Recently discovered that even those who have pretensions of possessing the ability to write namely me, can actually suffers from writers block. Not that I have much to write about. Tried a few posts but did not quite like them. One is work in progress but have not been able to get back to it.
Insha Allah sometime soon as they often say with irritating regularity in this region.
A wonderful multi dimensional phrase.
Q. "Boss, karma challenge?".
A. "Insha Allah"
Q. "AC Nahi Chal Raha. Kab tak thik kara sakata hoon?"
A. "Insha Allah"
"We are approaching Dubai International Airport. Insha Allah we will land in 10 minutes".
Monday, December 26, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
An Irishman from Peshawar
KK, Preeta and I were standing at the bar at Irish Village. We didn’t quite notice the old man, about mid-60ish get up and ask KK his name. He complied, I next and finally Preeta. With a great flourish of his hands, the gentleman offered Preeta his bar stool.
“Where I come from that’s what we do. When there is a lady standing we Irish offer her our seat. That’s just what we do. That’s how we are.” He stuttered revealing that he was indeed quite drunk.
Preetha declined clarifying that we were headed to the open air section. KK politely asked him for his introduction.
“I am Francsish”. Like Saint Francsish”.
I tried hard to suppress my smirk at his drunken lisp.
“Saint Francsish of……” he paused searching.
“Of Assisi…” I volunteered help.
“Francsish, that’s my name, like St. Francsish of Assisi”.
“He’s buried in India, at Goa”, I added, to continue the conversation.
Francis, it seemed could only latch on to India from what I said.
“You know, who’s the greatest Saint of them all?” Francis asked looking at me but the question was posed to all of us. “Mahatma Gandhi….he was the greatest of them all. I have spent all my life reading and learning about him. I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi”.
He stuck me as a missionary teacher. Or perhaps that was just the template of Irishmen in my mind having done some early schooling at St. Michael’s in Delhi and having gotten by backside whipped by the likes of Father McGinty and Father Tyson.
However, Francis claiming to be an authority and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi, sitting, obviously inebriated in a bar, stuck me as a bit un-gandhian.
“Don’t you think that Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest person ever, the biggest saint ever?” Francis asked. The question was posed to me.
Now Gandhi, that’s a dicey subject for me. I paused, thinking so as to how to soften my tone on a topic of conversation that always angers me. Like many Indians I hold the belief that had it not been for Gandhi, India would have been a very different country for the better. His vision of India as one big happy commune as time has proved was so unrealistic.
“No. Had it not been for Gandhi, India would never have been partitioned.”
Francis was quite enraged. He cut me short before I could continue my argument, which I have had many a time before. It ends with me saying, “Quad, Erad, Demonstatum”.
“Gandhi had nothing to do with that. India was partitioned because that Jinnah just would not have it any other way”.
He was right and I knew it…Gandhi, Jinnah and Nehru the three architects of partition.
My tone agitated, I said, “All Gandhi had to do was to tell Nehru to let Jinnah be Prime Minister and there would have been no Pakistan”.
Tone apart I knew that my statement was merely a weak jab in an argument that requires a series of heavy punches.
“Did you know that Gandhi was bisexual”. KK said.
Wow! That was an uppercut that came out of nowhere. It took me by surprise though as I have never heard it before. It almost knocked out St. Francis.
KK had obviously touched a very raw nerve in St. Francis.
“No he was not”. St. Francis said very agitated.
“Yes he was. There was an article in Outlook which said so. It’s a leading magazine in India” KK stated the credentials of his statement.
St. Francis was enraged. “I do not care where it appeared, I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi. I have spent all my life studying about him and that is something that enrages me. Gandhi was completely heterosexual”.
“Even if he was how does it matter? And he practiced abstinence” I said trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.
St. Francis was still livid and he said to KK, “I am a lot older than you are but if I hear you say that Gandhi was bisexual, I will flatten you. You would be lying there”, he said pointing to the floor.
As soon as he said this, I labeled him from a drunk to a drunk fraud in my mind. No intellectual disciple of Gandhi would ever threaten a person with violence.
“We British (he had transitioned from being Irish to British and rightly so), we have done a lot of wrong things. India, South East Asia, Palestine…but don’t blame Mahatma Gandhi for the partition of India”.
I immediately warmed up to that statement and gave him some points for honesty.
“We are responsible for quite a few bad things and some good things too. We did…..”, again Francis searched.
“ built Institutions..” I helped him out.
“We built educational institutions, government….” He paused. “We screwed up quite a bit. But it saddens me that people do not know about their own countries. I go around telling all people about all the good things about their countries…that’s what I do. Take him he’s from Palestine”. He said turning to the person sitting next to him.
We did not know that he was with St. Francis, as a matter of fact I had not noticed him at all. A soft featured man in his mid 20’s, hair gelled back, trimmed mustache, plucked eye brows, effeminate smile.
“Have you been to India?” I asked.
“I was born in India. My father was a Major in the Indian army”.
“Where were you born?” I continued.
St. Francis again searched. It seemed as though he was trying to think of a name. Was he just a conjurer of conversation, I thought to myself. A person who just makes things up as he goes along!
“Peshawar”, he finally said. And I had a mental image of St. Francis driving a taxi, like most men from Peshawar whom I have come across.
More small talk followed, which revealed that the young man with St. Francis was not from Palestine but instead from Pakistan. We finally collected our drinks. KK and I experimented with Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do being in Irish village.
After a while, I went back inside to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t find it and I heard a cacophonous rabble of British youngsters singing ‘Blowing in the wind’ with St. Francis in his midst. Now Bob Dylan draws me like a magnet and I went over to shout out a few lines. St. Francis greeted me warmly and asked me to join them.
“I was just leaving actually”, I lied.
“Would you like to have one last drink before you do?” Francis pointed me to the bar stool that was last occupied by the effeminate Pakistani. He did not sound drunk and the hint of proposition was clear in his eyes. I declined. He insisted. So I made up the excuse of going round the corner and coming back. Of course I had no intention of going back.
On way from the bathroom I saw the effeminate Pakistani again and it seemed to fall into place. I conjectured that it explained why St. Francis was so enraged at the thought of Gandhi being bisexual. Perhaps he had not yet come terms with his own bisexuality.
Was that also the reason why Mahatma Gandhi practiced abstinence? I was on a roll as far as conjectures go.
After a couple of hours, I saw the rabble of the English youth leaving with St. Francis walking behind everyone.
I felt sorry for him and conjectured yet again that perhaps he was just an old man trying to be interesting. Perhaps an old man just seeking the company of youth.
“Where I come from that’s what we do. When there is a lady standing we Irish offer her our seat. That’s just what we do. That’s how we are.” He stuttered revealing that he was indeed quite drunk.
Preetha declined clarifying that we were headed to the open air section. KK politely asked him for his introduction.
“I am Francsish”. Like Saint Francsish”.
I tried hard to suppress my smirk at his drunken lisp.
“Saint Francsish of……” he paused searching.
“Of Assisi…” I volunteered help.
“Francsish, that’s my name, like St. Francsish of Assisi”.
“He’s buried in India, at Goa”, I added, to continue the conversation.
Francis, it seemed could only latch on to India from what I said.
