sometimes taking extra care to show his tears to her. He doesn't want his mother to know he cares little. Which is not true also.
But the sister was missing in action. He tried his best to turn his attention to the now slowly fading football field. The bad roads made the rickshaw shake violently. He passed the sweetmeat shop that refused to grow in size. It still looks shady and uncouth compared with the other sprawling sweet shops where they serve wearing uniforms. You don’t get to see their kitchen from outside. But this shop is still what it was twenty years ago with an indication that it might remain the same twenty years from now.
But it still is the best sellers. You can challenge the presentation, but you cannot challenge the quality and test of the so familiar rosogolla.
When he was a kid, he used to come here with his grandpa. The shop has the same old bench at the same old place where he used to sit with his grandpa. He was always suspicious whether the giant cauldron where they make the famous tasty rosogolla were also in use at dark to cook pesky babies like him.
Whenever that man with a tanned, ghostly skin colour and huge protruding belly used to pass him, he would shrink to his grandpa. he was always afraid that this might be his turn now to turn into a giant rosogolla.
No matter how much he liked the sweets, he never could appreciate them at the site of these giant cauldron the man with a fat belly cooking them and the black noisy greasy fan moving lazily above the head. It was a massive conspiracy against the kids of the world.
His grandpa was a part of the cruel scheme, which was not a very nice thing. For whenever he used to urge his grandpa to leave the shop taking the sweets home instead of having them there, for he was afraid, the old man would smile, flashing his remaining three-four teeth.
“You think they would let me have these rosogollas at home. all these bloody son-of-bitches doctors and that daughter-of a bitch your grandma think I have diabetes. I know for sure, I am perfectly ok. Bear with me boy. Let me have one more gilebi. Would you like to have one more sondesh dear?”
Thus, his entire heart-felt plea would yield nothing.
He would continue to come with his grandpa for two years more before the old man one day lies down at his bed and would refuse to move from there. He would join the stars after about six months of soiling the bed several times a day.
He remembers now that the ailing old man was denied access to his grandchildren. He was told that grandpa had an itch, which, if once contacted, would live with the victim forever. And he would keep on scratching till he dies. He was scared.
But his sister, two years older and smarter than him, would still smuggle sweets to the old man. From the crack of the door he would see the old man sucking the gilebi like a lozenze, now that he had only his gums left. One day the man was discovered sleeping for more than twelve hours. Fleets of ants were there around and inside the mouth. They were after the half-finished gilebi that was lying in his mouth.
Of late, he was also assisting his sister in smuggling grandpas favourite sweetmeat.
The suspicion fell upon the poor sister. After getting two-three slaps she easily spelt out the other culprit’s name. Both of them were flagged quite mercilessly for going against the dictate. Obviously, everybody was crying at home. The reasons varied.
Now the sweet shop is gone behind their path. It is also bidding its loyal customer farewell, swaying with the rhythm of the rickshaw. He refused to buy sweets from other posh shops and always headed towards this one whenever a guest came home.
Father was there till last night, giving him worldly wisdom of how to avoid being cheated and fend for himself in an unknown world.
“Everyman has his own destiny to follow boy. Nobody should stay with his or her parents forever. Look at me, I could have been a big executive by now. But I decided to stay with my parents and never left my ancestral home. I am a clerk now. If you want to grow, you have to sacrifice the surety of your home,” he said before handing over the list of dos and don’ts. He could sense that his father, who grew old so quickly from an upright man in front of his very eyes, pretending to be busy, with brows tightly squeezed, lips pressed hard. As if he was trying to subdue some brute force within himself.
Mother, who cries while even watching a TV serial, was at her best. Sobbing while laughing at his joke. Crying while cooking, shaking while serving food.
He and his sister slept the past night with their mother just as they used to do when as kids. Hugging her tightly. She used to shoo them away when they were kids. She used to complain of breathlessness. But last night she was not complaining at all. She was moving her hands on his hair and sobbing silently. A word or two from him would bring the tears with force. He was careful not to speak. As usual, the long lost smell of a mother’s bosom, put the baby to a deep sleep. It was long after he woke up he realised that today was his last day at home. He was going to a far off unknown land, for search of a greener pasture. To make his future ‘secured’, an opportunity that his place of birth cannot offer.
The rickshaw took a turn to the right. Lo … his locality is no more their. It’s the familiar busy street of the town with lots of rickshaws, cycles, cars, trucks jostling for space in the narrow broken street. Chaos as usual.
Actually, he was also half-expecting his father to accompany him and see him off. But the man always encouraged his kids to be self-sufficient. Given his fierce love for independence, that he so successfully rubbed on to his daughter, he should not have come with him. That would be too much of asking.
But he was amazed to know that father would be coming from his office at the Howrah station to see him off. It’s more than saying I care. He just cannot expect more than that from the man. But he was feeling cheated nevertheless. He thought that he and his sister were best of friends. So many sleepless nights were spent discussing the heightened failure in their efforts to get a perfect love interest. It’s not that she doesn’t get proposal. It’s not that she is not interested either. It’s just that however she wants to get attention from the other sex, she always, always rejects any amorous advance from the opposite sex.
She might pine for the man to propose her, but she treats him like a dirt once he falls for the trap so meticulously netted by her. Of course, she is beautiful.
As for he is concerned, he also fell for the traps laid by other fairer sex and had his fair share of experience in being treated as a dirt. He hates those girls. But loves to see his sister’s eyes twinkling once she refuses an offer.
He got down at the local station. Now he has to catch the train to the Howrah junction, where another express train will take him to his new destination.
Damn! If she was here, she could have at least taken care of the luggage when he would stand at the queue for the ticket.
Just when he was thinking where to keep the suitcase while he stands in the queue with the handbag, a hand pulled the suitcase. It was his sister!
“So late? Mom was not letting you come or what?”
“You here?
“Yeah, for the last two hours, waiting for his highness to come. Meanwhile giving the passers by enough scope to lech at a beautiful girl.”
“But I thought you went for the court.”
“Bull! Why should I.”
“Then why did you leave so early?”
“Well, I went to Calcutta. See what I bought for you.”
She reaches for a big bag, full of books. “…you now have the entire collection of Satyajit. All the books of Feluda and oh yes, Kakababu. I know you cannot live without them. Here is the entire body of work by Shibram and here are those brilliant ghanadas. When you feel sad, become nostalgic and homesick, take refuse to your favourite authors. You know they have a healing effect.”
He couldn’t speak.
“Well, you must be wondering these books cost so much. Well, ever since I learnt that you have got the job and they will post you somewhere far from Calcutta, I was saving my stipend and cutting down my useless luxuries like foolish lipsticks and shoes and sarees. You see, I can live without them perfectly well.”
He was again speechless. He suspected he was going to cry. The lines on his face were softening. His didi suspected the same.
“No, don’t Piklu. Don’t my dear brother. You see, if you cry, I cannot control my tears too. You see, that would be embarrassing. You see, that foolish boy is still after me. I refused his proposal three times, still. He is standing like an idiot these two hours, jobless. Never daring to come and tell me his feelings for the last time. You see, I don’t want to cry in front of that stupid boy. If he comes to console me, I don’t know, I might hug him and confess my love.”
“Now that you are going Piklu, I need a friend. You see, that stupid boy can be a perfect friend. He is a stupid, foolish boy with a heart of a gold, Piklu. I suspect he is as simple as you to whom I can wield my sword as I wish. Don’t cry Piklu, don’t embarrass me.”
“Don’t worry Piklu, mom and dad will be fine. I will take good care of them. Don’t worry about mom, she will cry for someday and then eventually will come in terms with it. Anyway, you will be coming home at a six months interval, won’t you? Don’t worry Piklu, everything will be fine. You take care of yourself. Here’s your ticket to Howrah. I am not coming with you. I don’t have the strength to see you go.”
“Oh yes, if you earn enough, buy me a scooter, won’t you? I am tired of riding a cycle and foolish boys chasing me on a cycle too. I need somebody who can chase me on a posh motorcycle at least, if not a car. You see, that’s what we call growing up. I know you will be a great man one day Piklu. Make me proud.”
“And don’t forget me,” she smiled and sped her way on her cycle before giving Piklu any chance to speak.
Piklu, looking like a fool, couldn’t control the tears. He stood their motionless risking missing the train.
Amidst the stream of uncontrollable tears and subdued sobs, he could just utter a few words.
“I am sorry didi.”
For what he is going? Where is he heading to?
He could hear the murmur of the roots getting pulled out from the assuring piece of dirt that was its home for twenty-four years.
The familiar background, where he was born and grew up -- his friends, the dangling aerial roots of the banyan tree where he spent at least a thousand hours hanging and pretending to be a monkey with his gang, the pond where he learnt swimming -- everything was slowly moving out of the sight.
How he wished the rickshaw to have a jet engine, everything would have zoomed past and would look like a thin hazy string. But the rickshaw puller is not even at his normal speed. As if, he is also under the spell of this gloom.
The earth has a gravity and the particles in it have their own share of the force. They don't exercise their power, thank God! But whenever you pluck something out of the system, they do their best to undo the damage.
Now they were exerting their power to pull him back, he was determined not to listen to them. He had turned his face from them. He was searching intently for something in his handbag, but was not sure what the object might be.
Everybody was there at his home to see him off, in fact all his friends and the neighbours, except his sister and father. She had gone to the court where she is interning under a senior lawyer. Father left in the morning for the office. Rain, storm, earthquake, nothing can stop this man from going to the office at the right time.
But he was half expecting that she would be there for him to pack his bags. He thought his sister loves him. His believes were now a little shaken. Anyway, she is the most selfish woman he has ever seen. She even didn’t let him take his favourite books with him. They both had pooled their fund that they received time to time from the guests at the house, to buy some books, mainly of Satyajit Ray and Shibram Chakrabarty, their favourite authors. But she did not let him take those, citing that the property of the house should be left where they are. Selfish woman!
But he has to admit too that in his twenty-four years of life, he hasn’t come across many women.
He tried his best to forget everything. But it's like pouring a drop of lemon juice on the milk when you have gone to the extremes as raising a cow to get the milk. He could feel his blood pressure rising.
No he doesn't care about his family. Nobody is there for him. Nobody was there ever. Of course, mother will always be concerned. Moms are afterall moms! They are borne to worry about their children. She was crying all day long, careful not to show her tears to him. He was crying too. Sometimes taking extra care to show his tears to her. He doesn't want his mother to know he cares little. Which is not true also.
But the sister was missing in action. He tried his best to turn his attention to the now slowly fading football field. The bad roads made the rickshaw shake violently. He passed the sweetmeat shop that refused to grow in size. It still looks shady and uncouth compared with the other sprawling sweet shops where they serve wearing uniforms. You don’t get to see their kitchen from outside. But this shop is still what it was twenty years ago with an indication that it might remain the same twenty years from now.
But it still is the best sellers. You can challenge the presentation, but you cannot challenge the quality and test of the so familiar rosogolla.
When he was a kid, he used to come here with his grandpa. The shop has the same old bench at the same old place where he used to sit with his grandpa. He was always suspicious whether the giant cauldron where they make the famous tasty rosogolla were also in use at dark to cook pesky babies like him.
Whenever that man with a tanned, ghostly skin colour and huge protruding belly used to pass him, he would shrink to his grandpa. he was always afraid that this might be his turn now to turn into a giant rosogolla.
No matter how much he liked the sweets, he never could appreciate them at the site of these giant cauldron the man with a fat belly cooking them and the black noisy greasy fan moving lazily above the head. It was a massive conspiracy against the kids of the world.
His grandpa was a part of the cruel scheme, which was not a very nice thing. For whenever he used to urge his grandpa to leave the shop taking the sweets home instead of having them there, for he was afraid, the old man would smile, flashing his remaining three-four teeth.
“You think they would let me have these rosogollas at home. all these bloody son-of-bitches doctors and that daughter-of a bitch your grandma think I have diabetes. I know for sure, I am perfectly ok. Bear with me boy. Let me have one more gilebi. Would you like to have one more sondesh dear?”
Thus, his entire heart-felt plea would yield nothing.
He would continue to come with his grandpa for two years more before the old man one day lies down at his bed and would refuse to move from there. He would join the stars after about six months of soiling the bed several times a day.
He remembers now that the ailing old man was denied access to his grandchildren. He was told that grandpa had an itch, which, if once contacted, would live with the victim forever. And he would keep on scratching till he dies. He was scared.
But his sister, two years older and smarter than him, would still smuggle sweets to the old man. From the crack of the door he would see the old man sucking the gilebi like a lozenze, now that he had only his gums left. One day the man was discovered sleeping for more than twelve hours. Fleets of ants were there around and inside the mouth. They were after the half-finished gilebi that was lying in his mouth.
Of late, he was also assisting his sister in smuggling grandpas favourite sweetmeat.
The suspicion fell upon the poor sister. After getting two-three slaps she easily spelt out the other culprit’s name. Both of them were flagged quite mercilessly for going against the dictate. Obviously, everybody was crying at home. The reasons varied.
Now the sweet shop is gone behind their path. It is also bidding its loyal customer farewell, swaying with the rhythm of the rickshaw. He refused to buy sweets from other posh shops and always headed towards this one whenever a guest came home.
Father was there till last night, giving him worldly wisdom of how to avoid being cheated and fend for himself in an unknown world.
