A Nearly Poignant Afternoon

There is this tiny voice in my head that does not allow me to be in peace. No, it isn’t the self righteous voice of conscience. It isn’t schizophrenia either. It is just like one of those compulsive film critics who get the kicks out of making fun of your film, in this case my life. So this afternoon certain events left me feeling mildly low. By ‘mildly low’ I mean something like an incipient cold. There is a funny feeling in your nose but you are not yet sure if it is cold or bath water that made its way to your sinus. It is like the police preparing for counter-terror strike on independence day, which may well turn out to be much ado over nothing. But prepare one must. So I was slowly, watchfully dipping my feet into the river of melancholy, wondering whether I should take a full fledged dip. Just when I decided to pinch my nose and take the plunge, the tiny voice whispered, “drama queen!”

Drama queen! It called me drama queen! The nerve! Imagine what would have become of all the great poetry if a tiny voice had called Keats drama queen! I mean here I was, about to take a long, lonely walk, stoically swallowing my woes, gently reproaching myself for being so sensitive while feeling superior about my critical self evaluation. What deep philosophical insights could have been revealed while pondering the nature of my misery and generalising it to all humanity. Perhaps some poetry as well! Indeed anyone who deprives a self proclaimed loner of such self indulgence is nothing but cruel. So I said to the tiny voice, “How cruel!” Not that I expected it to cringe in remorse, but it could have toned the sarcasm down. Instead it guffawed in mad glee and offered me a wet tissue to wipe what it called my “crocodile tears”.

Me- Why don’t you wipe your hind side with it?

Tiny Voice (TV)- I am not the one suffering from an “upset” stomach!

Me- How clever! I did not know disembodied voices could make body puns.

TV- Awww.. does the revelation topple your world view? How about taking a long, lonely walk titled, “When my world came crashing down”? I know this really depressing, funereal song that we can play in the background...

Me- Is everything a joke to you?

TV - Not everything. Just your fits of self pity.

Me- You have a sense of humor the size of your body.

TV- Speaking of my body size, did you know how much leg space there is in your head? Very comfortable!

Me- Yeah! What with parasites like you eating into my brain.

TV- Tsk Tsk! What a victim you are of the atrocities of the world! Say, I have another song for the walk titled, “They never understood me”. It goes like, “They came and robbed, they plundered I sobbed, Now I’m empty and in tears, like the space between my ears..”

Me- Thank you! But I can do without your smartness.

TV- I have my doubts about that.

Me- Why don’t you get to the point! What do you want?

TV - Why, Louuve and attention!

Me- Listen! If you just want to be cruel, by all means do. I am going to ignore you.

TV- Although that is a physical impossibility which would mean getting rid of the better part of your humbly sized brain, I shall shut up and let you believe you control.

Me- How awfully kind of you!

TV- No baby! Not kindness! It is out of Louuve and attention you seem to not get enough of from the big insensitive world!

Me- There you go again!

TV-  You started it! In a way you always do. Your tales of woe are so inviting! Though I must say I am beginning to get bored of the same old patterns. You need to script fresher angst. How about a long, lonely walk titled, “I want to break free”?

I want to break free

I want to break free from your lies

You’re so self satisfied, I don’t need you

I’ve got to break free

God knows, God knows I want to break free...

I could hear someone’s phone breaking into the song. I wondered why someone would choose such a dated number for their ringtones.

How to be an 'Entrepreneur' in Ten Easy Steps

If I could tell you that I wouldn't be jobless and writing this!
Life wasn’t too complicated when the word 'Entrepreneur' didn’t exist in our vocabularies. Back in the nineties we used to call them business wallahs. Our salaried, government employed parents would utter the term business wallahs with the same disdain as they would riksha wallahs or pan wallahs. The prototypical business wallah would be a pot-bellied glutton making pig-like noises as he would count his pilfered money beneath his desk. At least that was the image we would conjure up. So no surprises The Family convulsed, repulsed as if I was Sleeping Beauty turned werewolf and my shoes were turning into wolf-knuckles and my body into the pot-bellied pig-like glutton, when the first time I decided to ‘do-business’. This notwithstanding that this was 2007 and by then the IT companies had changed the middle class Indian vocabulary from business wallah to Entrepreneur. Mom, it’s not muck-eating pig we are talking about but a handsome, black stallion galloping inexorably forward in the grasslands, mane flowing with the wind a la Bryan Adams’ Spirit of Stallion. It’s beautiful! It’s..err.. uber cool! It’s Entrepreneur, Ma! Say it with a French accent!