“You know, who’s the greatest Saint of them all?” Francis asked looking at me but the question was posed to all of us. “Mahatma Gandhi….he was the greatest of them all. I have spent all my life reading and learning about him. I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi”.
He stuck me as a missionary teacher. Or perhaps that was just the template of Irishmen in my mind having done some early schooling at St. Michael’s in Delhi and having gotten by backside whipped by the likes of Father McGinty and Father Tyson.
However, Francis claiming to be an authority and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi, sitting, obviously inebriated in a bar, stuck me as a bit un-gandhian.
“Don’t you think that Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest person ever, the biggest saint ever?” Francis asked. The question was posed to me.
Now Gandhi, that’s a dicey subject for me. I paused, thinking so as to how to soften my tone on a topic of conversation that always angers me. Like many Indians I hold the belief that had it not been for Gandhi, India would have been a very different country for the better. His vision of India as one big happy commune as time has proved was so unrealistic.
“No. Had it not been for Gandhi, India would never have been partitioned.”
Francis was quite enraged. He cut me short before I could continue my argument, which I have had many a time before. It ends with me saying, “Quad, Erad, Demonstatum”.
“Gandhi had nothing to do with that. India was partitioned because that Jinnah just would not have it any other way”.
He was right and I knew it…Gandhi, Jinnah and Nehru the three architects of partition.
My tone agitated, I said, “All Gandhi had to do was to tell Nehru to let Jinnah be Prime Minister and there would have been no Pakistan”.
Tone apart I knew that my statement was merely a weak jab in an argument that requires a series of heavy punches.
“Did you know that Gandhi was bisexual”. KK said.
Wow! That was an uppercut that came out of nowhere. It took me by surprise though as I have never heard it before. It almost knocked out St. Francis.
KK had obviously touched a very raw nerve in St. Francis.
“No he was not”. St. Francis said very agitated.
“Yes he was. There was an article in Outlook which said so. It’s a leading magazine in India” KK stated the credentials of his statement.
St. Francis was enraged. “I do not care where it appeared, I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi. I have spent all my life studying about him and that is something that enrages me. Gandhi was completely heterosexual”.
“Even if he was how does it matter? And he practiced abstinence” I said trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.
St. Francis was still livid and he said to KK, “I am a lot older than you are but if I hear you say that Gandhi was bisexual, I will flatten you. You would be lying there”, he said pointing to the floor.
As soon as he said this, I labeled him from a drunk to a drunk fraud in my mind. No intellectual disciple of Gandhi would ever threaten a person with violence.
“We British (he had transitioned from being Irish to British and rightly so), we have done a lot of wrong things. India, South East Asia, Palestine…but don’t blame Mahatma Gandhi for the partition of India”.
I immediately warmed up to that statement and gave him some points for honesty.
“We are responsible for quite a few bad things and some good things too. We did…..”, again Francis searched.
“ built Institutions..” I helped him out.
“We built educational institutions, government….” He paused. “We screwed up quite a bit. But it saddens me that people do not know about their own countries. I go around telling all people about all the good things about their countries…that’s what I do. Take him he’s from Palestine”. He said turning to the person sitting next to him.
We did not know that he was with St. Francis, as a matter of fact I had not noticed him at all. A soft featured man in his mid 20’s, hair gelled back, trimmed mustache, plucked eye brows, effeminate smile.
“Have you been to India?” I asked.
“I was born in India. My father was a Major in the Indian army”.
“Where were you born?” I continued.
St. Francis again searched. It seemed as though he was trying to think of a name. Was he just a conjurer of conversation, I thought to myself. A person who just makes things up as he goes along!
“Peshawar”, he finally said. And I had a mental image of St. Francis driving a taxi, like most men from Peshawar whom I have come across.
More small talk followed, which revealed that the young man with St. Francis was not from Palestine but instead from Pakistan. We finally collected our drinks. KK and I experimented with Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do being in Irish village.
After a while, I went back inside to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t find it and I heard a cacophonous rabble of British youngsters singing ‘Blowing in the wind’ with St. Francis in his midst. Now Bob Dylan draws me like a magnet and I went over to shout out a few lines. St. Francis greeted me warmly and asked me to join them.
“I was just leaving actually”, I lied.
“Would you like to have one last drink before you do?” Francis pointed me to the bar stool that was last occupied by the effeminate Pakistani. He did not sound drunk and the hint of proposition was clear in his eyes. I declined. He insisted. So I made up the excuse of going round the corner and coming back. Of course I had no intention of going back.
On way from the bathroom I saw the effeminate Pakistani again and it seemed to fall into place. I conjectured that it explained why St. Francis was so enraged at the thought of Gandhi being bisexual. Perhaps he had not yet come terms with his own bisexuality.
Was that also the reason why Mahatma Gandhi practiced abstinence? I was on a roll as far as conjectures go.
After a couple of hours, I saw the rabble of the English youth leaving with St. Francis walking behind everyone.
I felt sorry for him and conjectured yet again that perhaps he was just an old man trying to be interesting. Perhaps an old man just seeking the company of youth.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Mind Movies
The one thing that is certain about time is the fact that it goes by. And it seems to go by too fast.
Realistically speaking I have not been doing much since I have come here. Everyday I make promises to myself that I will jam pack my day with stuff but just does not seem to happen.
Come the end of the day the best that I would have achieved (office hours apart) is an hour of reading (half hearted) and an hour of work that I carry home. The rest of the time goes in simple chores like personal hygiene, eating, washing clothes etc. Stuff that should not take more than 30 minutes of my day.
I do not have television and am not missing it at all. Who needs it when I have a non stop television in my mind! And in that too I just seem to be surfing channels all the time. Mindlessly, flitting from one random thought to another. The mind is restless and flippantly so. This channel surfing takes place even when I am walking the streets, browsing in supermarkets, riding taxi’s.
What an idiot my mind is, it always wants to be elsewhere. The present is just the background. Should it not be the other way around?
The only factor that lend consistency to my random thoughts is the fact that they are mine. Otherwise they do not fit into make anything that is cohesive. If I and my mind are microcosms of the world, then none makes any sense. Not me, nor my mind and neither the world.
Realistically speaking I have not been doing much since I have come here. Everyday I make promises to myself that I will jam pack my day with stuff but just does not seem to happen.
Come the end of the day the best that I would have achieved (office hours apart) is an hour of reading (half hearted) and an hour of work that I carry home. The rest of the time goes in simple chores like personal hygiene, eating, washing clothes etc. Stuff that should not take more than 30 minutes of my day.
I do not have television and am not missing it at all. Who needs it when I have a non stop television in my mind! And in that too I just seem to be surfing channels all the time. Mindlessly, flitting from one random thought to another. The mind is restless and flippantly so. This channel surfing takes place even when I am walking the streets, browsing in supermarkets, riding taxi’s.
What an idiot my mind is, it always wants to be elsewhere. The present is just the background. Should it not be the other way around?
The only factor that lend consistency to my random thoughts is the fact that they are mine. Otherwise they do not fit into make anything that is cohesive. If I and my mind are microcosms of the world, then none makes any sense. Not me, nor my mind and neither the world.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Men from Peshawar
Peshawar is in the North West Frontier Province of Pakistan. It borders Afghanistan.