“Everyman has his own destiny to follow boy. Nobody should stay with his or her parents forever. Look at me, I could have been a big executive by now. But I decided to stay with my parents and never left my ancestral home. I am a clerk now. If you want to grow, you have to sacrifice the surety of your home,” he said before handing over the list of dos and don’ts. He could sense that his father, who grew old so quickly from an upright man in front of his very eyes, pretending to be busy, with brows tightly squeezed, lips pressed hard. As if he was trying to subdue some brute force within himself.
Mother, who cries while even watching a TV serial, was at her best. Sobbing while laughing at his joke. Crying while cooking, shaking while serving food.
He and his sister slept the past night with their mother just as they used to do when as kids. Hugging her tightly. She used to shoo them away when they were kids. She used to complain of breathlessness. But last night she was not complaining at all. She was moving her hands on his hair and sobbing silently. A word or two from him would bring the tears with force. He was careful not to speak. As usual, the long lost smell of a mother’s bosom, put the baby to a deep sleep. It was long after he woke up he realised that today was his last day at home. He was going to a far off unknown land, for search of a greener pasture. To make his future ‘secured’, an opportunity that his place of birth cannot offer.
The rickshaw took a turn to the right. Lo … his locality is no more their. It’s the familiar busy street of the town with lots of rickshaws, cycles, cars, trucks jostling for space in the narrow broken street. Chaos as usual.
Actually, he was also half-expecting his father to accompany him and see him off. But the man always encouraged his kids to be self-sufficient. Given his fierce love for independence, that he so successfully rubbed on to his daughter, he should not have come with him. That would be too much of asking.
But he was amazed to know that father would be coming from his office at the Howrah station to see him off. It’s more than saying I care. He just cannot expect more than that from the man. But he was feeling cheated nevertheless. He thought that he and his sister were best of friends. So many sleepless nights were spent discussing the heightened failure in their efforts to get a perfect love interest. It’s not that she doesn’t get proposal. It’s not that she is not interested either. It’s just that however she wants to get attention from the other sex, she always, always rejects any amorous advance from the opposite sex.
She might pine for the man to propose her, but she treats him like a dirt once he falls for the trap so meticulously netted by her. Of course, she is beautiful.
As for he is concerned, he also fell for the traps laid by other fairer sex and had his fair share of experience in being treated as a dirt. He hates those girls. But loves to see his sister’s eyes twinkling once she refuses an offer.
He got down at the local station. Now he has to catch the train to the Howrah junction, where another express train will take him to his new destination.
Damn! If she was here, she could have at least taken care of the luggage when he would stand at the queue for the ticket.
Just when he was thinking where to keep the suitcase while he stands in the queue with the handbag, a hand pulled the suitcase. It was his sister!
“So late? Mom was not letting you come or what?”
“You here?
“Yeah, for the last two hours, waiting for his highness to come. Meanwhile giving the passers by enough scope to lech at a beautiful girl.”
“But I thought you went for the court.”
“Bull! Why should I.”
“Then why did you leave so early?”
“Well, I went to Calcutta. See what I bought for you.”
She reaches for a big bag, full of books. “…you now have the entire collection of Satyajit. All the books of Feluda and oh yes, Kakababu. I know you cannot live without them. Here is the entire body of work by Shibram and here are those brilliant ghanadas. When you feel sad, become nostalgic and homesick, take refuse to your favourite authors. You know they have a healing effect.”
He couldn’t speak.
“Well, you must be wondering these books cost so much. Well, ever since I learnt that you have got the job and they will post you somewhere far from Calcutta, I was saving my stipend and cutting down my useless luxuries like foolish lipsticks and shoes and sarees. You see, I can live without them perfectly well.”
He was again speechless. He suspected he was going to cry. The lines on his face were softening. His didi suspected the same.
“No, don’t Piklu. Don’t my dear brother. You see, if you cry, I cannot control my tears too. You see, that would be embarrassing. You see, that foolish boy is still after me. I refused his proposal three times, still. He is standing like an idiot these two hours, jobless. Never daring to come and tell me his feelings for the last time. You see, I don’t want to cry in front of that stupid boy. If he comes to console me, I don’t know, I might hug him and confess my love.”
“Now that you are going Piklu, I need a friend. You see, that stupid boy can be a perfect friend. He is a stupid, foolish boy with a heart of a gold, Piklu. I suspect he is as simple as you to whom I can wield my sword as I wish. Don’t cry Piklu, don’t embarrass me.”
“Don’t worry Piklu, mom and dad will be fine. I will take good care of them. Don’t worry about mom, she will cry for someday and then eventually will come in terms with it. Anyway, you will be coming home at a six months interval, won’t you? Don’t worry Piklu, everything will be fine. You take care of yourself. Here’s your ticket to Howrah. I am not coming with you. I don’t have the strength to see you go.”
“Oh yes, if you earn enough, buy me a scooter, won’t you? I am tired of riding a cycle and foolish boys chasing me on a cycle too. I need somebody who can chase me on a posh motorcycle at least, if not a car. You see, that’s what we call growing up. I know you will be a great man one day Piklu. Make me proud.”
“And don’t forget me,” she smiled and sped her way on her cycle before giving Piklu any chance to speak.
Piklu, looking like a fool, couldn’t control the tears. He stood their motionless risking missing the train.
Amidst the stream of uncontrollable tears and subdued sobs, he could just utter a few words.
“I am sorry didi.”
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Co-passenger
Mr Sarkar couldn’t thank the angels more!
It’s a two-and-a-half day journey. The train just started six hours back and Sarkar was cursing himself for choosing this mode of transport. He started counting the hours left. Thirty six minus six is thirty hours! He turned pessimistic.
But his crack management training had taught him to be strong and not to resign even at the face of hardest adversity. He had to find out a ray of hope anyhow. he calculated the time he would spend sleeping. At home he sleeps for eight hours a day. So for two days it would be sixteen hours. Voila! fourteen hours left. Now, if he stretches himself a bit more, he would sleep for four more hours. ten hours left.
Ten bloody HOURS!!! And does he really expect to sleep in this non-AC sleeper class compartment? With all kinds of sounds spilling from all over the place?? He hardly can put his eyelids together and forget his misery. The train sounds so much.
He again turned gloomy.
He didn’t want to come by train. He never boarded a train in his last ten years of life. Earlier, when he was a junior level executive, and the company used to give him tickets for train, he always used to come in the AC compartment. Where the sound is less and the pople carry the halmark of a certain standard.
But thanks to this nation-wide airport stir for three days and the eleventh-hour news that he had to attend an important hearing at Calcutta three days from now, he had to take the train. Sadly, all the AC compartments were booked. If he had to come, he had to take this sleeper class. Damn!
But this can be tolerated to some extent if he had a ‘standard’ person here with him. No, none are worth having a quick intelligent chat. These are mostly clerks or small time traders who travel by this sleeper compartments. Since the train is from Bangalore, half of the travellers are students from West Bengal or Orissa, returning home.
Being the CEO of “hi-tech” he cannot afford to chat with them. He hates Indians. If by any chance they get to know his identity, the first thing they will do will be to ask for a job for their sons, cousins or nephews. Give them an inch and they will … Bloody damn race of a bloody damn country.
He likes to spend his summer vacations in Europe. Such a beautiful country. Such beautiful people. Shit! His bloody damn skin. It’s a bit on the darker side. Bloody damn Indian blood.
Why? Why on earth he had to take birth to bloody damn Indian parents? Sometimes he ask this question to God. Of course He doesn’t exist, or if he really existed, must be envious of His creation. He still has to float in His ancient chariot and is bound by the earth’s atmosphere. Man travels by rocket and lands in moon.
He got a few brownie points with his European potential clients when he cracked this joke at a party.
Of course, that was a business requirement. To secure a business, anything is fair. He apologised for this joke going at a temple. He told his mother at Calcutta to arrange for a special puja. His sins, if at all, were cleared within a day.
Mr Sarkar was thanking the Gods now for finally listening to his unuttered plea. The man in the font seat, with a blazer and a beige tie looks like a top executive. Of course, it might not be possible for this man to be a CEO like him. But a man doesn’t wear a tie if nothing is in his head.
Looking at the ways of the man, Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was also facing similar dilemma as him. For the man was looking impatiently at the windows and was sighing. Mr Sarkar waited for half an hour. He rightly guessed that both were thinking who will start the conversation. As both were exchanging a thousand words by their actions and were not hiding their mutual impatience as to get caught in this jam.
Being a free and frank man, Mr Sarkar decided to start the conversation.
“Airport stir eh?”
“Yes, yes. Indeed. It’s such a pain.”
“I am Abhishek Sarkar, CEO of a small software development company. Although our Bangalore office is the headquarter, our R&D is in the Silicon Valley. London is our marketing hub. Our Germany and Paris offices are not big though. But yaa, Mexico is picking up. We plan to list our company on the NYSE and LSE next month, what about you?” Mr Sarkar brought out a card from the pocket of his rucksack that he bought in Austria last summer.
“I am a farmer by profession. I have five tea gardens in Assam. I had a small refinery too, before it got bought over by Shell some five years ago. Hard business, they gave me a handsome amount, smartly exited. Dibyangshu Roy here.” Mr. Roy also gave him his card from his coat pocket.
As is the custom, you should not inspect the card in the presence of the person concerned, unless of course, you want to know the name. Mr. Sarkar kept the card in his wallet.
“What’s the name of the company you said Mr Roy?”
“It’s ConAgra Tea Estate,”
“I know one ConAgra … it’s a food giant in US.”
“Yes, we are their India distributor, we handle the tea-side. My own tea garden … the brand is theirs. You know how things work in these big companies,” Mr Roy said rubbing the dial of his watch. A Pierre Cardin masterpiece.
Yes, YES!!! This is the kind of man he likes to interact with. God! May be whatever happens, happens for a reason. He was really thankful now to the angels for forcing him come on this sleeper compartment.
They had a wonderful time after that till the time for lunch came. Mr Sarkar is sure that however his skin may be coloured by the nature the wrong way, but he is a true European by nature. He has taken every step to ensure he remains as European as his friend Martin Smith is in England. The hardest part was to keep a stiff upper lip and say words in a hush hush manner. He really likes how Smith argues in a perfectly normal tone. Europeans never raise their voice and he has finally mastered that. He was proud of his English bed-time and table manners.
But two things of the Europeans he never could approve was their using toilet papers and eating breads for lunch.
He needs at least five litres of water to wash himself properly and he needs rice for lunch and dinner. Without having rice, he could never imagine he had eaten anything at all.
But of course, some things are climate specific. When the British conquered India, they couldn’t retain their English signature as it was. They were hooked to afternoon siesta. So it’s no issue if he is exception to these two rules.
So when the lunch time came, he had to, had to order rice for himself. But he was hesitant of what his co-passenger might think. Mr Roy turned out to be a bird of the same feather.
Without even Mr Sarkar could say anything, Mr Roy brought out a Tiffin box from his suitcase.
Not to worry, he also couldn’t do without rice.
Angels can’t be better than this.
Mr Roy neatly divided the food in two different plates. Apparently, it is a custom in his family to carry some extra food and an extra plate, in case he had to entertain a guest like what he was doing now.
Both had a bellyfull. The food was out of this world. The biriyani was just as he had that day at a five star hotel.
He was content. He was happy. The food was so good that after a long long time he wanted to sleep in the afternoon. He was very happy. His eyelids were getting heavier. Ah! This is paradise on earth. He thought of cracking a joke.
“You know what Mr Roy? This is paradise on wheels.”
And both were laughing heartily. For a moment he let his English sensibilities go and was laughing like all the bloody Indians do.
Soon he was dreaming about his girlfriend whom he is going to marry once he gets rid of his menacing wife.
When he woke up it was six in the morning. Wow! He slept for bloody SIXTEEN HOURS!!! If he can continue this performance, he don’t need to worry about when he reaches home! he will just open his eyes after a round and lo! Howrah station!
He stopped a tea-wallah passing through the alleyway.
He took the chai, it feels so nice to sip something hot after a good night’s sleep!
While reaching for his wallet in the back pocket, he realised he must have kept that in his bag. Keeping the tea at the berth, he came down to get his bag.
It was nowhere to be found.
When he enquired about it, he got to know that the bag was taken by its owner who got down at a station last night itself.
“What do you mean the owner? It was my bag. Who was the owner otherwise?”
The man in the next seat looked at him, astonished! If Mr Sarkar remembers properly he wanted to lock his bag because this man was sharing the same cubicle with him.
He would have done that at night, but before that he went to sleep.
“Why, your friend. With whom you had lunch yesterday. I was thinking whether to wake you up when this gentleman was leaving with the bag. I sort of challenged him, he said that the bag was his. he said his name was Abhishek Sarkar, he also gave me his card. See,” the man forwarded a card to Mr Sarkar.
That’s his own card. His last possession left.
“Bloody that’s my card!!! That was my bag. I am Abhishek Sarkar”
Then a light bulb flashed in his head. That man has given him his card.
Dibyangshu Roy.
Chairman and Managing Director
Con-Agra Network
Agra, Uttar Pradesh
At the back of the card, it was written in bold letters, “SLEEPWELL”
Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was cheated by this con man.
May be because he just had woken up, or may be because a long sleep had made his brain dizzy, he was in no position in remembering his English sensibilities and forgetting that in the same compartment, there were a lot of girls and elderly people, he started shouting rather in a typical bloody Indian manner.