So what does it take to be this Entrepreneur? The zillions of How-To books and gazillions of How-He-Did-It newspaper articles will tell you that it takes a brilliant idea, tons of midnight oil to burn, and belief in the ‘power’ of your idea. They warn you that there are going to be some gnats who’ll tell you your business isn’t worth half a cow’s manure but don’t let the gnats stray you off your course, young stallion! They will fry their feet and put them in their mouths when they see how wrong they were about you! Your chest swells with pride and self-worth at reading these things. Revenge of the underdog! And so I was already imagining imaginary critics writhing in remorse while imaginary photographers were clicking a picture of me sitting with great poise on a Chippendale sofa with an 18^th century painting in the background in my Indo-western-merging-cultures outfit flanked by some of my other handpicked brethren in business suits, all posing for the article “Giant Shoulders of Young India: How Ten Indian Entrepreneurs are Changing the Face of the Economy”.

Here is what is too unglamorous and unsexy to be published in any media that takes itself seriously. There will be the day when you quit your blood sucking job. If you were not too much of a prick (which I was) to your now ex-boss, there will be a farewell party with all your colleagues asking you half-jokingly for a job and secretly thinking you to be Don Quixote making a fool of yourself who will have to come back to them later for a job but at the same time envying you for your confidence and boldness despite being the silly ass they think you are. You on your part will act all shy and humble about their mock job seeking overtures, secretly pitying them for being dogs on leashes who will never taste blood on street (that didn’t sound very appetizing, did it?). Thus an evening of pretences shall be played out and you will go home feeling like Google in the making. There will be the morning after when you will be ebullient, ecstatic even, at your first brush with freedom. You will wake up, read the news paper after ages over a cup of tea which you will have leisurely brewed for full fifteen minutes. You will whiff it, sniff it, sip it, let it sink in that you are finally free to take your time. What shall I do! Join that dance class, take that week long holiday to the Himalayas to begin my enlightenment, re-bond with The Family, buy new jogging shoes? It is like a dream where you just realized that it is a dream and there is still fifteen milliseconds of sleep time (5 minutes of dream time if you have seen Inception) to go before the dream comes crumbling down and you can do whatever you want in these 15 milliseconds. You are like the crazy shopper in those crazy shopping games where you pick all that you can in a minute.

Soon the euphoria gives way to mild anxiety. The alarm will start ringing somewhere far off, but surely penetrating the dream. Of course you were going to start burning the midnight oil that it takes to be one of the ten entrepreneurs changing the face of the economy. It’s just that you don’t know where or how or what to begin. Did you say what to begin? But you just quit your job knowing what to begin! It seemed right then. Yes it wasn’t exactly detailed down to a T because they (popular wisdom, zindagi milegi na dobara) said it’s now or never and so just do it. So you just did it. And here you are, morning teas getting longer, colder. Newspaper readings prolonged till all that is left is classifieds. A couple of hours of Facebook which you tell yourself is business networking. You know at the back of your mind that maybe you should do this or do that. But something mind-bogglingly self destructive in you keeps you from just doing that. Mornings spill over to afternoons, afternoons to tea time again. More tea. More keeping yourself busy with things that do not really matter. Sun sets with a thud as does your heart and night spreads over like the guilt of a wasted day. That is when a reproaching part of your self will try to shake you up and get you doing some real work. So from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m you will try and salvage whatever you can. The morning after will be when the sun is already ninety degrees. The mysterious, insidious spiral of strange inertia and fear is winding its arms around you. Shadowy dreams half bright half smokey tease you- sometimes pushing you into mad, frenetic activity to fight..fight what?..your own self? Sometimes sucking you deep into miasmic zones of confusion. Before you know you will start getting strange requests from your aunt, wife, husband, mother-in-law, grandfather, neighbour’s son. Why don’t you pick up the sari from the dry cleaner’s? Why don’t you wash a few clothes while you mentally refine your B-Plan? Why don’t you represent The Family at Guddu’s wedding since..well..everyone else is busy (has a real job). Since you are ‘working from home’ anyway, it won’t hurt to have the house painted. And if you are a married woman you might as well have a few kids now that you ‘have the time’. This is as far as it gets from the strapping black stallion prancing away in the green fields. This is more like a goat bleating away in the backyard. This is like all the sexiness in the word ‘Entrepreneur’ accelerating at dangerous speed to thunder-thigh-auntiness!