I had known the place on from history books as it was on the pathway of the Central Asian invaders, from Hindi films that extolled the virtue of the Pathans as strong, brave, honest men and also from a certain passage from ‘Freedom at Midnight’ that detailed out Lord Mountbatten’s visit to the region.
The passage stressed that the last viceroy had put himself in danger by obstinately insisting on holding the rally. Pathans from all around had gathered to see the new gora sahib. It was hot and Pathans who are supposed to be short tempered, violent men were getting agitated. The British governor of the region feared for Mountbatten’s life especially since an attempt on his life had been foiled just days ago in Karachi (the would be assassin had supposedly lost his nerve).
Mountbatten got on top of a mound with Edwina by his side and the crowd erupted into a volley of adulation. Lapeirrre and Collins (the writers) attribute this to the fact that Mountbatten had chosen to wear his military green – the colour of Islam. The Pathans took this as a sign of friendship and were bowled over by the white man in green who they immediately took as a friend.
Now that you are suitably impressed by my grasp of history I must confess that the only person whom I could name from the region is Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Ghafar Khan. That was only till recently.
Out of the force of habit, I have been chatting up with Taxi drivers and a lot of them happen to be from Peshawar. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers in Bombay, they have chosen to leave their homes and families to come here to make a better living. They define 2,500 dhirams as a good monthly wage. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers they miss their homes and complain about how tough life has become here and still how worse it is in their hometowns.
I feel a sense of kinship with them.
I had known the place on from history books as it was on the pathway of the Central Asian invaders, from Hindi films that extolled the virtue of the Pathans as strong, brave, honest men and also from a certain passage from ‘Freedom at Midnight’ that detailed out Lord Mountbatten’s visit to the region.
The passage stressed that the last viceroy had put himself in danger by obstinately insisting on holding the rally. Pathans from all around had gathered to see the new gora sahib. It was hot and Pathans who are supposed to be short tempered, violent men were getting agitated. The British governor of the region feared for Mountbatten’s life especially since an attempt on his life had been foiled just days ago in Karachi (the would be assassin had supposedly lost his nerve).
Mountbatten got on top of a mound with Edwina by his side and the crowd erupted into a volley of adulation. Lapeirrre and Collins (the writers) attribute this to the fact that Mountbatten had chosen to wear his military green – the colour of Islam. The Pathans took this as a sign of friendship and were bowled over by the white man in green who they immediately took as a friend.
Now that you are suitably impressed by my grasp of history I must confess that the only person whom I could name from the region is Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Ghafar Khan. That was only till recently.
Out of the force of habit, I have been chatting up with Taxi drivers and a lot of them happen to be from Peshawar. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers in Bombay, they have chosen to leave their homes and families to come here to make a better living. They define 2,500 dhirams as a good monthly wage. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers they miss their homes and complain about how tough life has become here and still how worse it is in their hometowns.
I feel a sense of kinship with them.
The Tower
There is this friend of mine who lives in a 12 story tower. It’s the tallest building in an area that is currently under development.
Now that does not seem to be too tall considering that the sole task of the developers of this region at this point of time is to make buildings and structures that are truly magnificent and designed to leave a mark – modern day Taj Mahals.
What makes the tower remarkable is the fact that apart from my friend it also provides abode to many working ladies from all parts of the globe. If he is to be believed, the 78 of the 120 flats are occupied by ladies of pleasure who come to this part of the world from all parts of the world with the intention of making a quick buck on a tourist visa.
He had a tough time explaining to his mother the nightly buzz caused by cars driving up to the building and driving away, the ring of the lift and of course the sounds from the neighboring flat.
His building is simply a microcosm of the rest of the region. A true melting pot.
Now that does not seem to be too tall considering that the sole task of the developers of this region at this point of time is to make buildings and structures that are truly magnificent and designed to leave a mark – modern day Taj Mahals.
What makes the tower remarkable is the fact that apart from my friend it also provides abode to many working ladies from all parts of the globe. If he is to be believed, the 78 of the 120 flats are occupied by ladies of pleasure who come to this part of the world from all parts of the world with the intention of making a quick buck on a tourist visa.
He had a tough time explaining to his mother the nightly buzz caused by cars driving up to the building and driving away, the ring of the lift and of course the sounds from the neighboring flat.
His building is simply a microcosm of the rest of the region. A true melting pot.
Bob Dylan Chronicles Vol.1
“Folk songs are evasive – the truth about life, and life is more or less a lie, but then again that’s exactly the way we want it to be. We wouldn’t be comfortable with it any other way”.
That statement has an immediate ring of truth even though the relevant references to context evade me. The truth about ourselves that we conveniently overlook and the truth about ourselves that we justify to ourselves under the pretext of ‘that’s the way I am’ escape clause.
Can one be honest at all points of time? Should one be honest at all points of time? The questions seem naïve and reek of ignorance.
I guess that’s the task for a Machiavelli or Mahatma Gandhi. The task for you and me, like my father would put it is to seek the truth. Once one sees and acknowledges it then perhaps the naïve and ignorant questions would have crystal clear answers.
Annica. Annica.
That statement has an immediate ring of truth even though the relevant references to context evade me. The truth about ourselves that we conveniently overlook and the truth about ourselves that we justify to ourselves under the pretext of ‘that’s the way I am’ escape clause.
Can one be honest at all points of time? Should one be honest at all points of time? The questions seem naïve and reek of ignorance.
I guess that’s the task for a Machiavelli or Mahatma Gandhi. The task for you and me, like my father would put it is to seek the truth. Once one sees and acknowledges it then perhaps the naïve and ignorant questions would have crystal clear answers.
Annica. Annica.
Broadcast
Words just do not seem to form
Just like the sleep that eludes despite exhaustion.
Or the dreams that I hope I dream
But are erased the morning after
Pain in my shoulders
The hum of the AC
Billy Joel wailing “It’s my life”
Some signs that I am alive
Can one breathe and still be dead?
Can numbness be permanent?
Seen times of joy, sorrow, anger, desperation, exasperation and more
But now is the time for being numb.
Just like the sleep that eludes despite exhaustion.
Or the dreams that I hope I dream
But are erased the morning after
Pain in my shoulders
The hum of the AC
Billy Joel wailing “It’s my life”
Some signs that I am alive
Can one breathe and still be dead?
Can numbness be permanent?
Seen times of joy, sorrow, anger, desperation, exasperation and more
But now is the time for being numb.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Go Figure
SEC BC (Socio Economic Classification) are considered to be the masses. They drive BMW's, the higher end Toyotas. SEC A means the Sheikhs, needless to say they drive Rolls, Jaguars, Mercs and their own private jets.
Monday, October 31, 2005
A giant parking lot
The place is actually a giant parking lot. Yes that was indeed the dream of those who conceived of this place.
You see all they had was this desert, in which a few decades ago they discovered lots and lots of oil. With the oil came lots and lots of money. Now this money had to be put to some use so they decided to build this magnificent parking lot. And a magnificent parking lot it is indeed.
They had the money to fill this parking lot with lots and lots of cars and for the parking lot to be a thriving lot they brought in cars from car makers from all over the world - the Americans, the Japanese, the Korean, the French, the Italians and the Germans amongst others.