“Madarchod, Motherfucker, Venchod, Suoerer Baccha, Khankir Chele, Son of a bitch, brother of a whore, fuck you bastard, up on your ass you asshole,” he was reported to have shouted for at least half an hour.
A witness was later found to have told the police that those were the choicest slangs that a man, even from a slum, could ever hear of.
But then, this was a sleeper class full of bloody Indians.
Dedicated to Kaushik Som who, after his long six months of stay in US, is finding bloody India a bloody shitty place with bloody people all around.
It’s a two-and-a-half day journey. The train just started six hours back and Sarkar was cursing himself for choosing this mode of transport. He started counting the hours left. Thirty six minus six is thirty hours! He turned pessimistic.
But his crack management training had taught him to be strong and not to resign even at the face of hardest adversity. He had to find out a ray of hope anyhow. he calculated the time he would spend sleeping. At home he sleeps for eight hours a day. So for two days it would be sixteen hours. Voila! fourteen hours left. Now, if he stretches himself a bit more, he would sleep for four more hours. ten hours left.
Ten bloody HOURS!!! And does he really expect to sleep in this non-AC sleeper class compartment? With all kinds of sounds spilling from all over the place?? He hardly can put his eyelids together and forget his misery. The train sounds so much.
He again turned gloomy.
He didn’t want to come by train. He never boarded a train in his last ten years of life. Earlier, when he was a junior level executive, and the company used to give him tickets for train, he always used to come in the AC compartment. Where the sound is less and the pople carry the halmark of a certain standard.
But thanks to this nation-wide airport stir for three days and the eleventh-hour news that he had to attend an important hearing at Calcutta three days from now, he had to take the train. Sadly, all the AC compartments were booked. If he had to come, he had to take this sleeper class. Damn!
But this can be tolerated to some extent if he had a ‘standard’ person here with him. No, none are worth having a quick intelligent chat. These are mostly clerks or small time traders who travel by this sleeper compartments. Since the train is from Bangalore, half of the travellers are students from West Bengal or Orissa, returning home.
Being the CEO of “hi-tech” he cannot afford to chat with them. He hates Indians. If by any chance they get to know his identity, the first thing they will do will be to ask for a job for their sons, cousins or nephews. Give them an inch and they will … Bloody damn race of a bloody damn country.
He likes to spend his summer vacations in Europe. Such a beautiful country. Such beautiful people. Shit! His bloody damn skin. It’s a bit on the darker side. Bloody damn Indian blood.
Why? Why on earth he had to take birth to bloody damn Indian parents? Sometimes he ask this question to God. Of course He doesn’t exist, or if he really existed, must be envious of His creation. He still has to float in His ancient chariot and is bound by the earth’s atmosphere. Man travels by rocket and lands in moon.
He got a few brownie points with his European potential clients when he cracked this joke at a party.
Of course, that was a business requirement. To secure a business, anything is fair. He apologised for this joke going at a temple. He told his mother at Calcutta to arrange for a special puja. His sins, if at all, were cleared within a day.
Mr Sarkar was thanking the Gods now for finally listening to his unuttered plea. The man in the font seat, with a blazer and a beige tie looks like a top executive. Of course, it might not be possible for this man to be a CEO like him. But a man doesn’t wear a tie if nothing is in his head.
Looking at the ways of the man, Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was also facing similar dilemma as him. For the man was looking impatiently at the windows and was sighing. Mr Sarkar waited for half an hour. He rightly guessed that both were thinking who will start the conversation. As both were exchanging a thousand words by their actions and were not hiding their mutual impatience as to get caught in this jam.
Being a free and frank man, Mr Sarkar decided to start the conversation.
“Airport stir eh?”
“Yes, yes. Indeed. It’s such a pain.”
“I am Abhishek Sarkar, CEO of a small software development company. Although our Bangalore office is the headquarter, our R&D is in the Silicon Valley. London is our marketing hub. Our Germany and Paris offices are not big though. But yaa, Mexico is picking up. We plan to list our company on the NYSE and LSE next month, what about you?” Mr Sarkar brought out a card from the pocket of his rucksack that he bought in Austria last summer.
“I am a farmer by profession. I have five tea gardens in Assam. I had a small refinery too, before it got bought over by Shell some five years ago. Hard business, they gave me a handsome amount, smartly exited. Dibyangshu Roy here.” Mr. Roy also gave him his card from his coat pocket.
As is the custom, you should not inspect the card in the presence of the person concerned, unless of course, you want to know the name. Mr. Sarkar kept the card in his wallet.
“What’s the name of the company you said Mr Roy?”
“It’s ConAgra Tea Estate,”
“I know one ConAgra … it’s a food giant in US.”
“Yes, we are their India distributor, we handle the tea-side. My own tea garden … the brand is theirs. You know how things work in these big companies,” Mr Roy said rubbing the dial of his watch. A Pierre Cardin masterpiece.
Yes, YES!!! This is the kind of man he likes to interact with. God! May be whatever happens, happens for a reason. He was really thankful now to the angels for forcing him come on this sleeper compartment.
They had a wonderful time after that till the time for lunch came. Mr Sarkar is sure that however his skin may be coloured by the nature the wrong way, but he is a true European by nature. He has taken every step to ensure he remains as European as his friend Martin Smith is in England. The hardest part was to keep a stiff upper lip and say words in a hush hush manner. He really likes how Smith argues in a perfectly normal tone. Europeans never raise their voice and he has finally mastered that. He was proud of his English bed-time and table manners.
But two things of the Europeans he never could approve was their using toilet papers and eating breads for lunch.
He needs at least five litres of water to wash himself properly and he needs rice for lunch and dinner. Without having rice, he could never imagine he had eaten anything at all.
But of course, some things are climate specific. When the British conquered India, they couldn’t retain their English signature as it was. They were hooked to afternoon siesta. So it’s no issue if he is exception to these two rules.
So when the lunch time came, he had to, had to order rice for himself. But he was hesitant of what his co-passenger might think. Mr Roy turned out to be a bird of the same feather.
Without even Mr Sarkar could say anything, Mr Roy brought out a Tiffin box from his suitcase.
Not to worry, he also couldn’t do without rice.
Angels can’t be better than this.
Mr Roy neatly divided the food in two different plates. Apparently, it is a custom in his family to carry some extra food and an extra plate, in case he had to entertain a guest like what he was doing now.
Both had a bellyfull. The food was out of this world. The biriyani was just as he had that day at a five star hotel.
He was content. He was happy. The food was so good that after a long long time he wanted to sleep in the afternoon. He was very happy. His eyelids were getting heavier. Ah! This is paradise on earth. He thought of cracking a joke.
“You know what Mr Roy? This is paradise on wheels.”
And both were laughing heartily. For a moment he let his English sensibilities go and was laughing like all the bloody Indians do.
Soon he was dreaming about his girlfriend whom he is going to marry once he gets rid of his menacing wife.
When he woke up it was six in the morning. Wow! He slept for bloody SIXTEEN HOURS!!! If he can continue this performance, he don’t need to worry about when he reaches home! he will just open his eyes after a round and lo! Howrah station!
He stopped a tea-wallah passing through the alleyway.
He took the chai, it feels so nice to sip something hot after a good night’s sleep!
While reaching for his wallet in the back pocket, he realised he must have kept that in his bag. Keeping the tea at the berth, he came down to get his bag.
It was nowhere to be found.
When he enquired about it, he got to know that the bag was taken by its owner who got down at a station last night itself.
“What do you mean the owner? It was my bag. Who was the owner otherwise?”
The man in the next seat looked at him, astonished! If Mr Sarkar remembers properly he wanted to lock his bag because this man was sharing the same cubicle with him.
He would have done that at night, but before that he went to sleep.
“Why, your friend. With whom you had lunch yesterday. I was thinking whether to wake you up when this gentleman was leaving with the bag. I sort of challenged him, he said that the bag was his. he said his name was Abhishek Sarkar, he also gave me his card. See,” the man forwarded a card to Mr Sarkar.
That’s his own card. His last possession left.
“Bloody that’s my card!!! That was my bag. I am Abhishek Sarkar”
Then a light bulb flashed in his head. That man has given him his card.
Dibyangshu Roy.
Chairman and Managing Director
Con-Agra Network
Agra, Uttar Pradesh
At the back of the card, it was written in bold letters, “SLEEPWELL”
Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was cheated by this con man.
May be because he just had woken up, or may be because a long sleep had made his brain dizzy, he was in no position in remembering his English sensibilities and forgetting that in the same compartment, there were a lot of girls and elderly people, he started shouting rather in a typical bloody Indian manner.
“Madarchod, Motherfucker, Venchod, Suoerer Baccha, Khankir Chele, Son of a bitch, brother of a whore, fuck you bastard, up on your ass you asshole,” he was reported to have shouted for at least half an hour.
A witness was later found to have told the police that those were the choicest slangs that a man, even from a slum, could ever hear of.
But then, this was a sleeper class full of bloody Indians.
Dedicated to Kaushik Som who, after his long six months of stay in US, is finding bloody India a bloody shitty place with bloody people all around.
got this gem of a mail from my friend jennifer in bangalore (of course my bangalore friends won't let anyone know this)
Hey Anup,
Purwa went off on a holiday and so has no idea of the impact she has created. the mail from Martin Howell, the editor for RAM equities said it was the biggest scoop from Bangalore. I guess she will get her kudos once she gets back.
the weekend was rather hilarious. am wondering if this is a common occurence? i went to get my haircut done and was trying out this place called Cheveux near KFC. now this is a unisex parlour. first there was this guy who was getting his hair cut and his girlfriend was hovering around the poor hair stylist and generally being quite positive. the boyfriend said he wanted his hair to have a bounce, (was he planning to appear in a dandruff shampoo ad?) and wanted to get up out of bed and without much fuss, be able to go out. after his girlfriend oohhd and aaahd, he promptly decided the hair dresser was fantastic and took his name down so he can fix the next appointment with the same hairstylist.
the second guy was even more entertaining. he comes in takes a seat and then hands his phone to the parlour lady. the lady on the phone is giving out precise instructions for the haircut for her man, including what kind of scissors to use.. the parlour lady was rather cool and having an animated discussion to find out what exactly the lady wanted - she wanted some George Clooney type effect. the parlour lady replied a bit puzzedly that Clooney does not have that kind of hair cut, the lady on the phone had to clarify that it was some Clooney haircut from years ago (perhaps when she had some crush on him?). anyway, after the discussion ends, the guy simply asked, "did you get all that?" the parlour lady then effortlessly dissed the lady on the phone's idea on various grounds and suggested they go for halfway to which the guy simply nodded. All this for a guy who had perhaps two inches of hair.
so now my question to you? Is this a common occurence? The people in the parlour did not seem to be surprised or taken aback by any of this behaviour.
Anyways, hope you are not feeling too pressurized. i think it really makes a difference to the kind of people you work with and in some sense, blessed to work in a bureau where people are quite low key. when you work in an office where the very air seems to be filled with hammers, even small non-issues become long drawn out affairs.
as for forgetting friends, its only natural. one of my favourite phases - friends for a reason, friends for a season, friends for a lifetime - these are the three kinds of friends. there's nothing wrong with being any of them. all of them have a purpose and a place in everyone's life.
more later,
jen
Friday, April 04, 2008
freedom
He watched the little house-sparrow as it hopelessly continued crashing against the glass.
The little life could see the whole world outside, it could see its clan but could not reach out to them. As if an invisible monster is putting its hand on the way just for fun.
Panicked, the bird was fluttering its wings against the glass, as if to break it. But it's too strong against the little creature. Monsters are always strong.
He joined this organisation about a year back. It was a double promotion with a 100 per cent hike. The offer was too lucrative for him to ignore and he was confident about his ability.
Life in his last organisation was painful. He never could adjust with his boss. His boss, who was as if straight from a pig farm, used to abuse him everyday, every moment. Belittling him in front of others were a routine affair. And that fellow had lungs. People three floors down could hear what was being dished out to the subordinates. It was embarrassing thereafter to share the lift.
The new office is smooth. Bosses hardly call him. It's all communicated through emails. Here you only here whispers. Perfect civilised culture.
When he left his last office many things doubled. His post, salary, responsibilities, prestige. Abuse was a thing of past now. The work hours are now saner. No one forces him to stay till midnight. You can leave when the clock strikes five. Only thing is that you have to meet the deadline.
Absurd deadlines.
Since he joined the office, he doesn't remember a single day he didn't come to home past midnight. No one forces him to stay, yet he is too scared to leave. If he doesn't meet the deadline, his job will go. And he is not going to get a better paying job with the same designation.
Everyday his right to existence is questioned ... by no one, but by himself.
The bird was now losing its strength. It is fluttering its wings less now. Its more resigned kind of attitude. Perhaps it is waiting for the inevitable. And like all inevitable, it doesn't know what it is.
He sat on the chair. The door is shut, the window is the only escape route, so the bird thinks, but he sees it as closed through the glass. Who knows where from the bird came ... ah ... that hole in the wall. It just slipped in. But now it is not getting the hole back. Or may be It has forgotten about the hole. Just to ensure the bird doesn't escape through that route, he plugs the hole with a newspaper. The bird flutters again. May be thinking the giant has arrived finally to claim its life.