Maybe there are different kinds of Entrepreneurs. Or let’s just say people who quit their jobs to start something of their own. The ones who are running towards something and the ones running away from something; the kinds who work like a clockwork and the kinds who write pointless pieces of anecdotes like this when you should be pitching to clients; the merciless swords that cut through and blaze their path and the dandiyas that play to whatever tune is playing. Before my metaphors get more obscure, I should get to the point, which is that.. well I don’t really have a great moral of the story. Just that there is some distance to be covered between quitting jobs and becoming an ‘Entrepreneur’. The inexplicable self-defeating tendencies that need everyday management, the little to-dos of the day, the waking up doing potty on time sort of seven good habits of highly disciplined children are the real unromantic challenges they won’t write about in bestsellers.  Perhaps the ‘Real Entrepreneurs’ of the first kind do not need to be aware of these ‘personal hygiene’ practices. Like Maybelline maybe they are born with it. But for those who need to make that journey from left-my-job to Spirit-of-Stallion-Entrepreneur, unfortunately it isn’t going to be a frictionless world where one Newtonian push of inspiration can keep you going. Failure may not be as glamorous as “Oh I had a great idea but no funds” or “I gave up too soon and now look at the other guy” or “There were some ideological conflicts between us”. It may be as embarrassing as “Well I just sort of didn’t do the important stuff because I was feeling a bit odd and kinda lost my way somewhere..dunno”.  Of course a lot of disorder and moodiness gets passed off as ‘Mad Genius’ – the script of an erratic, whimsical, flamboyant, ruthless, undisciplined guy around which many in the Creative Industry try to orchestrate their lives. Some people also like to call it ‘Artistic Genius’. Indeed at the risk of treading the fine line between ‘Mad Genius’ and simply mad, I am rather tempted to shift from being the uber smooth ‘Entrepreneur’ to the ‘Mad Genius’ since I’m somewhat a natural at erraticness and indiscipline anyway. I can wait for my moments of creative sparks, while I watch The Simpsons for inspiration. Only this time my imaginary claim-to-fame article will need some heading-change - “Method in Madness: Ten Creative Geniuses who Dared to Do Things Differently”! 

Politically Incorrect

Since everyone seems to be posting about Anna Hazare, here is my politically incorrect, frivolous take on it-

Q) What song's on the PM's mind these days?
A) Anna na hazare na re na re
     Anna na hazare na re na
     Sade naal rahoge te aish karoge
     zindagi de saare maze "cash" karoge
     sade naal.. hoye hoye

Q) And what was the response from the other side?
A) Anna haan hazaare haan re haan re
     Anna haan hazare haan re haan
     twade naal rahenge to trash karenge
     zindagi rahi to back-lash karenge
     twade naal.. roye roye

Mobile गणेश

आज जब laptop bag में Pen खोजने के लिए हाथ डाला, तो हाथ आये bag -वाले गणेश.

Bag वाले भगवान अलग श्रेणी, अलग category के होते हैं. वही फर्क जो landline और mobile में होता है, bag वाले और घर वाले भगवान में भी होता है. Bag वाले भगवान light -weight और compact किस्म के होते हैं. इनमें भी अलग अलग varieties आती हैं - जैसे कि calendar वाले हनुमान, photo वाले साईं बाबा, locket रुपी माता रानी, वगैरह वगैरह. और यदि आप मूर्ती पूजन के विरुद्ध हैं, तो ख़ास आपके लिए आता है chewing gum के size का विभूति का packet , या फिर 108 बार राम नाम लिखा चावल का तिनका. गिनने का कष्ट न कीजिएगा. यदि श्रद्धा न हो तो उबाल के खा लीजिये.