The more the merrier. A truly heterogeneous mix. If cars could mate and produce offspring’s, this place would provide a fantastic gene pool. It is indeed a true melting pot of cars from all over the world.
They wanted to build a true parking lot. By definition a parking lot is a place where cars come to rest after zipping around all day. They could very well have just gotten the car manufacturers to ship them the cars and park it for them in the giant open spaces but then the place would just have been a graveyard for new cars and a car graveyard is not a true parking lot.
So just getting the cars would not do. They needed people to zip around in these cars and road on which to zip them.
The local population was just not enough to provide enough people to zip in the cars. If you look at the nationalities of the car makers that I have written above, you will notice that there are not any Indians, Pakistanis, South East Asians, Australians, the British and Europeans (Brits, please note that I have mentioned the Brits as separate from Europeans).
The above were chosen as prime candidates for zipping around in these cars. After all they had been deprived of this pleasure.
Well this pleasure might not be enough the architects felt so they decided to throw in lots of money.
Money however would bring in another complexity which is the fact that money lying in the bank is just like a car graveyard. For it to be true money (just like a true parking lot), it needs to be spent. So the architects decided that it was necessary to bring in all the things that money can buy.
And those from the third world are just beginning to distinguish between what money can buy and what a lot of money can buy.
But like The Beatles said, “Money can’t buy me love”, and for that they gave us poor third world types the right to bring our wives provided all the paperwork was in place.
You see all they had was this desert, in which a few decades ago they discovered lots and lots of oil. With the oil came lots and lots of money. Now this money had to be put to some use so they decided to build this magnificent parking lot. And a magnificent parking lot it is indeed.
They had the money to fill this parking lot with lots and lots of cars and for the parking lot to be a thriving lot they brought in cars from car makers from all over the world - the Americans, the Japanese, the Korean, the French, the Italians and the Germans amongst others.
The more the merrier. A truly heterogeneous mix. If cars could mate and produce offspring’s, this place would provide a fantastic gene pool. It is indeed a true melting pot of cars from all over the world.
They wanted to build a true parking lot. By definition a parking lot is a place where cars come to rest after zipping around all day. They could very well have just gotten the car manufacturers to ship them the cars and park it for them in the giant open spaces but then the place would just have been a graveyard for new cars and a car graveyard is not a true parking lot.
So just getting the cars would not do. They needed people to zip around in these cars and road on which to zip them.
The local population was just not enough to provide enough people to zip in the cars. If you look at the nationalities of the car makers that I have written above, you will notice that there are not any Indians, Pakistanis, South East Asians, Australians, the British and Europeans (Brits, please note that I have mentioned the Brits as separate from Europeans).
The above were chosen as prime candidates for zipping around in these cars. After all they had been deprived of this pleasure.
Well this pleasure might not be enough the architects felt so they decided to throw in lots of money.
Money however would bring in another complexity which is the fact that money lying in the bank is just like a car graveyard. For it to be true money (just like a true parking lot), it needs to be spent. So the architects decided that it was necessary to bring in all the things that money can buy.
And those from the third world are just beginning to distinguish between what money can buy and what a lot of money can buy.
But like The Beatles said, “Money can’t buy me love”, and for that they gave us poor third world types the right to bring our wives provided all the paperwork was in place.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Iqbal
I found Iqbal quite moving. The fact that the protagonist was a deaf mute had nothing to do with it, neither did the triumph of the spirit aspect of the film.
The film manages to catch the feeling of what its like to be in the middle of the cricket ground (not one packed with cheering fans) , the stillness that engulfs one in the centre, the sound your own heart beating, the smell of trimmed grass, the sound of the ball hitting the middle of the willow.
What I liked was the kid who could run up to wooden stumps and try and bowl in front of a makebelief audience all day long. Reminds one of what its like to chase a dream and what it is to have dreams. Dreams that do not always materialise but in retrospect one is always glad to have had them.
The film manages to catch the feeling of what its like to be in the middle of the cricket ground (not one packed with cheering fans) , the stillness that engulfs one in the centre, the sound your own heart beating, the smell of trimmed grass, the sound of the ball hitting the middle of the willow.
What I liked was the kid who could run up to wooden stumps and try and bowl in front of a makebelief audience all day long. Reminds one of what its like to chase a dream and what it is to have dreams. Dreams that do not always materialise but in retrospect one is always glad to have had them.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Big Prints
I think that Mukul takes excellent pictures.
He feels that its merely the large prints.
He is a modest guy, with a lot to be modest about.
He feels that its merely the large prints.
He is a modest guy, with a lot to be modest about.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Procrastination
Would you hold me guilty of shying away from uninspiring work that serves little purpose. The argument that 'honour precedes virtue' does not seem convincing enough.
Earl Grey
Making good tea is something that I do well. Must state though that Tea habits are so personal that one mans good cuppa is another mans poison. Perhaps the only virtue of my fathers that I have managed to develop (unfortunately). A combination of Lipton Green and Brook Bond Red Label.
Just a little bit of milk so that the tea has a golden-terracota colour. Not too white not too dark. The hue is quite pleasing to look at.
Mukul comes close to making it the way I do and he is nice enough to make me my morning cup at times. Parul stirs up quite a nice brew as well and when in a benevolent mood treats me.
And then I discovered (fucks sake! I sound like a commercial) Twinings Earl Grey, named after well Earl Grey. Supposedly he received it as a gift from a Chinese mandarin. The blend - China, Ceylon and Darjeeling, has a special flavoring of Bergamont which for the uninitiated is a citrus flavoring (The informed have the right to be condescending. Thank you Google).
Hot water, a spot of milk and one tea bag is all it takes to make a delightful and thoroughly recommended cuppa tea.
Blanks
what do you tell your mind
when it spews nothing but blanks
all the thoughts it seems
are locked in a safe in a bank
hopefully for a short term
maybe a day or two in time
you see with nothing say
its nice to make it rhyme
when it spews nothing but blanks
all the thoughts it seems
are locked in a safe in a bank
hopefully for a short term
maybe a day or two in time
you see with nothing say
its nice to make it rhyme
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Platoon
Saw Platoon yet again. Saw it alone for the first tile at Chanakya god knows how many years ago and have seen it again many a time on VHS, VCD, DVD. The film apart, I like the sensitivities that Oliver Stone captures.I guess that is what made me look forward to all subsequent Oliver Stone movies but all left me disappointed (Wall Street apart).
Why would a film that is so inherently 'American' appeal to me.
The divisions that war creates be it the internal conflict that torments Charlie Sheen - the rich kid who decides to volunteer.
The strife between Tom Berenger and William Dafoe - the good and the evil both fighting on the same side and yet fighting against each other with the former shooting the latter in cold blood.
A badly wounded Dafoe running away from the Vietcong (after having been shot by Berenger) to see his regiment being air-lifted. He hops and crawls and finally falls to his knees and looks skywards his arms stretched out as though in prayer and a gesture of anguish before he falls face down.
The manic Kevin Dillon who smashes the face of a retarded Vietnamese and then shouts out amazed "I've never seen brains spill out that way' .
The invisible Vietcong who surface as menacing shadows.
Good film.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Purpose
An advertising hoarding and the Bhagvat Gita long before that proclaimed, ' Find purpose, the means will follow'.