He sinks into his chair once again. He lites a cigarette. Soon the room will be filled with smoke. The bird will panic more. Or, will it get drugged? He will wait and watch.
His boss sent the whole office a congratulatory message heaping praise about him. It was a perfect polished English. Every word was chosen, fullstops, commas, parenthesis were carefully weighed and executed. It was a sharp sharp business mail. It was copied to the entire office.
Everybody was congratulating him for landing a major project for the company working day and night.
He had to deliver an impromptu speech. He started with thanking his team. The members of his team roared in appreciation. He praised the company, the work culture and of course he promised more such projects to come. There was a never ending round of clapping. The whole world was excited. Still, he was feeling uneasy, he didn't know why.
When he was on his way to the cafeteria, he heard some floating conversation. The participants stopped and greeted him with a smile that only tie-doning executives can flash. It's always like the email. They were cursing him in the filthiest of language. He wondered why.
He didn't expected this quick an action. His entire team got a fat bonus. And the target for the month was almost double. There was a note faintly indicating the next month's bonus will also be double if the deadline is met. Of course, the 'if' was just for the sake of language. Just to erase the green line appearing in Microsoft Word when you write a wrong or fractional sentence.
He was quick in distributing the responsibilities. There was no time to relax. There was no past achievement. There is no time to relax. If this project is not met ... the company is going to sink – something this sort he wrote. It's always sort of similar tone. Every time they meet the deadline to keep the company floating. Yet, the next time a bigger project comes and his top bosses forecast a doom if the project is not done. The company is only stable in the intermediate period when the work for the project is going on.
Next day two resignation letters came. Again two the following day. These are all junior level executives. They all have 1-4 years of experience. They hop job at will. And you cannot stop them. He doubled the salary of his existing staff. There were cheers. Many of team came to his cabin and thanked him.
Today, two more resignations came.
The deadline is only five more day to come.
He didn't had a proper sleep for may be eight months. He was feeling tired. He was looking at the bird and puffing his cigarette. The bird has given up. It is not moving now. It is sitting idle at the corner. It was intently looking at the open sky. A whole wave of sparrows are dancing in the wind. It's autumn. Although there is not much of trees here and nature is of course a distant possibility, but there's romance everywhere. It's there mating season.
Do birds feel sad?
He sank into his rocking chair bit more. It's a nice one. He bought it from the US when he was there for a week-long business trip. He looked at his wrist watch. A nice Swiss one. His first watch was a local one. His father gave him during his class ten board exams. It was a proud possession for him. He used to sleep wearing the watch, he used to rub it everyday with a fresh linen. There was not a single scratch on the glass. Whenever he used to sweat, he used to spend at least half-an-hour time cleaning its chain. It was a prized possession. His sister never dared to touch it, she was not allowed to touch the gem in his collection. It was a state-run cheap watch company. Made for masses. And it was still working after fifteen years of its life.
But he is not sure where it is now. When changing his flat this time, he gave it to a packer. He gleefully took it with him and thanked the generous Sir a thousand time. The watch was the last link to his old poverty-stricken life that he has left many many miles away. Never to return.
The watch that he is wearing now costs some five thousand dollars. It was given to him by his European bosses for landing a big project for the company.
He handles it very carefully. It's heavy. It's no fun wearing, but, it was given by his bosses.
Oh shit! It's 10.30 already. That means he was sitting and watching the bird for three hours now. God! Three hours wasted from the five days of deadline!
“Hey birdie, would you talk to me?”
“free me”
“who am i to free you?”
“i cannot lift the window glass, do it for me and i should be free”
“what if i want to keep you here in this room? Forever? And i would be giving you good food. And everything you want. Accept my proposal. It's better than freedom isn't it? anyway all you do the whole day is to search for food only”
“but why do you want to keep me in bondage?”
“that's the question. That's precisely what the question is. Why?
“why?”
“i don't know.”
“free me”
“no. No way. You have entered my den. And i don't free anyone. live with me or just perish.”
He started laughing like a maniac. As if the same invisible monster that was blocking the bird's way was shaking him now violently. His tone was changing. It was almost like a hissing sound, the waves of laughter was choking his breath. Just as a snake hypnotises its victim before injecting its sweet venom, he was fixed on the now tired birdie.
The sparrow again started fluttering and crashing against the invisible monster.
The little life could see the whole world outside, it could see its clan but could not reach out to them. As if an invisible monster is putting its hand on the way just for fun.
Panicked, the bird was fluttering its wings against the glass, as if to break it. But it's too strong against the little creature. Monsters are always strong.
He joined this organisation about a year back. It was a double promotion with a 100 per cent hike. The offer was too lucrative for him to ignore and he was confident about his ability.
Life in his last organisation was painful. He never could adjust with his boss. His boss, who was as if straight from a pig farm, used to abuse him everyday, every moment. Belittling him in front of others were a routine affair. And that fellow had lungs. People three floors down could hear what was being dished out to the subordinates. It was embarrassing thereafter to share the lift.
The new office is smooth. Bosses hardly call him. It's all communicated through emails. Here you only here whispers. Perfect civilised culture.
When he left his last office many things doubled. His post, salary, responsibilities, prestige. Abuse was a thing of past now. The work hours are now saner. No one forces him to stay till midnight. You can leave when the clock strikes five. Only thing is that you have to meet the deadline.
Absurd deadlines.
Since he joined the office, he doesn't remember a single day he didn't come to home past midnight. No one forces him to stay, yet he is too scared to leave. If he doesn't meet the deadline, his job will go. And he is not going to get a better paying job with the same designation.
Everyday his right to existence is questioned ... by no one, but by himself.
The bird was now losing its strength. It is fluttering its wings less now. Its more resigned kind of attitude. Perhaps it is waiting for the inevitable. And like all inevitable, it doesn't know what it is.
He sat on the chair. The door is shut, the window is the only escape route, so the bird thinks, but he sees it as closed through the glass. Who knows where from the bird came ... ah ... that hole in the wall. It just slipped in. But now it is not getting the hole back. Or may be It has forgotten about the hole. Just to ensure the bird doesn't escape through that route, he plugs the hole with a newspaper. The bird flutters again. May be thinking the giant has arrived finally to claim its life.
He sinks into his chair once again. He lites a cigarette. Soon the room will be filled with smoke. The bird will panic more. Or, will it get drugged? He will wait and watch.
His boss sent the whole office a congratulatory message heaping praise about him. It was a perfect polished English. Every word was chosen, fullstops, commas, parenthesis were carefully weighed and executed. It was a sharp sharp business mail. It was copied to the entire office.
Everybody was congratulating him for landing a major project for the company working day and night.
He had to deliver an impromptu speech. He started with thanking his team. The members of his team roared in appreciation. He praised the company, the work culture and of course he promised more such projects to come. There was a never ending round of clapping. The whole world was excited. Still, he was feeling uneasy, he didn't know why.
When he was on his way to the cafeteria, he heard some floating conversation. The participants stopped and greeted him with a smile that only tie-doning executives can flash. It's always like the email. They were cursing him in the filthiest of language. He wondered why.
He didn't expected this quick an action. His entire team got a fat bonus. And the target for the month was almost double. There was a note faintly indicating the next month's bonus will also be double if the deadline is met. Of course, the 'if' was just for the sake of language. Just to erase the green line appearing in Microsoft Word when you write a wrong or fractional sentence.
He was quick in distributing the responsibilities. There was no time to relax. There was no past achievement. There is no time to relax. If this project is not met ... the company is going to sink – something this sort he wrote. It's always sort of similar tone. Every time they meet the deadline to keep the company floating. Yet, the next time a bigger project comes and his top bosses forecast a doom if the project is not done. The company is only stable in the intermediate period when the work for the project is going on.
Next day two resignation letters came. Again two the following day. These are all junior level executives. They all have 1-4 years of experience. They hop job at will. And you cannot stop them. He doubled the salary of his existing staff. There were cheers. Many of team came to his cabin and thanked him.
Today, two more resignations came.
The deadline is only five more day to come.
He didn't had a proper sleep for may be eight months. He was feeling tired. He was looking at the bird and puffing his cigarette. The bird has given up. It is not moving now. It is sitting idle at the corner. It was intently looking at the open sky. A whole wave of sparrows are dancing in the wind. It's autumn. Although there is not much of trees here and nature is of course a distant possibility, but there's romance everywhere. It's there mating season.
Do birds feel sad?
He sank into his rocking chair bit more. It's a nice one. He bought it from the US when he was there for a week-long business trip. He looked at his wrist watch. A nice Swiss one. His first watch was a local one. His father gave him during his class ten board exams. It was a proud possession for him. He used to sleep wearing the watch, he used to rub it everyday with a fresh linen. There was not a single scratch on the glass. Whenever he used to sweat, he used to spend at least half-an-hour time cleaning its chain. It was a prized possession. His sister never dared to touch it, she was not allowed to touch the gem in his collection. It was a state-run cheap watch company. Made for masses. And it was still working after fifteen years of its life.
But he is not sure where it is now. When changing his flat this time, he gave it to a packer. He gleefully took it with him and thanked the generous Sir a thousand time. The watch was the last link to his old poverty-stricken life that he has left many many miles away. Never to return.
The watch that he is wearing now costs some five thousand dollars. It was given to him by his European bosses for landing a big project for the company.
He handles it very carefully. It's heavy. It's no fun wearing, but, it was given by his bosses.
Oh shit! It's 10.30 already. That means he was sitting and watching the bird for three hours now. God! Three hours wasted from the five days of deadline!
“Hey birdie, would you talk to me?”
“free me”
“who am i to free you?”
“i cannot lift the window glass, do it for me and i should be free”
“what if i want to keep you here in this room? Forever? And i would be giving you good food. And everything you want. Accept my proposal. It's better than freedom isn't it? anyway all you do the whole day is to search for food only”
“but why do you want to keep me in bondage?”
“that's the question. That's precisely what the question is. Why?
“why?”
“i don't know.”
“free me”
“no. No way. You have entered my den. And i don't free anyone. live with me or just perish.”
He started laughing like a maniac. As if the same invisible monster that was blocking the bird's way was shaking him now violently. His tone was changing. It was almost like a hissing sound, the waves of laughter was choking his breath. Just as a snake hypnotises its victim before injecting its sweet venom, he was fixed on the now tired birdie.
The sparrow again started fluttering and crashing against the invisible monster.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
excellent!
Someone asked for my blog link today. I coolly told him if I knew how to write I won’t be wasting my time in journalism.
The real reason was of course different. It’s an inferiority complex. My English is the worst one I have ever read or heard. I think in my mother tongue and then literally translate it.
And the friend who guessed I had a blog (cause in office I am always digging someone’s), is a master in English. He speaks and writes ‘perfect’ English. I didn’t want to show him how misfit I am to work for an English publication.
You all know by now how atrocious my grammar is, and I am not ashamed of it to you. My blog readers are my closest friends too! But why invite others for a free rebuke?
It’s not that I don’t know where the language is wrong. But I am too lazy to correct it. Even in my school days I never used to read the exam paper I have written and used to hurry away entrusting the examiner with all the crap. If I would have checked what was there in the paper, I would have at least, at least scored 5 marks more in each paper. But why should I check what I have written once? Honestly, very rarely I read my own posts. About 70% of my posts I never read after I have written and hurriedly posted. Rest 30% … may be I have read them once … not more than that.
My editor (not the newspaper one) insists that I should edit my copies and re-edit it once I finish writing. It would make my stories sharp.
My answer to him: Balls. What are you for?
So I would continue posting without giving a second reading to what I have written. It’s your duty to read and edit in the process. I would like to think writing wrong English is ‘my style’.
Ok… poor defence.
The fact remains that I don’t know English.
I know you would forgive me for that. But I won’t take the risk with a fluent English-speaking chap in my cold office. My boss is there to abuse me everyday, I don’t want bystanders to join the party.
The real reason was of course different. It’s an inferiority complex. My English is the worst one I have ever read or heard. I think in my mother tongue and then literally translate it.
And the friend who guessed I had a blog (cause in office I am always digging someone’s), is a master in English. He speaks and writes ‘perfect’ English. I didn’t want to show him how misfit I am to work for an English publication.
You all know by now how atrocious my grammar is, and I am not ashamed of it to you. My blog readers are my closest friends too! But why invite others for a free rebuke?
It’s not that I don’t know where the language is wrong. But I am too lazy to correct it. Even in my school days I never used to read the exam paper I have written and used to hurry away entrusting the examiner with all the crap. If I would have checked what was there in the paper, I would have at least, at least scored 5 marks more in each paper. But why should I check what I have written once? Honestly, very rarely I read my own posts. About 70% of my posts I never read after I have written and hurriedly posted. Rest 30% … may be I have read them once … not more than that.
My editor (not the newspaper one) insists that I should edit my copies and re-edit it once I finish writing. It would make my stories sharp.
My answer to him: Balls. What are you for?
So I would continue posting without giving a second reading to what I have written. It’s your duty to read and edit in the process. I would like to think writing wrong English is ‘my style’.
Ok… poor defence.
The fact remains that I don’t know English.
I know you would forgive me for that. But I won’t take the risk with a fluent English-speaking chap in my cold office. My boss is there to abuse me everyday, I don’t want bystanders to join the party.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
homecoming
Life was going on. He was feeling like he was dragging it unnecessarily. He thought of ending his life once or twice but stopped thinking that no one will cry if he dies.