हाँ, तो bag वाले गणेश जी मुझे मेरी दीदी ने दिए थे. दीदी ने मुझे कई bag वाले भगवान दिए हैं. भई अब जितने bag होंगे, उतने भगवान भी तो होने चाहिए. तो मतलब समझ लीजिये, कि जब भी किसी shopper's stop में सेल लगती है, हमारी पारिवारिक परंपरा कि वजह से, भगवानों के business में भी बढौतरी होती है. Economics की भाषा में इन्हें "complimentary business" कहते हैं. और कुछ लोग कहते हैं कि economics और religion सगे नहीं!

लाल रंग के छोटे से गणेश जी जब अचानक bag से निकले, तो बिलकुल वैसा लगा जैसे पुरानी किसी jeans में से 50 का नोट निकल आया हो. मन में ख़ुशी कि लहर दौड़ उठी. "क्यों गणेश जी? कहाँ छुप के बैठे रहे इतने दिन? हाथ आ ही गए ना !", थोड़ी देर हाथ में पकड़े-पकड़े मैंने उन्हें निहारा. क्या सोचते होंगे दिन भर बैग में बैठे-बैठे? "ये आया pen drive ! ये आया 2 का सिक्का! अरे! Design बदल दिया? पुराना वाला बेहतर था. कम से कम फर्क तो समझ आता था 2 और 1 के सिक्के में. खैर! अरे, ये क्या? नया mobile ? शुक्र है! Reliance CDMA को तो अब मैं भी नहीं बचा सकता. ये 3G है. अब wi-fi से दर्शन दिया करूंगा सबको. ऊँह हूँ ! फिर इस लड़की ने hotel वाला tissue घुसेड़ दिया! कब छोड़ेगी ये चिंदी-चोरी. वैसे तो बड़ी बातें करती है, दुनिया बदलने की. अपना bag साफ़ कर ले यही बहुत बड़ी बात होगी. दम घुट गया इस कबाड़-खाने में. मैं भी घर-वाला भगवान होता. मुझे भी इसकी माँ रोज़ प्यार से नहलाती. गुरुवार-गुरुवार साईं बाबा की खीर में से मैं भी कुछ प्रसाद चख लेता. लेकिन नहीं! इसे मेरी याद दिलाने के लिए तो कोई hard disk ही crash करानी होगी. या फिर जब लड़ लेगी किसी से, बैल की तरह, तब आएगी विघ्नहर्ता के पास रोते रोते. खैर! Wallet वाले साईं बाबा के पास हो के आता हूँ."

Wallet वाले साईं बाबा की condition थोड़ी बेहतर है. लेकिन आजकल उन्हें भी फिक्र होने लगी है, "क्या बताऊँ गणपति! पहले पाँच सौ - पाँच सौ के नोट हुआ करते थे, अब दस- पचास- सौ ही रहते हैं. सोचती है मुझे wallet में कैद रखने से पैसों की कमी नहीं होगी. अगर ऐसा होता तो सरकार नोट छापने के बजाय, मेरी तस्वीर न छापती?"

"हाँ, बात तो सौ आने की करी आपने"

"हा हा हा, तुम अभी भी भी आनों में ही अटके हो, गणपति ?"

" बुरा न मानना बाबा, अटके तो आप हैं. पाँच साल हो गए आपको इसके boyfriend की तस्वीर अपनी तस्वीर के पीछे छुपाये हुए. कभी मम्मी के सामने खुल जाता, तो इधर उधर तो आपको ही adjust करना पड़ता ना? अब शादी हो गयी है दोनों की, तो भूल ही गयी की अपने मियाँ की photo छुपाने की अब ज़रुरत नहीं. हमारी और उस बेचारे की एक ही दशा है - भूले- बिसरे, बंद, अँधेरी कोठरी में.."

"शुश्श.. गणपति, लगता है हाथ अन्दर आया!"

"भगवान! आज तो बाहर निकाल ले !"

और बाहर निकले गणेश जी!