Now purpose needs to be end oriented. Wherein lies the contradiction with another oft quoted tit bit from the BG i.e. Pursue activity and don't think about the outcome.
But what about purpose finding you.
Now purpose needs to be end oriented. Wherein lies the contradiction with another oft quoted tit bit from the BG i.e. Pursue activity and don't think about the outcome.
But what about purpose finding you.
Monday, August 08, 2005
A truly secular family
Googled to verify this. Some of it is true.
NEHRU FAMILY: THE INDISPUTABLE FACTS
http://www.sikhlionz.com/nehrufamily.htm
Now you don't stand so proud
He epitomizes the personality ethic. Movie star looks, tall, broad shouldered.
Too bad for him that he ran into his exact opposite. A man who has had no option but to epitomize the character ethic as that is what is true to him.
The former doesn't swagger much anymore. Steps hesitant and unsure. Not knowing whether to acknowledge, seek out, smile. Puts up a brave front though.
Hope things work out fine for him.
Too bad for him that he ran into his exact opposite. A man who has had no option but to epitomize the character ethic as that is what is true to him.
The former doesn't swagger much anymore. Steps hesitant and unsure. Not knowing whether to acknowledge, seek out, smile. Puts up a brave front though.
Hope things work out fine for him.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Background
From my window on the 11th floor its easy to see the raindrops fall below. However when I look up all i can see is a consistent white haze. Whats visible from floors 0-11 isn't quite evident from from floor 11 - skywards.
Asked Mukul, he asked me what I thought. Then the answer was evident. Not possible to see White rain drops against the White sky. But the buildings, the trees and the ground below provides a background which makes the rain drops evident.
Wonder if the residents on the first floor have even wondered about this.
Asked Mukul, he asked me what I thought. Then the answer was evident. Not possible to see White rain drops against the White sky. But the buildings, the trees and the ground below provides a background which makes the rain drops evident.
Wonder if the residents on the first floor have even wondered about this.
But I don't like the way I look
What makes women so insecure about the way they look?
What makes them such suckers for anything beauty related - fairness creams, face wash, moistureisers, wrinkle removal creams, contour firming gels, hair colour etc.
Feedback welcome.
What makes them such suckers for anything beauty related - fairness creams, face wash, moistureisers, wrinkle removal creams, contour firming gels, hair colour etc.
Feedback welcome.
Breakfast
Sunday morning, soon to be Sunday afternoon.
It's still Wednesday morning 3 am for Parul.
Mukul is making breakfast, stuffed toast. He is quite enthusiastic. Had it been up to me I would have just made an omlette (without onions and tomato coz thats how Parul likes it and I am too lazy to make one round for her and then another for myself).
God bless him and his enthusiasm.
It's still Wednesday morning 3 am for Parul.
Mukul is making breakfast, stuffed toast. He is quite enthusiastic. Had it been up to me I would have just made an omlette (without onions and tomato coz thats how Parul likes it and I am too lazy to make one round for her and then another for myself).
God bless him and his enthusiasm.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Sound Effects
Ever noticed how the noise of traffic gets amplified after rains. The traffic cutting through thin sheets of water spread on the roads. The cumulative noise sounds a lot like a waterfall....or what I remember as the sound of a waterfall.
Straight bat
The bat cost papa 165 bucks. It was my first and it had taken me almost a year of convincing. He was keen that I buy something that cost less than 100 and tried hard to convince me that the one he chose was quite good.
I knew enough about bats to disagree with him. Also the Sunsridges Kashmir willow, Rs. 165 bat was already a compromise for me. I had my eye on a Sansperils Greenlands English willow model that cost a little over Rs.1000/-. Needless to say that was not to be mine.
Disappointed I checked the bat again.
The grain though not as straight as English Willow was better than the other Kashmir Willows I had seen. Almost parallel grains, thin brown lines, I thought about darkening them with a pencil once I got home and then pass it off as an English willow to my friends. I knew that the likes of Gyani would not be convinced but Dilip, Rakesh and Sandeep would mistake it for English Willow.
The surface was white, a lot like English Willow. That would clinch it. It was light but the handle a bit thin, not a cause for worry though and could be easily fixed with a couple of additional grips. After all Clive Lloyd put as many as 6 grips on his bat. In my mind I was as big as the 6'5" tall West Indian giant, especially when I was on the cricket pitch.
I took it to nets the next day. "It's not English Willow", it was Unmish carelessly spinning his Beat All Sports English Willow by the handle. I pretended not to hear him. "Good grain though", Ajay the College going senior said, giving me the affirmation I needed.
Gyani bowled, it hit the middle of my new willow. A sharp shock ran through my hands and I heard a dreadfully hollow sound. My new prized possession was a dud. The ball limply hit the side of the net, not quite the result I expected.
I checked the grain to see the point of impact. maybe I had mis-hit it but I knew that I had middled it alright. A red circle right in the centre of the meat of the bat confirmed that I indeed had. Fuck this 165 buck bat, what else could one expect. The dreams that I had of swatting the cricket ball all over the ground were just dreams.
“You need to beat a bat for sometime before it starts stroking well”. It was Gurcharan sir. Something I knew already but I was expecting my special bat to start stroking right from the first ball I faced with it. “And put some linseed oil on it and leave it out in the sun”, he added.
Mummy was nice enough to give me 20 bucks for linseed oil. Taking papas total investment up to Rs.185. I carefully applied it all over the bats with Mukuls painting brush ( a notional cost of another Rs.10) and left it in the balcony.
It’s surface was a bit yellowed when I picked it up the next evening before making my way to the playing field.
“Anshuman, we need to make 60 in 8 overs. Why don’t you take my bat instead”, Gyani told me as I walked in to bat. I appreciated his faith in my batting capabilities but hated him for the lack of the same in my bat. The hollow sound upon first impact was yet again heart breaking. The bat was no good for my trademark fluent drives, all it was capable of supporting were steers to Thirdman and flicks to Long Leg. I changed bats after a little while with Gyani.
Back at home it stuck me that the Linseed oil needs to percolate into the grain. That’s why guys make holes with a compass on the surface of the bat. And if that meant that the smooth surface and the straight grain be compromised then so be it.
“You’ll spoil it, you don’t know what you are doing”, Papa was visibly upset but I was not to be deterred. After nearly an hour the surface of the bat was pock marked like someone with small pox. I had taken particular delight (out of the frustration that resulted from the fact that it was not what I expected it to be) in jabbing it with my compass and divider (after the compass needle broke) and had ripped of the SS sticker off the face of the bat in frustration. I applied a few more coats of Lin Seed oil and put it out to dry and resolved that I would not touch it for an arbidly arrived at period of 3 days.
After 3 days I started beating the bat against a cricket ball put inside a sock and suspended from the parking ceiling. The stroke got better gradually but was not quite rocket like that Unmish’s bat produced.
Confident that the bat was super duper after sometime, I took it again for nets. The stroke was better and I played some good drives. I was facing Rahul Sanghvi, he used to bowl Chinamen then and Gurcharan sir had not quite been able to beat him into getting into the classical left arm orthodox spinners routine that he bowls so beautifully for
I almost cried on my way home. Papa was sympathetic when I was all set to hear how irresponsible I was and how careless I was with my things. I gave the bat at the sports shop for a new handle to be fitted. I asked for a thicker handle.