What’s the use of dying if it doesn’t impact anyone?
It was kinda cold. Actually chilling if one considers the city’ weather. There are three seasons in this city. Warm, warmer and warmest. People realises it’s winter when they turn their calendars to December. Moms bring out sweaters for their kids. Mufflers for the dads.
They sweat wearing that. Yet, it’s winter and woollen clothes are a must.
Winter is over when the calendar page is flipped to February. Warmer season starts.
Nothing happens in this crazy hectic city. Everything is, as if, pre-planned. People, without knowing why, run like crazy animals. They know for sure there’s a train just after two minutes and the probability is that it will be less crowded. But they will pack the train like a school of fish. Packed-like sardines compartments screech in pain and reluctantly carry a bellyful of disgraced people.
Nothing happens in the city except this mad crazy rush, for no reason or rhyme.
And he gets sick everytime he thinks that he has to spend a substantial portion of his life here. It not only impacts him mentally but gets feverish sometimes. This city’s weather doesn’t suit him at all.
Yet, strangely. Yes, strangely. He always wanted to come to this city. He always wanted to embrace this life. It’s like Sauron’s Mordor. You need to be strong willed to resist the lure of this city. And our boy is the weakest willed person known to this world.
Doctor told him to wrap a muffler around his neck, cause this cold might aggravate into a bad cough and might transform into pneumonia. So bought himself a new muffler. A blue-red semi-woollen thick muffler of a reputed textile company.
It’s strange weather. He was sweating profusely but then when he was taking it off he could feel the cold creeping in like a snake. It was disgusting!
Ah pneumonia! What a nice experience it would be!
While coming home, in the train, he stood near the door. The fresh, sort of chilling winter air was gushing in. His hands were getting hard. Lips were dry like a leaf. He had put the muffler long time back in his bag. Now he unbuttoned his shirt. He thought people were thinking he was crazy. But that’s OK. He told everyone … you don’t know the grand scheme! He hollered his message to everyone. No one took notice. He was hollering on his mind.
Wow!!! He never knew the fresh air can be so rejuvenating. He never knew taking risk intentionally could be so life-giving.
His room mate was quite surprised to see him. “Hey, did you fight with someone on your way? Shirt unbuttoned … hair so spiky? What happened?”
“Yes, it was a mighty battle.”
“Whom did you fight with? What did he do to you?”
“He was trying his best to stop me, but I was at my best! He didn’t have a chance”
“But who was he.”
“Myself”
“What? What do you mean? Explain.”
“Get lost bloody. I won’t explain anything to anyone. Get lost.”
He left his roommate bedazzled. He slipped in his room and started laughing loudly on his mind. His roommate could not hear the mockery.
He did this for two days more. On the third day, he could not move from his bed. He was having problem breathing.
“Bad case of pneumonia. Can you take care of him?” the doctor asked the roommate.
“Yes, I can. I mean I have an office to go. But I can take leave,” said the simple roommate.
But he didn’t want to disturb his simple friend. He took his mobile.
“Sir, I am suffering from pneumonia, I can’t move. Can I go to my native? Doctor says I need rest. Please talk to the doctor.”
The boss was concerned, the doctor’s last words were ringing in his ear, “ … he might die if proper care is not taken. At least it will affect the brain.”
The boss hung up. He rang his boss.
“Anyway, he can’t come to the office right? Let him go. Who cares. Don’t involve the office in it. We are running on a tight budget. Can’t take the burden of his treatment.”
His boss rang him up. “I am very sorry to hear that boy. Of course we are concerned. Go to your native. Book the flight now. Hurry. And take care and return when you are fully fit.”
“Thank you sir,” he laughed his trademark one.
Ah!!! His place on earth. Home!!!
“God!!! How you managed to get to such a state? My God! Son, what have you done,” his mother was sobbing.
“If you cry like this now what you will do when I am no more. If you want to see me alive, start doing what you are best at. Put your hands on my forehead. Let me sleep. I am tired.”
And he was fast asleep soon.
What’s the use of dying if it doesn’t impact anyone?
It was kinda cold. Actually chilling if one considers the city’ weather. There are three seasons in this city. Warm, warmer and warmest. People realises it’s winter when they turn their calendars to December. Moms bring out sweaters for their kids. Mufflers for the dads.
They sweat wearing that. Yet, it’s winter and woollen clothes are a must.
Winter is over when the calendar page is flipped to February. Warmer season starts.
Nothing happens in this crazy hectic city. Everything is, as if, pre-planned. People, without knowing why, run like crazy animals. They know for sure there’s a train just after two minutes and the probability is that it will be less crowded. But they will pack the train like a school of fish. Packed-like sardines compartments screech in pain and reluctantly carry a bellyful of disgraced people.
Nothing happens in the city except this mad crazy rush, for no reason or rhyme.
And he gets sick everytime he thinks that he has to spend a substantial portion of his life here. It not only impacts him mentally but gets feverish sometimes. This city’s weather doesn’t suit him at all.
Yet, strangely. Yes, strangely. He always wanted to come to this city. He always wanted to embrace this life. It’s like Sauron’s Mordor. You need to be strong willed to resist the lure of this city. And our boy is the weakest willed person known to this world.
Doctor told him to wrap a muffler around his neck, cause this cold might aggravate into a bad cough and might transform into pneumonia. So bought himself a new muffler. A blue-red semi-woollen thick muffler of a reputed textile company.
It’s strange weather. He was sweating profusely but then when he was taking it off he could feel the cold creeping in like a snake. It was disgusting!
Ah pneumonia! What a nice experience it would be!
While coming home, in the train, he stood near the door. The fresh, sort of chilling winter air was gushing in. His hands were getting hard. Lips were dry like a leaf. He had put the muffler long time back in his bag. Now he unbuttoned his shirt. He thought people were thinking he was crazy. But that’s OK. He told everyone … you don’t know the grand scheme! He hollered his message to everyone. No one took notice. He was hollering on his mind.
Wow!!! He never knew the fresh air can be so rejuvenating. He never knew taking risk intentionally could be so life-giving.
His room mate was quite surprised to see him. “Hey, did you fight with someone on your way? Shirt unbuttoned … hair so spiky? What happened?”
“Yes, it was a mighty battle.”
“Whom did you fight with? What did he do to you?”
“He was trying his best to stop me, but I was at my best! He didn’t have a chance”
“But who was he.”
“Myself”
“What? What do you mean? Explain.”
“Get lost bloody. I won’t explain anything to anyone. Get lost.”
He left his roommate bedazzled. He slipped in his room and started laughing loudly on his mind. His roommate could not hear the mockery.
He did this for two days more. On the third day, he could not move from his bed. He was having problem breathing.
“Bad case of pneumonia. Can you take care of him?” the doctor asked the roommate.
“Yes, I can. I mean I have an office to go. But I can take leave,” said the simple roommate.
But he didn’t want to disturb his simple friend. He took his mobile.
“Sir, I am suffering from pneumonia, I can’t move. Can I go to my native? Doctor says I need rest. Please talk to the doctor.”
The boss was concerned, the doctor’s last words were ringing in his ear, “ … he might die if proper care is not taken. At least it will affect the brain.”
The boss hung up. He rang his boss.
“Anyway, he can’t come to the office right? Let him go. Who cares. Don’t involve the office in it. We are running on a tight budget. Can’t take the burden of his treatment.”
His boss rang him up. “I am very sorry to hear that boy. Of course we are concerned. Go to your native. Book the flight now. Hurry. And take care and return when you are fully fit.”
“Thank you sir,” he laughed his trademark one.
Ah!!! His place on earth. Home!!!
“God!!! How you managed to get to such a state? My God! Son, what have you done,” his mother was sobbing.
“If you cry like this now what you will do when I am no more. If you want to see me alive, start doing what you are best at. Put your hands on my forehead. Let me sleep. I am tired.”
And he was fast asleep soon.
Monday, February 11, 2008
God!!!
if aamir khan's "tare zameen par" doesn't get the oscar for 'best foreign film' this year, i will lose my faith on the oscar committee.
aamir, i always wondered who is better, you or tom hanks. after watching forrest gump, i was convinced that hanks was better.
but "tare zameen par" again confused me.
i am so proud you are an Indian!
now you know who is your biggest fan.
you are the BEST. aamir, you are God!
THE AAMIR KHAN!!!
aamir, i always wondered who is better, you or tom hanks. after watching forrest gump, i was convinced that hanks was better.
but "tare zameen par" again confused me.
i am so proud you are an Indian!
now you know who is your biggest fan.
you are the BEST. aamir, you are God!
THE AAMIR KHAN!!!
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Q
i went to dakshineswar yesterday.
the last time i went there five years back, priyanka was with me. i was unemployed, a happy-go-lucky student. she was also a student, but very worried about her future.
i had a nice wallet, she had a nice purse. both were empty.
we were happy. we were in love.
i don't know if priyanka goes to dakshineswar or not. but, i never did. yesterday mom and dad pestered me to come with them to this famous kaali-temple. i was recovering from pox. and was bored to death staying at home for the last 10 days. i decided to come along with them. dad was driving the car. it's long since i didn't go with him anywhere.
i went to dakshineswar there half-heartedly.
and i was a 23-year old again.
dakshineswar is full of priyanka's fragrance! it was like a time capsule. en route, i crossed uttarpara. my first kiss! right there at the embankment!
shit, i shouldn't have come. all these years i avoided this route.
why didn't i come this way all these years? was i afraid of facing the truth? i was. let it not get published on a public forum. besides, it's of no use.
bengal is a strange place. bongs are a strange race. here people smile when they are poor. they frown when they have money.
it's a strange race. genetically engineered to remain poor all their lives.
i bet, they want to remain poor too. for us bongs, art of living is more important than posh living. you can turn even a scoundrel bong into an artist of his liking, i don't know why, but i have always believed so.
dakshineswar is like a time capsule. traditional india is fast fading. it comes to its true self only in its temples and religious places.
but was i missing priyanka? does she miss me? no, should not be. she has a boyfriend. a nice chap. i am happy for her.
but i really didn't go after any girl after her. i flirt with everyone. loved ... ummm ... may be, none.
she was a weird girl. weird girls always attract me. i found another priyanka in bangalore.
they say when you love someone truely, the other party also has to reciprocate. this girl didn't.
did i love her? must be no. it's very hard to cheat a woman in matters of love. they can see through. i must not have been serious.
besides, priyanka, when we parted, said, "no girl, in her sane mind, can ever love you."
priyanka learnt that after courting me for two years. this girl knew it from the very first go. it's hard to escape a girl's eyes. hmmm ...
we stood on a queue to see the idol. it was a long, serpentile Q.
but there's a shortcut way to see the idol and a sureshot fastrack way to interact with the supreme lady (for vincent: bengal is different than rest of india. others worship mostly Gods, we worship goddesses). i won't write the shortcut here, there's a serious breach. that would be sacrilege. but why i mentioned it here is because P showed it to me first.
and when in that secret corridor, i was interacting with Her, i found someone puling my elbow, just in that old fashioned way. P?
nope, illusion.
my parents and aunt was there in that line. i went back to join them. i always like the ambience of dakshineswar and this is the only Q which i actually enjoy standing.
"what happened? your eyes moist?" asked mom.
"must be the fever. i still didn't recover."
"yaa, you are looking sick."
"yes, i am."
i cried after ... after ... after ... i don't know. i genuinely cried ... may be after 20 years?
the last time i went there five years back, priyanka was with me. i was unemployed, a happy-go-lucky student. she was also a student, but very worried about her future.
i had a nice wallet, she had a nice purse. both were empty.
we were happy. we were in love.
i don't know if priyanka goes to dakshineswar or not. but, i never did. yesterday mom and dad pestered me to come with them to this famous kaali-temple. i was recovering from pox. and was bored to death staying at home for the last 10 days. i decided to come along with them. dad was driving the car. it's long since i didn't go with him anywhere.
i went to dakshineswar there half-heartedly.
and i was a 23-year old again.
dakshineswar is full of priyanka's fragrance! it was like a time capsule. en route, i crossed uttarpara. my first kiss! right there at the embankment!
shit, i shouldn't have come. all these years i avoided this route.
why didn't i come this way all these years? was i afraid of facing the truth? i was. let it not get published on a public forum. besides, it's of no use.
bengal is a strange place. bongs are a strange race. here people smile when they are poor. they frown when they have money.
it's a strange race. genetically engineered to remain poor all their lives.
i bet, they want to remain poor too. for us bongs, art of living is more important than posh living. you can turn even a scoundrel bong into an artist of his liking, i don't know why, but i have always believed so.
dakshineswar is like a time capsule. traditional india is fast fading. it comes to its true self only in its temples and religious places.
but was i missing priyanka? does she miss me? no, should not be. she has a boyfriend. a nice chap. i am happy for her.
but i really didn't go after any girl after her. i flirt with everyone. loved ... ummm ... may be, none.
she was a weird girl. weird girls always attract me. i found another priyanka in bangalore.
they say when you love someone truely, the other party also has to reciprocate. this girl didn't.
did i love her? must be no. it's very hard to cheat a woman in matters of love. they can see through. i must not have been serious.
besides, priyanka, when we parted, said, "no girl, in her sane mind, can ever love you."
priyanka learnt that after courting me for two years. this girl knew it from the very first go. it's hard to escape a girl's eyes. hmmm ...
we stood on a queue to see the idol. it was a long, serpentile Q.
but there's a shortcut way to see the idol and a sureshot fastrack way to interact with the supreme lady (for vincent: bengal is different than rest of india. others worship mostly Gods, we worship goddesses). i won't write the shortcut here, there's a serious breach. that would be sacrilege. but why i mentioned it here is because P showed it to me first.
and when in that secret corridor, i was interacting with Her, i found someone puling my elbow, just in that old fashioned way. P?
nope, illusion.
my parents and aunt was there in that line. i went back to join them. i always like the ambience of dakshineswar and this is the only Q which i actually enjoy standing.