गणेश जी, I am sorry . आप बहुत cute लग रहे हैं. जी भर के आपको निहार भी लिया. लेकिन अब आपको वापस जाना पड़ेगा, काल-कोठरी में, उन्हीं pens , headphones , tissue , post -its और wallet वाले बाबाजी के पास. माना कि आपके बारे में भूल जाती हूँ, और दुःख में ही सुमिरन करती हूँ, लेकिन mobile गणेश जी! अच्छे network कि यही तो ख़ासियत होती है. ऐसा साथ निभाता है कि अपनी कमी महसूस ही नहीं होने देता. आदत भी इतनी पड़ जाती है, कि उसी कि वजह से काम होते हैं, और उसी को भूल जाते हैं. तो फिर नाराज़ न होइए! "Wherever you go, our network follows" का मंत्र अपनाइए! जो किया, सो किया. अब Nokia कि तरह अपना बढ़िया वाला connection लगाइए.. और ये गए bag के अन्दर!

और सुनिए! मैं इतनी बुरी लड़की भी नहीं हूँ. ख़ास आप ही की सवारी के लिए HP का मूषक, यानि की mouse बैग में छोड़ा है.

क्या कहा? "Made in China" है? क्या गणेश जी! थोड़ा adjust कर लीजिये ना!

The Beginner's Survival Guide To The Gym-Assault (Part 1)

This new year, cuddled up comfortably inside my razai, binging on Haldiram’s New Year Celebration Pack of an assortment of sweets, I sat, watching on television the highlights of 2008. According to the channel, one of the biggest and life-changing stories of ’08 had been Kareena Kapoor’s weight. Now I had seen pictures of her often, but on this particular day, when I saw her lithe size-zero flash on the screen, for some reason I was hit hard. Such was the impact of this imagery that had I not been as fond of good food, I would have dropped, in true Bollywood shocking-news-revelation style, my pack of Haldiram’s goodies.

There are times in our lives when we truly mean to be a better person, meaning every single word of our resolve in all earnest. New Year Day is one such time. An engineer by qualification, I used to think that size- zero is a paradox, an oxymoron. That had also been my excuse all these months for not wanting to be one and for even mocking at it. But on this day, the New Year Day, the one day that you dare to be honest about all that you’ve done and not done in the bygone year, I asked myself the obvious question that I had been eschewing for a long time now:

“Theoretically assuming that a size-zero is physically possible, if I calibrate the measuring tape with Kareena as size-zero and Rani Mukherjee (and not Adnan Sami of yester years, for one must be ambitious) as size-ten, where will I ‘figure’??”

The answer was written in bold all across the Haldiram’s Pack, “Drop it! And hit the gym!”

Deciding upon a New Year resolution in itself is a gladdening activity. You haven’t even begun following it but you feel much better already! So smiling ear to ear, the very next day, I enrolled for a gym membership, greeting everyone with the air of “having arrived”.

It took me exactly fifteen minutes to realize that imagining a Mayukhini jogging full steam on a treadmill is very different from a Mayukhini actually jogging even partial throttle on one. Beyond the first ten minutes, even the peppiest of Enrique Iglesias numbers blaring at the highest of decibels cannot salvage your plummeting morale.

It is in such dire times that you call for divine help, needing something, anything to keep you going. I was reminded of one of those self-help stories where God shows a man after he is dead something like a Performance Evaluation Report in the form of footprints on sand. There are four footprints all his life, two his and two God’s following his. Then in troubled times there are only two footprints and according to God , He was carrying him in His arms all those times. I could not but wistfully conjure up images of God jogging on the treadmill, carrying me in His arms.

But they say that necessity is the mother of all inventions and so, gradually, not only did I learn the tricks of the trade but also discovered some handy ideas to keep you going while you work out.

Because I have already exhausted the word limit beyond which any post becomes scary, I have elaborated on these ingenious ideas in a sequel to this - The Beginner's Survival Guide To The Gym-Assault (Part 2). Check it out!

The Beginner's Survival Guide To The Gym-Assault (Part 2)

(The Leg Extension Machine)

(The Cross Trainer)

Disclaimer: The following ideas will be helpful only if you consider the chances of their occurring a real possibility.