I got it back in a week’s time. Gradually the bat got better – the Linseed oil and the beating with the cricket ball in a sock helped. I got more careful in my approach and tried not to hit every ball for a four and when I did try the bat sweetly responded to cause a sensation that I can still feel when I think of it – the sensation that runs through your arm when you know you have middled the ball perfectly.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
A conversation
Tweedle Dee - I have pretty good hair.
Me- Be grateful, you wont have it for long. Take it from me, I've been there.
Tweedle Dum - Yeah, if you have to boast, then boast about a house or a car.
Me - Don't boast at all.
Me- Be grateful, you wont have it for long. Take it from me, I've been there.
Tweedle Dum - Yeah, if you have to boast, then boast about a house or a car.
Me - Don't boast at all.
Time yet again
R was a friend back in college. Happy, rich kid - an A1 guy. Had a pool table and a table tennis table in his basement. Lost touch with him after college. Last spoke to him when I was in Delhi for my wedding.
Had been told by others that he had seen some tough times but his business had recovered. Came to know today that his business went bust. His family had to sell their house. Abhish saw the house being demolished.
Want to help him but do not know how. Hope time turns around for him. Good things should happen to good people.
Had been told by others that he had seen some tough times but his business had recovered. Came to know today that his business went bust. His family had to sell their house. Abhish saw the house being demolished.
Want to help him but do not know how. Hope time turns around for him. Good things should happen to good people.
Time
Met Abhish. He had a couple of friends with him, MBA institute friends of his - Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. The three are in town for a friends wedding.
Met him at the engagement, in a basement wedding hall - 100 odd people, small glasses half full with Pepsi, paneer makhani, Vanilla Ice Cream and Gulab jamun. The bride and groom were smiling and cracking jokes to dispell the surrealness and the nervous tension.
Told Abhish that marriage is a good thing. He did not seem convinced. he'll bite the bullet sometime soon.
Met him at the engagement, in a basement wedding hall - 100 odd people, small glasses half full with Pepsi, paneer makhani, Vanilla Ice Cream and Gulab jamun. The bride and groom were smiling and cracking jokes to dispell the surrealness and the nervous tension.
Told Abhish that marriage is a good thing. He did not seem convinced. he'll bite the bullet sometime soon.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Director Brand Communications
A very impressive title. Has the desired effect everytime I flash that rectangular red card in front of anyone who is not from the industry.
A person very rightly said that my job is to listen to everyone and since I listen to everyone I also need to take it from everyone and at times give it to a few. Handling people. Getting jobs done. Figuring out what to do and how to do it. Most of the time I like my job.
A person very rightly said that my job is to listen to everyone and since I listen to everyone I also need to take it from everyone and at times give it to a few. Handling people. Getting jobs done. Figuring out what to do and how to do it. Most of the time I like my job.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Network
Shomi is a poet, ex school teacher and now advertising copy writer who has forgotten more good things than most have experienced. He is a very good copy writer. However the ignorant wizard whom he worked with did not quite understand English so after a few years at the company he decided to sail the sea and work in the Gulf. He is married to Tulika. Together they are poetry. And the kind that rhymes so its obvious to even the uninitiated ones like me. He leads a rich life.
Gopal is a warrior-philosopher. Not surprising he too became a copy writer. However he felt rootless even though even the most normal of the effort from him dug in deeper in the ground than most of his copywriter colleagues. Chance took him to teaching. He now teaches English to the American amongst other things. He is putting his rich understanding to use and reaping the rewards.
Shantesh is a Hobbit at heart. A kind hearted, indulgent bastard. Can turn even the most mundane into interesting and see his job through till the end. He yearned for more so at heart remained dis-satisfied. He decided to explore so has sailed across to explore the melting pot of Armenians, Lithuanians, Jordanians, Poles i.e. Gulf. He is swimming a lot these days and enjoys the same.
Gopal is a warrior-philosopher. Not surprising he too became a copy writer. However he felt rootless even though even the most normal of the effort from him dug in deeper in the ground than most of his copywriter colleagues. Chance took him to teaching. He now teaches English to the American amongst other things. He is putting his rich understanding to use and reaping the rewards.
Shantesh is a Hobbit at heart. A kind hearted, indulgent bastard. Can turn even the most mundane into interesting and see his job through till the end. He yearned for more so at heart remained dis-satisfied. He decided to explore so has sailed across to explore the melting pot of Armenians, Lithuanians, Jordanians, Poles i.e. Gulf. He is swimming a lot these days and enjoys the same.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Chasing tiger dreams
Nitin, Neeraj, Shiv and I used to run off to Sariska whenever we could. To not incur costs we would live in the dorm which was furnace like hot, with no water in the loo, once even pitched a tent in the Tiger Den garden only to be driven out by mosquitoes, ate only daal and chapatis and once even fought with the waiter over the number of chapatis that we had eaten just to save precious few bucks.
Young naturalists chasing a dream of catching a glimpse of the elusive tiger. Led by Pratap Singh (the drunken old forest guide) and the Jeep driver (who was most happy with the bakshish of a bottle of Rum) we spent quite a few hours in the Sariska forest. The closest we came to a sighting was coming across a pugmark left by a tiger a few hours before, once a carcass of a Sambar left behind by a tiger and a few false alarms.
We often heard stories of Tiger poaching and speculated that there were no tigers in Sariska. But we kept on coming back. The first time we went there was when we were in Class IX and the last time was when all of us had started working. Sariska would always come up in all our conversations which have become fewer as years and distances have increased. We would recount our Sariska adventures and talk about going back one day.
And now it’s official. There are no tigers in Sariska. A few forest officers fired over incorrect tiger census reports.
I feel disappointed and cheated. The dream has come to an end.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Maximilian - The Sandilian
Sandilians are a bit like Humans. What defines Sandilians is their pursuit of pleasure stemming from sloth. To be true to their innate nature of not wanting to do anything, the Sandilians are also known to be conniving and treacherous. Those of you who work for parties other than themselves would be able to identify with this. Those who do not do anything will agree with the sloth part. Though they also look like humans with a slightly larger head what completely differentiates them is the fact that they reproduce through fission and have no need to piss or shit. Thereby no need for any genetelia or rectum.
What is also characteristic of them is their extremely short memory and attention span. Given a choice, all Sandilians would prefer to sit by a brook with their basket of assorted goodies and spend the entire day pontificating by themselves about what makes an apple fall and other questions like that. All the contemplation did not amount to much as the deductions all but lasted for a few minutes.
Since everyone kept on forgetting everything in a span of minutes there was no collective pool of knowledge. None but one! The one conclusively proven observation that all Sandilians were privy to was 'Time heals all wounds'.
All this contemplation and rapid forgetting combined with the frustration caused by not being able to be slothful all the time lead to a lot of pent up anger in Sandilians as a race. In the blink of an eye, a Sandilian can turn violent. Of course, if no one was around or the situation provided no possible vent for the violence, it would go away in 10 minutes at the most. If a vent for the anger was available then a Sandilian could stay focused on violence for up to 14 Minutes. In a crowded marketplace this could be disastrous.