"what happened? your eyes moist?" asked mom.
"must be the fever. i still didn't recover."
"yaa, you are looking sick."
"yes, i am."
i cried after ... after ... after ... i don't know. i genuinely cried ... may be after 20 years?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Adventures of Piklu – Christmas gift (part II)
(continued ...)
Piklu woke up as usual -- to the sound of his didi crying. Piklu’s sister wakes up in the morning and without any reason starts crying. Generally she cools down only after a half-an-hour of crying. But if in between father comes and begs his favourite child to forgive the world for its folly, she pitches up the sound. He has to tell all sorts of false things to her to really make her stop whining.
There is one more alternative. Mother comes and gives her a tight slap. She cries for a minute or two more and stops. But between the beating and her stopping, Piklu wakes up.
Today was no exception. She had just received a slap and was in the process of falling silent. Piklu always wakes up when she is at her best, but doesn’t leave the bed until she slows down, which means the day has started.
So they both woke up and went for the tooth brush. Both had forgotten that only last night they had made some wishes.
Piklu was the first to remember, “Didi, where do you think my gun is?”
“Which gun?”
“That Santa brought last night.”
Tuli was sitting quietly in front of the tap. It’s winter and the early morning sunrays were very comfortable on the shoulder. She sprang up hearing Piklu’s words. She started running towards their bed.
“Wait for me, didi wait for me. Don’t leave me alone …”
Piklu was also chasing didi by this time. Both were back to their usual form.
By that time mother was putting on a new bed sheet.
“Where’s our socks?” didi demanded.
Mother pointed out to the floor.
“And where are the gifts that Santa brought?”
“What gifts? Are you day dreaming?”
Didi knows her mother doesn’t like her. So she gave the task to Piklu. Piklu embraced her mother and enquired, “Where’s the gun that Santa gave me maa?”
“What gun? I have no clue.”
“You must be sleeping when Santa came in. He came last night when everyone was sleeping. We know for sure.”
“You mean someone entered our house when we were sleeping? Oh my God! Did you see him? Was he with a gun??? My God! How he looked like?”
She ran to the other room to inform father about the stranger the kids saw. After some hollering about the man-in-charge’s inability to protect the family she cooled down. Father was explaining something to her.
She came back sober. She was again concentrating on her work. Her eyes met with anxious Piklu’s.
“No one came last night. Those are all in fables. Go, wash your teeth.”
“Nooooooo it can’t be. John always gets gifts from Santa. I know Santa had come.”
“Well, then, go and ask from John how he gets that.”
Didi was sure mother was just playing a trick. She knows where the gifts are, she is just playing with them. God knows why adults play with kids.
Didi winked and Piklu again embraced mother, “Please please tell me …”
“I said No! No gifts from Santa. Don’t disturb me. It’s already too late.”
The kids gave up after two hours of investigation. Except for the high racks where they cannot reach, they left no stone unturned. And was finally convinced, Santa gave them a miss.
So John really didn’t give him the right formula. Such a betrayal!!! It was time for Piklu to cry. And he sobbed a lot.
Evening there was a party at John’s. Christmas party. Time for that fat pig to show off. “See my motorcycle … see my gun … whoaw! That plane … all by santa!”
Piklu was determined to break his nose today.
The first thing he did after arriving at John’s place was to drag him near the bathroom and demanding an explanation. Wasn’t it a deal?
John pledged to be truthful. And something in his words made Piklu convinced too. So what went wrong? They were both in deep thoughts. Both had forgotten the wild party going on with confetti and chocolates and red and yellow sweet drinks doing the round. Both were sad and Piklu was happy because John was sad.
“I know why you didn’t get the gifts,” John sounded serious.
“Why?”
“Because you are not a Christian. Santa only gives toys to Christian babies.”
“Oh. What do I do to become a Christian?”
“Put Jesus’ photo on your house and go to the church every Sunday and be silent when people pray. Ask your father, he would be knowing better.”
“So does that mean next year I will get gifts?”
“Absolutely! Kill me if you don’t get one”
They had a huge fun after that. John for a change let Piklu use santa-gifted gun and declared in front of others that Piklu is his best friend!
At about nine their father came to take them home.
“I want to be a Christian baba,” Piklu declared.
“Me too. Make us Christians,” didi expressed her view.
“What!!! Who told you all these things?”
“Santa always gives toys to Christian babies. Let’s go to the market and buy a Jesus’ photo. Come,” Piklu was dragging his father towards the market.
“Oh no. Wait! It’s a terrible misinformation. I can buy you toys! Why do you need a Santa.”
“You will buy us toys? Hah,” didi did not trust father. “You don’t love us anymore. You didn’t buy me even a rubber when my old one became black. You were not like this before. You never beat me. That is maa who is always after my life. You also beat me that day, remember! You don’t love me anymore. It’s only Santa who can give us toys.”
“Yes yes! Let’s buy a Jesus’ photo,” Piklu was still dragging his father.
“Wait wait. What have you asked from Santa? Let me have the list. I know in which tea-stall Santa sits and sip tea all day long. Give me the list. I will catch him now.”
“Can we go too?” Piklu enquired. He has forgotten to write about a flute on the list. He will personally tell Santa.
“No. you kids stay back. He doesn’t give gifts to kids who go and meet him. He doesn’t like that”
“Oh”
They ran to their bedroom and found the list. Both their parents were having a conversation. Mother was very angry for some reason. She gave a burning look to didi when she was going to give the list to father. “Listen you devil’s child …”
“Oh … no please, leave them aside…”
“But … don’t you …”
“I will manage. Don’t worry.”
“I know you won’t be able to manage. Take this. … HEY YOU LITTLE BASTARDS … GET LOST FROM HERE.”
The kids promptly ran to their bed and opened their books. Suddenly they were the most studious kids the world has ever seen. They were convinced; their neighbors love them more than their mother does.
Father came back after an hour with a small bag and a gun in his hand. Yes, the same one Piklu wished for.
“Did Santa give it to you?”
“Of course. And he apologized for not being able to make it last night. He was scared of the dogs.”
“Oh, poor Santa. How he will make it next year,” didi was concerned.
“Don’t worry. Next year he will manage to come, he said. He will put on an invisible cloak and come. He said. And he said he loves all the kids in the world and you don’t need to be a Christian. Actually there’s nothing like a Christian or a Hindu or a Muslim. We all are humans and he loves all the kids, he said.”
“Oh … ok.”
But Piklu by that time was at a pitched battle with his invisible adversaries. He won’t let the enemy enter his house. He was shooting blindly at the bushes. Blood was oozing out like a river from the bushes. Green blood!
After having killed all the enemies, he came panting. Drenched in sweat. “Where’s the other toys?”
“Yes, where are the other things in the list, I didn’t get my dollhouse and many other things. Where’s my jewels?” didi too enquired.
“Oh, Santa fell into the pond in front of your school and lost everything. He managed to salvage only these. He has apologized again for this. Don’t worry next year he will come up with all things due.”
“Look Piklu! Mother is bringing a cake! Such a beautiful cake,” didi was very excited.
Santa’s cake was very tasty. Both the kids relished the plum cake. It was even tastier than what they had eaten at John’s.
Didi was the one to notice that.
“Mother, where’s your earrings,” she exclaimed. She wished to wear those earrings when she grows up. She always has an eye on those sparkling golden earrings. It’s the best she has seen.
“Oh, I just lost it. Don’t worry dear, Santa will give it next year. He has promised,” mother took didi on her lap.
“He better be, if he wants to see another Christmas,” said father and hugged Piklu tight.
Piklu woke up as usual -- to the sound of his didi crying. Piklu’s sister wakes up in the morning and without any reason starts crying. Generally she cools down only after a half-an-hour of crying. But if in between father comes and begs his favourite child to forgive the world for its folly, she pitches up the sound. He has to tell all sorts of false things to her to really make her stop whining.
There is one more alternative. Mother comes and gives her a tight slap. She cries for a minute or two more and stops. But between the beating and her stopping, Piklu wakes up.
Today was no exception. She had just received a slap and was in the process of falling silent. Piklu always wakes up when she is at her best, but doesn’t leave the bed until she slows down, which means the day has started.
So they both woke up and went for the tooth brush. Both had forgotten that only last night they had made some wishes.
Piklu was the first to remember, “Didi, where do you think my gun is?”
“Which gun?”
“That Santa brought last night.”
Tuli was sitting quietly in front of the tap. It’s winter and the early morning sunrays were very comfortable on the shoulder. She sprang up hearing Piklu’s words. She started running towards their bed.
“Wait for me, didi wait for me. Don’t leave me alone …”
Piklu was also chasing didi by this time. Both were back to their usual form.
By that time mother was putting on a new bed sheet.
“Where’s our socks?” didi demanded.
Mother pointed out to the floor.
“And where are the gifts that Santa brought?”
“What gifts? Are you day dreaming?”
Didi knows her mother doesn’t like her. So she gave the task to Piklu. Piklu embraced her mother and enquired, “Where’s the gun that Santa gave me maa?”
“What gun? I have no clue.”
“You must be sleeping when Santa came in. He came last night when everyone was sleeping. We know for sure.”
“You mean someone entered our house when we were sleeping? Oh my God! Did you see him? Was he with a gun??? My God! How he looked like?”
She ran to the other room to inform father about the stranger the kids saw. After some hollering about the man-in-charge’s inability to protect the family she cooled down. Father was explaining something to her.
She came back sober. She was again concentrating on her work. Her eyes met with anxious Piklu’s.
“No one came last night. Those are all in fables. Go, wash your teeth.”
“Nooooooo it can’t be. John always gets gifts from Santa. I know Santa had come.”
“Well, then, go and ask from John how he gets that.”
Didi was sure mother was just playing a trick. She knows where the gifts are, she is just playing with them. God knows why adults play with kids.
Didi winked and Piklu again embraced mother, “Please please tell me …”
“I said No! No gifts from Santa. Don’t disturb me. It’s already too late.”
The kids gave up after two hours of investigation. Except for the high racks where they cannot reach, they left no stone unturned. And was finally convinced, Santa gave them a miss.
So John really didn’t give him the right formula. Such a betrayal!!! It was time for Piklu to cry. And he sobbed a lot.
Evening there was a party at John’s. Christmas party. Time for that fat pig to show off. “See my motorcycle … see my gun … whoaw! That plane … all by santa!”
Piklu was determined to break his nose today.
The first thing he did after arriving at John’s place was to drag him near the bathroom and demanding an explanation. Wasn’t it a deal?
John pledged to be truthful. And something in his words made Piklu convinced too. So what went wrong? They were both in deep thoughts. Both had forgotten the wild party going on with confetti and chocolates and red and yellow sweet drinks doing the round. Both were sad and Piklu was happy because John was sad.
“I know why you didn’t get the gifts,” John sounded serious.
“Why?”
“Because you are not a Christian. Santa only gives toys to Christian babies.”
“Oh. What do I do to become a Christian?”
“Put Jesus’ photo on your house and go to the church every Sunday and be silent when people pray. Ask your father, he would be knowing better.”
“So does that mean next year I will get gifts?”
“Absolutely! Kill me if you don’t get one”
They had a huge fun after that. John for a change let Piklu use santa-gifted gun and declared in front of others that Piklu is his best friend!
At about nine their father came to take them home.
“I want to be a Christian baba,” Piklu declared.
“Me too. Make us Christians,” didi expressed her view.
“What!!! Who told you all these things?”
“Santa always gives toys to Christian babies. Let’s go to the market and buy a Jesus’ photo. Come,” Piklu was dragging his father towards the market.
“Oh no. Wait! It’s a terrible misinformation. I can buy you toys! Why do you need a Santa.”
“You will buy us toys? Hah,” didi did not trust father. “You don’t love us anymore. You didn’t buy me even a rubber when my old one became black. You were not like this before. You never beat me. That is maa who is always after my life. You also beat me that day, remember! You don’t love me anymore. It’s only Santa who can give us toys.”
“Yes yes! Let’s buy a Jesus’ photo,” Piklu was still dragging his father.
“Wait wait. What have you asked from Santa? Let me have the list. I know in which tea-stall Santa sits and sip tea all day long. Give me the list. I will catch him now.”
“Can we go too?” Piklu enquired. He has forgotten to write about a flute on the list. He will personally tell Santa.
“No. you kids stay back. He doesn’t give gifts to kids who go and meet him. He doesn’t like that”
“Oh”
They ran to their bedroom and found the list. Both their parents were having a conversation. Mother was very angry for some reason. She gave a burning look to didi when she was going to give the list to father. “Listen you devil’s child …”
“Oh … no please, leave them aside…”
“But … don’t you …”
“I will manage. Don’t worry.”
“I know you won’t be able to manage. Take this. … HEY YOU LITTLE BASTARDS … GET LOST FROM HERE.”