Statutory Warning: In case of any signs of over-exertion viz. fainting, nausea, please stop imagining.

Following are some ideas to survive some popular gym equipments and exercises.

1) The Treadmill: Imagine. You are Basanti of the Sholey fame. Your beloved is handcuffed by your gym trainer who is laughing maliciously a la Gabbar and saying “ Jab tak tere pair challenge tab tak iski saans chalegi”

2) The Leg Extension Machine: This is the one where you have to lift a load on your feet. Now , in case you aren’t married or are married but haven’t had any kids as yet, this could well be a possibility when your little brat asks you to papa-papa/mamma-mamma-pair-mein-jhooli-jhooli. And should you fail to do so he is gonna wail his vocal-cords out and you can safely kiss your good-night sleep goodbye. Better be prepared.

3) The Cross Trainer: This is the machine that simulates running without its jerky effect on the knees. So to a bystander, it’d look as if you are doing a slow-motion run as in a Yash-Raj movie. Now what if the guy doing ab-crunches next to you is actually a secret Yash-Raj movie agent. You won’t want to jeopardize your starry dreams and let him find out that you cannot do a slow motion run sexily.

4) The Exerbike: It is the year 2058 and we have run out of all gas supply. Your fancy car is in the garage in abeyance and you have to get back to using good old bikes. Because of human tampering with the food chain most rats have been killed and hence most cats have died from starvation. The dogs are hungry and you are fat (read a lot of meat), hence smack of big returns on their investment. Run for your life!

5) Push-ups (where you can’t bend your knees): You are at the Oscar Award Winning Ceremony wearing extreme slim fit jeans. Your name has been announced for the best actor, singer, director and script writer –the first time in the history of Oscar. As a natural fallout of your excitement you trip over the stairs, lying face down. If you bend your knees to get up, the world will witness your slim-fit jeans come apart at the seams, literally.

I have personally tested these ideas and have found them useful. Any improvisation is most welcome. Until next break-through, Happy Work-out!

Little Mr. Raju

With the Satyam Faux Pas rife among mailers, I got a mail from Prashant in which nursery rhymes were made on the now notorious Ramalinga Raju.

I couldn't hold the "poet" in me back so I made up one too and with Thumbs up from Prashant ("Blog it, blog it!") I take this opportunity to share it with the rest!

Based on Little Miss Muffet:

Little Mr. Raju
Sat on a Taraju
Balancing his profit and loss..

There came a big shock
He became a laughing "stock"
And 7k Crore turned into dross!

R.I.P

World Peace, anybody??

Charity is one word that elicits responses of varying degrees and kind from all quarters- from plain indifference, to emotional outbursts; from economic theories to cynicism. So when I came to know about this N.G.O that asks people to donate not necessarily money but intangibles like “TIME” and “TALENT” I was struck by their ingenuity.

This concept is based on the premise that each one of us has some skill or knowledge or talent that we can share with those who can benefit from them and the possibility of corruption does not arise.

My wandering mind could not help but think how many possible applications this brilliant concept can have and how far-reaching and world-changing can its ramifications be!

So I quickly drew up a table of people who have a surfeit of certain such usable tangibles and intangibles and their respective possible beneficiaries.