Precisely for this reason, Sandilian employers had to lock up their employees inside a cubicle. All communication happened over intercom and there was a special function in all companies, that of Janitorial Supervisors. This was the most prized of all white collar jobs and also the one that called for serious skill. It was not easy to lock and open doors 2000 times a day at rapid pace. Only those who topped throughout in their education were eligible for the Janitorial Services Commission exams. Those selected had to undergo an intensive 20 year training program. Apart from opening and locking doors, the elite JS candidates had to learn a special breathing technique that could help them control anger for up to 25 minutes and post that not act their violent urge for another 15 minutes. After 40 minutes in all probability they would forget about their anger. The chief of the JS i.e. CJS occupied the 1500th floor of the JS Plaza and his responsibility was to keep on improving on his twin skills i.e. opening and closing door rapidly and controlling anger. Just for this purpose the 1500th floor was in fact a very complex maze with nearly 15,000 doors. The maze had been specially designed by a master designer and what made it even more complex was the fact that the master designer conceptualised and executed his design under the influence of Smilia - a popular psychotropic substance. In a race condemned to short memory psychotropic substances could lead to very high creativity, often at times the expression of which could not be fully comprehended. Any of you who happen to be in any creative profession would realise the importance of achieving such a status. The maze was one such masterpiece. The final one of the Master Designer whose is unable to share his designs with Sandilians any more for he, if not dead, is lost in his own maze. Fortunately for the Master Designer he had carried with him enough Smilia to last him for 10 years.
Maximilian was one such elite JS. He was smarter than most and on the fast track to the top floor of the 1500th floor JS Plaza.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
80 SFS, Green View Apartments
Mukul called from
Then there was the time when I burnt Maj Singh's fiat...not the entire car but just a bit of the roof and that’s how Papa got to know that I used to smoke.
The time when Mukul didn't let Neeraj, Shiv and I into the house because he did not want us to drink, that did not stop us and we merrily downed almost an entire bottle of Rum on the terrace. At 2 am all of us happily sozzled out of our wits and with no desire to down what remained in the bottle decided to set it on fire - a brilliant, beautiful blue flame it burned
Midnight, 25th June (I don't remember the year) - It was Nitin's birthday and Neeraj's in the next few minutes and he, Neeraj and I were on our way to my place after dropping Ruchira. Neeraj was driving and just as we turned towards Mayapuri on the ring road a truck hit the car. The only thought that ran through my head was that I was dead.
Mukul's coming back with lots of stuff. Am looking forward to a flood of memories.
Ever since I have come to
Like they say in
Sunday, March 13, 2005
More on Rabbi
I can't seem to get enough of Rabbi. Specially the love songs of Shiv Kumar Batalvi. Vivid and palpable pangs of separation. Read some of his other songs as well and marvelled at how unpunjabi the language actually is.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Bulla ki jana kaun hai yeh sardar
Shreya was right. It was incongruous to see a sardar play the guitar and sing sufi poetry. And isn't Punjabi a harsh loud language? Not a surprising reaction considering the popular Sikh stereotypes - burly truck drivers or macho-bhaincho spewing santa-banta types or cut sard bhangra rappers.
The stereo types are unfair considering the fact that the PM also happens to be a sikh. In fact Rabbi with a white beard might look a lot like the PM. With regards to Punjabi being a harsh language all you need to listen to is the Gurbani. But what made it all fall in place was the bit of information that Rabbi is the son of a Delhi university college principal.
Parul gifted me the CD. Its the best music I have heard in a very long time. I guess its time to let the Grateful Dead RIP.
The stereo types are unfair considering the fact that the PM also happens to be a sikh. In fact Rabbi with a white beard might look a lot like the PM. With regards to Punjabi being a harsh language all you need to listen to is the Gurbani. But what made it all fall in place was the bit of information that Rabbi is the son of a Delhi university college principal.
Parul gifted me the CD. Its the best music I have heard in a very long time. I guess its time to let the Grateful Dead RIP.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Time is on my side
Ever since I have started using a cellular phone, I have stopped wearing a watch.
A strange phenomenon occurs with eerie regularity - 3 out of 5 times that I look at the phone to check the time, the digital clock shows that the hour is always the same as the minutes or inverse thereof i.e. 13:13 or 13:31. The frequency of the former is greater.
What could this mean?
That my life is very monotonous!
Time is on my side!
My time has come!
My phone has been possessed by a spirit that likes to play games with me.
A strange phenomenon occurs with eerie regularity - 3 out of 5 times that I look at the phone to check the time, the digital clock shows that the hour is always the same as the minutes or inverse thereof i.e. 13:13 or 13:31. The frequency of the former is greater.
What could this mean?
That my life is very monotonous!
Time is on my side!
My time has come!
My phone has been possessed by a spirit that likes to play games with me.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Pepsi, Pop Corn and the National Anthem
I quite like the fact that they play the national anthem before films. Feel good looking at the Tiranga swaying in the wind as Jan Gana Mana plays (though the jhankar beats version at a few theatres makes my blood boil). Have always liked the National Anthem...right from school days. At first a few people used to cat call in the theatre as the National anthem started, some used to remain seated...I used to find that so irritating that I felt like beating up those individuals but I don't see this happen any more. People stand up as soon as the anthem begins, some even sing along and some place their hands on their hearts. The later is a new practice I guess it has crept in from watching Indian cricketers do it before the start of a match (I think that the cricketers have in turn been inspired by international football players).
Went to see Swades a few days ago. I got delayed buying Pepsi and pop corn before the movie. The National Anthem was just about starting and I was still struggling to find my seat so I stood in attention in the aisle with pop corn in one hand and a Pepsi in the other waiting for the National Anthem to get over. Watch the movie, liked some bits of it...the pop corn and the Pepsi got over long before SRK came to India.
Went to see Swades a few days ago. I got delayed buying Pepsi and pop corn before the movie. The National Anthem was just about starting and I was still struggling to find my seat so I stood in attention in the aisle with pop corn in one hand and a Pepsi in the other waiting for the National Anthem to get over. Watch the movie, liked some bits of it...the pop corn and the Pepsi got over long before SRK came to India.
Monday, January 31, 2005
A crappy idea
Television has becoming a medium for people to fulfill their dreams and aspirations.Win or lose at least you get to be on TV which is indeed quite aspirational for quite a few. So if you think (think being the operative word) you can sing / act / are good looking / intelligent there is a show for you to be on. The spectrum is quite limitless as one can make a talent show on just about anything.
Here is a concept for a talent show (in case you work for a TV channel my mail ID is there somewhere on the blog). The idea is simple and revolves around an activity that is really quite in the open in India - crapping. The contestants will be chosen on the basis of criteria such as volume of crap, smell, shape, ease of delivery etc (feel free to add on to the list, we are really open to audience suggestions). The finalists will have to go thru some high pressure rounds on national television. The judges will be Laloo Prasad Yadav, Rajdeep Sardesai, Harsha Bhogle, Cyrus Broacha (again suggestions welcome).
Must admit the idea is not original and is in fact a rehash of jus about everything that has ever been on air on TV - Crap.