The kids promptly ran to their bed and opened their books. Suddenly they were the most studious kids the world has ever seen. They were convinced; their neighbors love them more than their mother does.
Father came back after an hour with a small bag and a gun in his hand. Yes, the same one Piklu wished for.
“Did Santa give it to you?”
“Of course. And he apologized for not being able to make it last night. He was scared of the dogs.”
“Oh, poor Santa. How he will make it next year,” didi was concerned.
“Don’t worry. Next year he will manage to come, he said. He will put on an invisible cloak and come. He said. And he said he loves all the kids in the world and you don’t need to be a Christian. Actually there’s nothing like a Christian or a Hindu or a Muslim. We all are humans and he loves all the kids, he said.”
“Oh … ok.”
But Piklu by that time was at a pitched battle with his invisible adversaries. He won’t let the enemy enter his house. He was shooting blindly at the bushes. Blood was oozing out like a river from the bushes. Green blood!
After having killed all the enemies, he came panting. Drenched in sweat. “Where’s the other toys?”
“Yes, where are the other things in the list, I didn’t get my dollhouse and many other things. Where’s my jewels?” didi too enquired.
“Oh, Santa fell into the pond in front of your school and lost everything. He managed to salvage only these. He has apologized again for this. Don’t worry next year he will come up with all things due.”
“Look Piklu! Mother is bringing a cake! Such a beautiful cake,” didi was very excited.
Santa’s cake was very tasty. Both the kids relished the plum cake. It was even tastier than what they had eaten at John’s.
Didi was the one to notice that.
“Mother, where’s your earrings,” she exclaimed. She wished to wear those earrings when she grows up. She always has an eye on those sparkling golden earrings. It’s the best she has seen.
“Oh, I just lost it. Don’t worry dear, Santa will give it next year. He has promised,” mother took didi on her lap.
“He better be, if he wants to see another Christmas,” said father and hugged Piklu tight.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Adventures of Piklu – Christmas gift (part I)
Piklu was on the seventh heaven. After a week of pestering and bribing, John finally gave up!
Much to Piklu’s wishes, he had to voluntarily hand over the dragonfly to John as the final bribe. In search of the fiery red dragonfly, both had crawled under the bush. But John is a chubby boy. He never could fold his legs without bursting his pants. It’s lithe Piklu who always is bang on the target.
Piklu likes to consider himself the hawk of a sheikh that he once saw in his father’s magazines. Once a dove is in sight, the sheikh frees the hawk and it always manages to catch the dove, he was told. Ever since that day, he has turned into a hawk and the dragonflies – mere doves. Oh boy! What a terrible hawk he has been ever since!
But this dove was different. The hawk had to toil real hard, had to fly through dangerous cracks and caverns of terrible mythical lands – in this case, the dark alleyway behind their school – just not to lose the sight of this fiery red dove.
The dragonfly finally went and rested under the bush, which is infamous for dangerous creatures like earthworms. You can spot those dangerous creepy baby snake-lookalikes from the school window.
Nobody can blame John as courageous and naughty. He is a good boy, as his teachers put it. It’s always Piklu who is at the receiving end. Strangely, it’s always Piklu, who gets the most attention in the class.
Such was the call of the dragonfly that both the adventurers forgot everything and chased it all the way to the dark alleyway. They had to slip through the narrow broken school fence to come this side. But when the dragonfly hid itself in the bush, Piklu had the advantage. John was almost heartbroken. This is unfair, he thought.
When Piklu actually came out of the bush wearing a triumphant smile, John could not hide his jealousy.
It was no big deal for him, but of course a hard-owned battle. So Piklu was a little disappointed in having handing over his prized possession to John.
But John paid a good price too. In condition of keeping the secret to him only, he told Piklu the art of getting gifts from Santa!
Every year, John has received gifts, whatever he wanted from Santa. His parents, usually his father, helped him prepare the list in advance. It’s a week-long ceremony for John every year. Lists are made and quickly tore down. New plans are chalked out and budgets were also considered. Santa has other kids to give too. John should not ask for more, his father had told him.
And at the Christmas day, John was always there hosting a gala party. His friends can do nothing but wonder at Santa’s magnanimity. And John never for once told the secret to anybody. Even not to Piklu, despite him being his good friend.
But John divulged the secret this Christmas.
Piklu almost ran home in a trance. It’s long that their parents didn’t buy them anything. It’s long they didn’t receive a toy. And piklu has an eye for the wooden gun he has seen at the Wilmer’s Toy Shop at the marketplace. He wants it at any cost. That’s the finest gun a man has seen in his life!
Piklu’s elder sister was back home by that time. Anyway, it was the winter holiday season. Today was the last day of the school. There will be no classes for the next one month. It’s a gala celebration! His stupid sister was wearing that stupid frock of her’s in which she looks exactly like a stupid. How he hates talking with her when she wears that drum-like frock of hers. But she knows how to write and today is 24th December!
They had already managed to gather the stockings, the clean ones, cause Santa doesn’t like dirty stockings … his beard gets dirty. Character by character his sister created a long list. She had to write and rub many times because never in her life she has written this much and she were struggling to keep her handwriting as tidy as possible.
Piklu’s eyes were sparkling when each word was getting written on the list. One word means one gift! Assured! How can he not rejoice?
Looking his didi concentrate, he could not help but appreciate his elder sister. Nobody can write English as she does. Sigh … Piklu will not be able to write ever. He could not even write the numbers in Bengali properly. He always gets stuck at the juncture where two similar letters stand. The M before N or the N before M? That is worth a mystery to solve. Whereas his didi didn’t have to think twice.
So the list was drawn and inspected upon. Piklu’s due approval was taken. Both didi and Piklu signed. He might not know how to write ABCD upto Z properly. But he has an impressive signature nevertheless.
The final list, after two hours of hard work, stood as following:
for piklu from WIMAR (oposeat cake sop):
GUN-WIMAR
MOTOSIKEL-TOY
SIKEL-RED-NO TOY
COKLATE
SUNGLAS
MANIBAG
SORD
WATCH
HAT
KEMARA-TOY
CAR—RED BIG
CAR—RED MIDIAM
CAR—RED SMAL
For Tuli
DOLL – GOOD LIKE SAHELI DOLL
BANGEL
KEYCHEN – SET LIKE PRIANKA
DOLL—LIKE PRIANKA
DOLHOUSE—LIKE SWITI
JEWEL – LIKE ANTY
FROK—LIKE BOOKON
COKLATE
LOGENS – 1 PAKAT FUL FOR FRENDS
They both signed the list and decided there should be a note left to Santa to consider them first before he goes to John’s place. Incase, the stock is in limited supply. They were not very sure which way Santa comes from. So they marked all the lampposts with arrows pointing towards their house and left more arrows on the road. Now, wherever Santa comes from, he was sure to knock at their door first.
To draw Santa’s favour, they also planned a clever idea! Which is nothing but the truth. Their father has lost his job due to the factory closure and since then, he has stopped loving them. He doesn’t also shave like before and gets irritated at the drop of a hat.
No question of asking toys from him.
It was Tuli’s plan. She left a note with the list, the note at the top and the list next, so that Santa sees it first and give them all that they want. With her new honed mastery at English, confident, she wrote: FADER NO JOB. NO TOY. BEAT US. HE SAD. I SAD. I WANT TOY. HIRE LIST:
As instructed by John, they carefully put the stockings just above their head and waited anxiously till Santa comes. They wanted to see him. John said he comes exactly at 12 at his place. Their house is about 5 minutes walk from John’s house. So either Santa will come here when the long hand will be in 11 and the small hand will in 12 or when the small hand will be in 12 and the long hand will be in 1. Piklu could not help but marvel at his sister’s genius!
It was a cold cold night. Like Santa’s white beard, a white fog was engulfing the whole world. The blanket was warm and cosy. The distant lamppost’s light was getting dimmer and dimmer. And soon they were coiled at a corner, hugging each other like old chums and breathing on each others’ face – fast asleep.
(to be continued …)
Much to Piklu’s wishes, he had to voluntarily hand over the dragonfly to John as the final bribe. In search of the fiery red dragonfly, both had crawled under the bush. But John is a chubby boy. He never could fold his legs without bursting his pants. It’s lithe Piklu who always is bang on the target.
Piklu likes to consider himself the hawk of a sheikh that he once saw in his father’s magazines. Once a dove is in sight, the sheikh frees the hawk and it always manages to catch the dove, he was told. Ever since that day, he has turned into a hawk and the dragonflies – mere doves. Oh boy! What a terrible hawk he has been ever since!
But this dove was different. The hawk had to toil real hard, had to fly through dangerous cracks and caverns of terrible mythical lands – in this case, the dark alleyway behind their school – just not to lose the sight of this fiery red dove.
The dragonfly finally went and rested under the bush, which is infamous for dangerous creatures like earthworms. You can spot those dangerous creepy baby snake-lookalikes from the school window.
Nobody can blame John as courageous and naughty. He is a good boy, as his teachers put it. It’s always Piklu who is at the receiving end. Strangely, it’s always Piklu, who gets the most attention in the class.
Such was the call of the dragonfly that both the adventurers forgot everything and chased it all the way to the dark alleyway. They had to slip through the narrow broken school fence to come this side. But when the dragonfly hid itself in the bush, Piklu had the advantage. John was almost heartbroken. This is unfair, he thought.
When Piklu actually came out of the bush wearing a triumphant smile, John could not hide his jealousy.
It was no big deal for him, but of course a hard-owned battle. So Piklu was a little disappointed in having handing over his prized possession to John.
But John paid a good price too. In condition of keeping the secret to him only, he told Piklu the art of getting gifts from Santa!
Every year, John has received gifts, whatever he wanted from Santa. His parents, usually his father, helped him prepare the list in advance. It’s a week-long ceremony for John every year. Lists are made and quickly tore down. New plans are chalked out and budgets were also considered. Santa has other kids to give too. John should not ask for more, his father had told him.
And at the Christmas day, John was always there hosting a gala party. His friends can do nothing but wonder at Santa’s magnanimity. And John never for once told the secret to anybody. Even not to Piklu, despite him being his good friend.
But John divulged the secret this Christmas.
Piklu almost ran home in a trance. It’s long that their parents didn’t buy them anything. It’s long they didn’t receive a toy. And piklu has an eye for the wooden gun he has seen at the Wilmer’s Toy Shop at the marketplace. He wants it at any cost. That’s the finest gun a man has seen in his life!
Piklu’s elder sister was back home by that time. Anyway, it was the winter holiday season. Today was the last day of the school. There will be no classes for the next one month. It’s a gala celebration! His stupid sister was wearing that stupid frock of her’s in which she looks exactly like a stupid. How he hates talking with her when she wears that drum-like frock of hers. But she knows how to write and today is 24th December!
They had already managed to gather the stockings, the clean ones, cause Santa doesn’t like dirty stockings … his beard gets dirty. Character by character his sister created a long list. She had to write and rub many times because never in her life she has written this much and she were struggling to keep her handwriting as tidy as possible.
Piklu’s eyes were sparkling when each word was getting written on the list. One word means one gift! Assured! How can he not rejoice?
Looking his didi concentrate, he could not help but appreciate his elder sister. Nobody can write English as she does. Sigh … Piklu will not be able to write ever. He could not even write the numbers in Bengali properly. He always gets stuck at the juncture where two similar letters stand. The M before N or the N before M? That is worth a mystery to solve. Whereas his didi didn’t have to think twice.
So the list was drawn and inspected upon. Piklu’s due approval was taken. Both didi and Piklu signed. He might not know how to write ABCD upto Z properly. But he has an impressive signature nevertheless.
The final list, after two hours of hard work, stood as following:
for piklu from WIMAR (oposeat cake sop):
GUN-WIMAR
MOTOSIKEL-TOY
SIKEL-RED-NO TOY
COKLATE
SUNGLAS
MANIBAG
SORD
WATCH
HAT
KEMARA-TOY
CAR—RED BIG
CAR—RED MIDIAM
CAR—RED SMAL
For Tuli
DOLL – GOOD LIKE SAHELI DOLL
BANGEL
KEYCHEN – SET LIKE PRIANKA
DOLL—LIKE PRIANKA
DOLHOUSE—LIKE SWITI
JEWEL – LIKE ANTY
FROK—LIKE BOOKON
COKLATE
LOGENS – 1 PAKAT FUL FOR FRENDS
They both signed the list and decided there should be a note left to Santa to consider them first before he goes to John’s place. Incase, the stock is in limited supply. They were not very sure which way Santa comes from. So they marked all the lampposts with arrows pointing towards their house and left more arrows on the road. Now, wherever Santa comes from, he was sure to knock at their door first.
To draw Santa’s favour, they also planned a clever idea! Which is nothing but the truth. Their father has lost his job due to the factory closure and since then, he has stopped loving them. He doesn’t also shave like before and gets irritated at the drop of a hat.
No question of asking toys from him.
It was Tuli’s plan. She left a note with the list, the note at the top and the list next, so that Santa sees it first and give them all that they want. With her new honed mastery at English, confident, she wrote: FADER NO JOB. NO TOY. BEAT US. HE SAD. I SAD. I WANT TOY. HIRE LIST:
As instructed by John, they carefully put the stockings just above their head and waited anxiously till Santa comes. They wanted to see him. John said he comes exactly at 12 at his place. Their house is about 5 minutes walk from John’s house. So either Santa will come here when the long hand will be in 11 and the small hand will in 12 or when the small hand will be in 12 and the long hand will be in 1. Piklu could not help but marvel at his sister’s genius!