S. NO.	DONORS		THE DONATION OR Daan		POSSIBLE BENEFICIARIES
1	Arjun Singh		"Seat" Daan		Bus Stops , Public Parks
2	India TV.		Reuters Daan		Center For Paranormal Research and Investigation
3	Navjot Singh Siddhu		Laughter Daan		Mamta Bannerjee
4	Aamir Ghajini Khan		Tattoo Daan		Saif Ali Khan, Salman Rushdie (for remembering the names of his exes)
5	Salman Khan		Bashing-up Daan		Speaker of the Lok Sabha (For tackling indiscipline)
6	Investment Bankers		Pink-Slip Daan		Ekta Kapoor
7	Aaj Tak		"Sabse tez" Daan		Inzamam Ul Haq, National Security Advisor
8	Sarah Palin		Hyper-political-correctness Daan		Sambhavana Seth
9	Smriti Irani		Tear Daan		P.M. Drought Relief Fund, Mob Control Resources
10	Delhites to be married		Faaltu-Fund Daan (Includes expenditure on Rose-Petal-Throwing-Machine, the 5:1 attendant to guest ratio and Wedding Choreographers)		National Poverty Alleviation Program
	And a few Special Donation Programs -
11	VIPs		Security Personnels Daan		The Aam Aadmi
12	Dog Trainers		Service Daan		Kerala's C.M- V S Achuthanandan
13	Shahrukh Khan		Dialogue timing and delivery Daan		R.R. Patil for "bade bade shehron mein aisi chhoti chhoti baatein hoti rehti hain"
14	Nita Ambani		Private Jet Daan		The N.S.G (so they don't have to keep waiting at airports)
15	Minister of foreign affairs, Pakistan, Malik Amad Khan		Acting skills and histrionics Daan		Imraan Hashmi, Himmesh Reshamiya
16	Any sighted person		Netra (Eyes) Daan		Asif Ali Zardari

Anybody else thinking win-win?? Maybe the Nobel Peace Prize Panel should take a look! ;-)

MAD, MAD WORLD!!

"And that is the garden where I used to 'water' the plants with the Bournvita Milk you'd force me to drink", I confessed to my mother, only without any contrition or guilt, as we sat watching old, cracking pictures of my childhood. "You threw all that milk away to the plants? What was your explanation?", my mother asked in a half-reproachful and half- mirthful tone. " Well, I was only offering milk to plant-devata". She laughed and teasingly said, "That's why you couldn't grow beyond 5 feet 2 inches." "Five two and a half, mind you", I corrected, jokingly.

It is funny how things that we once considered grave seem funny, even absurd, as time passes. All those "heinous crimes" of beating the neighbor's son up or changing a 19 to 99 on the report cards, things once unspeakable, now become amusing anecdotes at family-gatherings. Not only are we not sorry for them but also proud, sometimes, of flaunting our extra-curricular credits.

It makes me wonder whether, someday we will also laugh at all the “real crises” that we go through in life. Maybe when we’re really old we will not just have forgiven and forgotten but will also be able to smile, if not laugh, at all those grey pages of our autobiographies. “Hey Sid, old buddy, did you finally find out that marrying my wife was a mistake!”

Extrapolating my hypothesis to an outrageously out-of-limits level, what if after we die , we actually realize how foolish we had been to have felt the things we felt and done the things we did? The way we smile at ourselves when we wake up from a bad dream. “It was only a dream, silly”.

As I lay beside my mum, musing on these good-for-nothing thoughts, a funny (some might even find it morbid) picture came to my mind. It goes like this.

All my friends, relatives and enemies that have died before me are watching my “movie” from the heavens. “ Hehehe.. look at her weeping over her dead cat”. They laugh. “I always thought the old woman was a tad too sentimental”, says my dead cat, licking her paws. “Stop licking your paws. They aren’t anymore”, someone reminds her. “Sorry, old habits die hard”, says my dead cat.

My imagination needs hardly a push to transcend all the limits of space, time and rationality. So the scene becomes crazier. Divorced couples are meeting each other jovially. “ Can’t believe we said those things to each other! Why, you don’t even have an ass now, asshole!!” (winks). Victims are nonchalantly chatting with the perpetrators. “Oh is that you Bill? What was it that you poisoned my porridge with? Tasted like nose-gum!”.To which Bill retorts, “ Well,that was nose-gum, old man. The poison, i believe, was tasteless."

Some souls, just freed from their bodies, are still recovering from the out-of-body shock. “Am I a man or a woman?”. Then there are some shunting furiously from one astral dimension to another. “I’m gonna sue the bloody bastard. Promised me of Jannat and pretty women. Heck! You can hardly tell a man from a woman here. Where is this godforsaken jannat ?”. Needless to say this was a fidayeen terrorist.

Then a couple of intellectuals are still doing some math. “Look! In my 16543^rd life I was a snake and you a frog so I ate you. Then in my next life you were a snake and I a frog so you ate me. Then in my 668954^th birth I was the thief who stole your diamond and in my next life you were the priest who eloped with my daughter. Thereafter I took birth as your son and tampered with your will and then you became the stock-broker who swindled me of my money. So doesn’t that settle our Karma??”