Here is a concept for a talent show (in case you work for a TV channel my mail ID is there somewhere on the blog). The idea is simple and revolves around an activity that is really quite in the open in India - crapping. The contestants will be chosen on the basis of criteria such as volume of crap, smell, shape, ease of delivery etc (feel free to add on to the list, we are really open to audience suggestions). The finalists will have to go thru some high pressure rounds on national television. The judges will be Laloo Prasad Yadav, Rajdeep Sardesai, Harsha Bhogle, Cyrus Broacha (again suggestions welcome).
Must admit the idea is not original and is in fact a rehash of jus about everything that has ever been on air on TV - Crap.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
Writers Blog
At times the words just flow and at times they dont. Much like a river thats drying up fast, the city's filth floating on the grey surface and also a carcass or two. Perhaps that of a dog. Did it have a good life? The dog sure did. Afterall it ate when it wanted to, slept when he felt like it and if it was a reasonably strong specimen, it got laid with gay abandon (no pun intended. Have you ever seen two dogs trying to make out?).
Does a dog discrimnate about what to eat, whom to screw, how to spend its time? I guess not but I am not an expert on the subject. From what I can observe dogs seem to be pretty happy go lucky kind of creatures. They live quite a full life as they have no qualms about eating from a garbage bin, no office to go to, don't have to bother about having to say the right things, show initiative, keep the mrs happy, worry about the EMI's and tax saving investments etc. So dogs choose not to be in the rat race (i am 'oh so very punny') and lead a seemingly happy life. That is until they die, which is usually quite tragic - run over by a car or as a result of paw fights with others of its kind that lead to infections that slowly eat into its flesh leaving an open wound in which flies and worms lay eggs and one day the municipality puts the dog out of its misery.Terrible way to die.
But is death ever pleasant? God knows what 'dying peacefully in sleep' is actually like? So who leads a better life dogs or humans? I think the dog will win paws down.
Does a dog discrimnate about what to eat, whom to screw, how to spend its time? I guess not but I am not an expert on the subject. From what I can observe dogs seem to be pretty happy go lucky kind of creatures. They live quite a full life as they have no qualms about eating from a garbage bin, no office to go to, don't have to bother about having to say the right things, show initiative, keep the mrs happy, worry about the EMI's and tax saving investments etc. So dogs choose not to be in the rat race (i am 'oh so very punny') and lead a seemingly happy life. That is until they die, which is usually quite tragic - run over by a car or as a result of paw fights with others of its kind that lead to infections that slowly eat into its flesh leaving an open wound in which flies and worms lay eggs and one day the municipality puts the dog out of its misery.Terrible way to die.
But is death ever pleasant? God knows what 'dying peacefully in sleep' is actually like? So who leads a better life dogs or humans? I think the dog will win paws down.
Boy Billionaire's Revenge
A story. Soon to be a major motion picture. Funding sought.
‘You can now get all your queries solved online at www.talkcom.com’, the IVR continued. It had already been 25 minutes since he had been holding. ‘Your call is important to us, please stay on the line’.
Boy Billionaire’s Revenge
‘This facility has been temporarily suspended. Please call customer service on 000’. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Abhimanyu said angrily. He called the customer service.
‘Thank you or calling Talkcom. To continue in English, press 1; For Hindi press 2; for any other language press 3’, said a pleasant prerecorded voice.
He did the needful.
‘For billing related enquiries, press 1; to change your Talk plan, press 2; to change your billing address, press 3; to know about the current schemes, press 4; to know about the privileges program, press 5….’. The pleasant voice was getting irritating as it rolled out the options.
‘What should I press to get my cock sucked’, he shouted into the phone.
‘To speak our customer service officer, please press 9’, the IVR finally got to the option that he sought.
‘Thank you God’ He said. His joy was short-lived.
‘All our customer service officers are attending to enquiries right now. The minimum hold time is 15 minutes’; the sweet voice in the IVR was now irritating beyond description.
‘Are you giving me any other option you bitch? 15 fucking minutes! Idiots! Like I have all the time in the world’, he shouted.
<>The voice changed to the Talkcom jingle. He liked the commercial. It showed a little boy flying a kite and the jingle was quite catchy but today he felt like throwing the boy down from the parapet.‘You can now get all your queries solved online at www.talkcom.com’, the IVR continued. It had already been 25 minutes since he had been holding. ‘Your call is important to us, please stay on the line’.
‘Yeah so you can screw my happiness some more’, he jeered.
The IVR looped into the jingle once more.
And then it stuck him. ‘Why can’t they use this time to something more constructive, like maybe switch to some radio channel while I am on hold or maybe even tie up with products and services and use the time to advertise something else’. He thought excitedly. ‘They already have so much personal information about me, age, sex, payment records, the places where I have availed of discounts they offer….if they tie up with a bank they will get even more information. You can sell me so much stuff…loans, holidays, personal products and take a commission on the purchase. Intelligent IVR – my new contribution to mankind’, he felt happy.
He was already drafting the proposal in his mind, his friend Sushim Roy was the president of Next Telecom, the country’s biggest cellular phone service.
‘All our customer service officers are busy attending to calls, please stay on the line’, the pleasant voice was now a drone. Irritated, he wondered if he should disconnect but decided against it.
‘You can now roam with your Talktel to any part of the country. The IVR continued. ‘All our customer service officers are busy. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line’.
He was now reached the limit of exasperation. He tried to disconnect but instead pressed 1. ‘Billing information. Your current outstanding is Rs.0 and 0 paise. Thank you for your last payment of Rs.6573/- on 22/4/2004’, the IVR responded immediately.
‘See I am a good fucking customer, I talk a lot and I pay my bills on time and still you discontinue my calls and put me on hold for half hour’, his irritation was compounded at his mistake.
The IVR looped back to the beginning, ‘For billing related enquiries, press 1; to change your Talk plan, press 2…. Ashish threw the phone down in exasperation. He let it lie there for a few seconds and then bent down to pick it up. As he looked up he saw the truck, he swerved but could not avoid it and heard a huge noise in his head.
He seemed unhurt and felt no pain. He looked down and saw his car twisted and mangled. ‘How did I survive this? Am I lucky!’ he muttered. Then he heard a voice say, ‘Shit, isn’t this the guy who was on the cover of Business Weekly’. Abhimanyu saw a body lying next to the mangled remains of his car. Abhimanyu panicked and felt his body. He could not feel anything. A barely inaudible voice could be heard, ‘Invalid entry, press 0 to go back to main menu’.
‘It can’t be me, I cannot be dead, my time has not come yet, I stay ahead every time, I win every time, I’ll get even with you’, he shouted.
At that moment all cellular phone services in the country inexplicably stopped operating for 1 minute. Cell phone users were automatically redirected to their respective customer service numbers.
‘Thank you for calling Nextel, if you ant to know who your husband is fucking right now press 1’ was the response one customer got.
‘Hello and welcome to Apple, Your son just robbed a bank and killed the security guard. He is guaranteed to get Life Imprisonment. To talk to a criminal lawyer press 7’, another person heard.
‘Hello, I know that you are broke and spent your all your money at the race track, press 5 to apply for a personal loan and by the way your wife is also connected to this call’, heard a soon to be divorced man.
Somewhere inside the call flow diagrams, boy billionaire did a summersault.
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