It was a cold cold night. Like Santa’s white beard, a white fog was engulfing the whole world. The blanket was warm and cosy. The distant lamppost’s light was getting dimmer and dimmer. And soon they were coiled at a corner, hugging each other like old chums and breathing on each others’ face – fast asleep.
(to be continued …)
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
mu,mbai salsa
I am drunk. I never drank so much in my life. I am a dirty boy now. much to the spirit of Mumbai. Mumbai is a dirty fuckin bitchy good city. I always wanted this life. I am drunk.
And I will not alter whatever my hands are tyupimg in the keypboard. I want to read it later on to see how much different I am from the fake myself. when I am not drunk, I a write stupid things, I write nonsense lies.
Ah…this stpud problem of correcting your words when you hit the wromng key,. I wil not rectify it anymore. whatever hits the buttojn is golden. It will remnaun as it is. Respect how your senses guide you through. I amn drumnk and I am proud of that.
I know you pelpe are waiting for thi8s arsehole blogger to write somethinbg. But what shall I write>? What is there to writer? I am in love with this city at the first sight.l nbut looks can be deceptivce,. You fucking [people. You don’t know what;’s life. that’s why you blamne Mumbai local train. Ui hgave seen these jamopacked trains when I was in my college and school. I know what’s there tp catch a jam packed train during the rushing office hours. Fuckkin god, it;’s jyust like Calcutta. It’s exactly like Calcutta I swear. It is Calcutta. Period. And those arse ho;les who adfvertise Mumbai local trains to its gloryu or to its doom, I swear, you are the nipple-sucketrs. You don’t know ahat life is. I swear, I have seen worst kind of packed trains in Calcutta, huh, and you bklame Mumbai,. Baustards;./
Mumbai is great and that’s all.
It;’s like a second home coming. Mumbai is nothing but callcutta, the buildings,the roads,m people, traffic. Just replace the fiats with ambassadors, you have Calcutta in fromnt of you,.
Now whio is the vastard who says Mumbai is bad?
Mumbai rocks…qwelcome to Mumbai salsa oh janeman!!!
But two impressions that would have nebver happen in calocutta,
The first day when I was convinced that Mumbai is nothing but Calcutta, I sms-ed one of mt dear friends that mumbao is just vlike Calcutta and I am going to settle her.
But the next day I saw a man dropping fropm the trrain and getting halved byt a train coming from the opposite suide,. Yet, noby frowned. Nobu sympathized, as if a scum on earth has passed on. praise the lord,. It wil never happen in calcutta;.l bastard mumbaikars.
Second, people are professuional. You give a word, you fulfil it. Business is everything and you are super bvusy,m you are super efficient,. It will never happen in calcutta.
I am not returning to xcalxcutta. But I will not live in mu,mbai.
That’s all
Again, I a mdrunk.
And I will not alter whatever my hands are tyupimg in the keypboard. I want to read it later on to see how much different I am from the fake myself. when I am not drunk, I a write stupid things, I write nonsense lies.
Ah…this stpud problem of correcting your words when you hit the wromng key,. I wil not rectify it anymore. whatever hits the buttojn is golden. It will remnaun as it is. Respect how your senses guide you through. I amn drumnk and I am proud of that.
I know you pelpe are waiting for thi8s arsehole blogger to write somethinbg. But what shall I write>? What is there to writer? I am in love with this city at the first sight.l nbut looks can be deceptivce,. You fucking [people. You don’t know what;’s life. that’s why you blamne Mumbai local train. Ui hgave seen these jamopacked trains when I was in my college and school. I know what’s there tp catch a jam packed train during the rushing office hours. Fuckkin god, it;’s jyust like Calcutta. It’s exactly like Calcutta I swear. It is Calcutta. Period. And those arse ho;les who adfvertise Mumbai local trains to its gloryu or to its doom, I swear, you are the nipple-sucketrs. You don’t know ahat life is. I swear, I have seen worst kind of packed trains in Calcutta, huh, and you bklame Mumbai,. Baustards;./
Mumbai is great and that’s all.
It;’s like a second home coming. Mumbai is nothing but callcutta, the buildings,the roads,m people, traffic. Just replace the fiats with ambassadors, you have Calcutta in fromnt of you,.
Now whio is the vastard who says Mumbai is bad?
Mumbai rocks…qwelcome to Mumbai salsa oh janeman!!!
But two impressions that would have nebver happen in calocutta,
The first day when I was convinced that Mumbai is nothing but Calcutta, I sms-ed one of mt dear friends that mumbao is just vlike Calcutta and I am going to settle her.
But the next day I saw a man dropping fropm the trrain and getting halved byt a train coming from the opposite suide,. Yet, noby frowned. Nobu sympathized, as if a scum on earth has passed on. praise the lord,. It wil never happen in calcutta;.l bastard mumbaikars.
Second, people are professuional. You give a word, you fulfil it. Business is everything and you are super bvusy,m you are super efficient,. It will never happen in calcutta.
I am not returning to xcalxcutta. But I will not live in mu,mbai.
That’s all
Again, I a mdrunk.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Mumbaikar
So, finally I am leaving Bangalore. Heading towards a rather unruly city, they say.
Will I be happy? I have to be. Afterall that’s my decision to leave this cosy-comfy job and opt for a much harder life. No pickups, no drops. Commuting forty kilometers a day in these insane, packed-like-sardines local trains, with the fear of a bomb going off anytime and reduce my much-adored body in pieces of flesh. Stories will not come to me, aha, I have to go and hunt for them.
Am I happy?
You bet, I am.
I know the life is hard there. But isn’t it true that anything easy makes you tired? Wouldn’t Mumbai be an adventure to be remembered? When did I say that I want time for myself?
No, heck no. I don’t want time for myself. I have had so much of time for myself in Bangalore, that I have gone crazy. It’s bloody damn tiring. When I switch off the light, and slip into my blanket, all kinds of thoughts keep crawling in, I go mad.
I want some hustle-bustle, the daily pangs of life that would be enough to make me forget my sad thoughts. I won’t say my life is full of tragedies. But I am a sensitive guy, and for me even a rude rebuke from a person I love is a disaster. I feel so morose. I feel so deserted, so lost.
Let there be harsh life waiting in ambush. I swear I will fight all the demons with defying courage. Yes, I want to fight the daily pangs of life. I want to see the raw life. My idle sadness can’t be more tragic than the life in a metro. Let me see that. And I am sure I will get the courage to laugh at my so-called depression.
And Bangalore is too artificial for my liking.
Yes, I know I will do well in Mumbai. I always perform best when in pressure. I know I will love Mumbai. And if Mumbai likes me, I know I am going to settle there.
I am going to be a Mumbaikar. Good bye Kolkata. Don’t cry for me. I am not coming back.
Goodbye Kolkata. I will come to you once in a while and fill my senses with the sweet fragrance of your bosom. But I will not sleep with you. I have a new lady in life. Mumbai.
Will I be happy? I have to be. Afterall that’s my decision to leave this cosy-comfy job and opt for a much harder life. No pickups, no drops. Commuting forty kilometers a day in these insane, packed-like-sardines local trains, with the fear of a bomb going off anytime and reduce my much-adored body in pieces of flesh. Stories will not come to me, aha, I have to go and hunt for them.
Am I happy?
You bet, I am.
I know the life is hard there. But isn’t it true that anything easy makes you tired? Wouldn’t Mumbai be an adventure to be remembered? When did I say that I want time for myself?
No, heck no. I don’t want time for myself. I have had so much of time for myself in Bangalore, that I have gone crazy. It’s bloody damn tiring. When I switch off the light, and slip into my blanket, all kinds of thoughts keep crawling in, I go mad.
I want some hustle-bustle, the daily pangs of life that would be enough to make me forget my sad thoughts. I won’t say my life is full of tragedies. But I am a sensitive guy, and for me even a rude rebuke from a person I love is a disaster. I feel so morose. I feel so deserted, so lost.
Let there be harsh life waiting in ambush. I swear I will fight all the demons with defying courage. Yes, I want to fight the daily pangs of life. I want to see the raw life. My idle sadness can’t be more tragic than the life in a metro. Let me see that. And I am sure I will get the courage to laugh at my so-called depression.
And Bangalore is too artificial for my liking.
Yes, I know I will do well in Mumbai. I always perform best when in pressure. I know I will love Mumbai. And if Mumbai likes me, I know I am going to settle there.
I am going to be a Mumbaikar. Good bye Kolkata. Don’t cry for me. I am not coming back.
Goodbye Kolkata. I will come to you once in a while and fill my senses with the sweet fragrance of your bosom. But I will not sleep with you. I have a new lady in life. Mumbai.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
help!
I had a wonderful realization today. I realized, for the first time, that God cannot probably give you anything even if you pray fervently. You get what is destined. And surely even the creator is bound by his own rule of creations. A man’s life is not a blog that you write and delete when you want. No, it’s a defined path where the fruit falls in when it’s ripe and the time correct. It’s all pre-destined. God simply cannot break his own rule and give you what you want. A small change made for you would create a domino effect that would destabilize the entire creation. No, that can’t be allowed. And I have no objection to that.
I realized that God is just like your mother. She loves you. But probably cannot control anything in your life. You know if anything in this world is real and true to you, that’s the love of your mother. I would add the Almighty in it. He is simply a simple Man who watches helplessly what you do and still would smile at you. And I love Him all the more for that.
But then here is my question. I would illustrate an example before that.
Quite some time ago, I proposed a girl. I liked her a lot. She gently refused my offer. End of story. And I would also forget her very soon as I have this wonderful mechanism in my character by which I delete unwanted memories very easily. I close the chamber of emotions. I almost can become robot after that. I start thinking in one direction and don’t let any kind of emotion stir my mind. I become blank and brick-headed. And then after some time when I let my chamber open up, I find the emotion has subsided and turned into dust. You have to just blow it off. Trust me, I have this unique ability. I practiced it from my childhood.
I was a pesky kid. Everyday I used to come home injured with blood oozing out. And trust me when the wound used to pain, I would decide for some time whether I would cry or keep mum. The logic was very simple. Everyday I cannot cry and shame myself, particularly when I was the captain of our football team. That is too embarrassing as a leader.
If I decided to keep mum, no amount of blood would make me shed even a single drop of tear. It was unnatural, against all science, for a kid.
And when I decided to cry, I used to draw the living crap out of every soul in my neighborhood. I would cry till I was tired and fall asleep. Sometimes for hours.
The habit didn’t leave me till date. Add to it I have added one more specialty. I can laugh and make fun and frolic, when I am extremely emotional.
So, forgetting the girl is not a big deal for me. I know, I love her. I haven’t liked anybody for quite some years and decided not to fall in love again after my last harrowing experience. But this girl swept my feet and shook all my inhibitions. But I will forget her soon. I know, I will.
After this incident, this question popped into my mind. Why do we crave for things that are NOT destined for us? Why is this mechanism in nature and in God’s rule-book? What is the need for it? Why we should crave for things that are not ours to get? Why? WHY?
Would anybody care to explain? I didn’t get the answer myself. I would really remain grateful if anybody cares to make me understand this.
I realized that God is just like your mother. She loves you. But probably cannot control anything in your life. You know if anything in this world is real and true to you, that’s the love of your mother. I would add the Almighty in it. He is simply a simple Man who watches helplessly what you do and still would smile at you. And I love Him all the more for that.
But then here is my question. I would illustrate an example before that.
Quite some time ago, I proposed a girl. I liked her a lot. She gently refused my offer. End of story. And I would also forget her very soon as I have this wonderful mechanism in my character by which I delete unwanted memories very easily. I close the chamber of emotions. I almost can become robot after that. I start thinking in one direction and don’t let any kind of emotion stir my mind. I become blank and brick-headed. And then after some time when I let my chamber open up, I find the emotion has subsided and turned into dust. You have to just blow it off. Trust me, I have this unique ability. I practiced it from my childhood.
I was a pesky kid. Everyday I used to come home injured with blood oozing out. And trust me when the wound used to pain, I would decide for some time whether I would cry or keep mum. The logic was very simple. Everyday I cannot cry and shame myself, particularly when I was the captain of our football team. That is too embarrassing as a leader.
If I decided to keep mum, no amount of blood would make me shed even a single drop of tear. It was unnatural, against all science, for a kid.
And when I decided to cry, I used to draw the living crap out of every soul in my neighborhood. I would cry till I was tired and fall asleep. Sometimes for hours.
The habit didn’t leave me till date. Add to it I have added one more specialty. I can laugh and make fun and frolic, when I am extremely emotional.
So, forgetting the girl is not a big deal for me. I know, I love her. I haven’t liked anybody for quite some years and decided not to fall in love again after my last harrowing experience. But this girl swept my feet and shook all my inhibitions. But I will forget her soon. I know, I will.
After this incident, this question popped into my mind. Why do we crave for things that are NOT destined for us? Why is this mechanism in nature and in God’s rule-book? What is the need for it? Why we should crave for things that are not ours to get? Why? WHY?
Would anybody care to explain? I didn’t get the answer myself. I would really remain grateful if anybody cares to make me understand this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)