I could have gone on had my mum not interrupted me. “What are you smiling insanely at, looking at the ceiling??

“Nothing, just that it’s a mad, mad world…”

VHP - A Very Ho-Hum Piece of fiction

What happens when a meeting between a VHP activist and a city girl is arranged

for marriage? Read on……

GIRL: Are you superman?

VHP ACTIVIST: No I’m Very Hard to Please man.

GIRL: Ooooooooh la la! My kinda guy!

VHP ACTIVIST: My Kinda Gay? That’s opposition.

GIRL: Never mind! What are your hobbies?

VHP ACTIVIST: VHP

GIRL: Huh?

VHP ACTIVIST: Vandalism, Hadtaal and Partisan Politics

GIRL: Oh! How nice! So what exactly is your job profile like?

VHP ACTIVIST: VHP

GIRL: Which is…..?

VHP ACTIVIST: Vandal who Handles Property

GIRL: Wow! That's like the Accounts Manager.. What property do you handle?

VHP ACTIVIST: Depends. Extortions on a good day. Gold chains and wrist watches on Valentines day.

GIRL: How sweet! Gold chain on Valentine’s day! Is that a hint?

VHP ACTIVIST: Yes. VHP..

GIRL: Lemme guess... Valentine’s Heartfelt Present??

VHP ACTIVIST: No. Valentine Hai Paap. Jo manaenge Vo Honge Punished.

GIRL: Oh… Accha tell me, are your parents supportive of your career?

VHP ACTIVIST (breaks down and starts weeping): I wanted to become a painter. But my parents did not see any future in it. So I decided to make a career of my hobby.

GIRL: That’s not too bad. Show me some of your art-works.

VHP ACTIVIST: (sniff) Here. (hands out some photographs to her)

GIRL: Oh.. but these are pictures of people with their faces painted black.

VHP ACTIVIST: Yes. I took to face-painting. This one’s taken outside Archies gallery. It’s called The Last Shopper.

GIRL: Uh… Ok... Accha since we might end up together, lets know each other’s past. Did you have any girlfriends?

VHP ACTIVIST: That’s a professional hazard.

GIRL: Meaning?

VHP ACTIVIST: Girlfriends are counterproductive to our B.D.

GIRL: BD as in Bajrang Dal?

VHP ACTIVIST: No. BD as in Business Development. Although there was one. I did not bring her any gifts on Valentine ’s Day and explained her how it was American to do so. She slapped me and walked out saying that Saint Valentine was Italian. She ran away with a fellow BD activist who bought a present for her on the sly a month before the V-day.

GIRL: Oh.. I’m sorry.. that kinda explains. Er.. if I may ask, “fellow BD activist” as in Business Developer?

VHP ACTIVIST: No. Bajrang Dal.

GIRL: Aah.. I see.. Uh.. I gotta go now. I have a very high profile meeting to attend.

VHP ACTIVIST: I like you! You’re already talking in my terms! Very High Profile meeting – VHP!!

GIRL: Er… Ri..ght..

VHP ACTIVIST: So, will you marry me?

GIRL (Aloud) : Well…there’s a Very High Probability…

(To herself) …if I want to commit Voluntary Hara-kiri from Psyching out, that is, Mr. VHP…

Unrequited Love

Oh gym!

I sigh…

Not from overweight

But wistfulness

Every time

The morning’s nigh…

From the moment I first

Lay my eyes

Upon you

I realized

You could never be mine…

How will I ever

"Measure" up to

Your lovers

Who walk

Like the seconds

Of a digital clock

And talk,

As Bush on Iraq,

Of everything

that’s lard…

Whilst I am

But a dreamy

Hamburger eating bard …

Who, but I, knows

What it is to have loved

And lost…

So in grief I binge

On potato wedges

From last spring

As my fridge

defrosts…

THE ARGUMENTATIVE M.B.A

I haven’t read The Argumentative Indian but I can quite imagine what the author must have tried to convey. I do not believe in stereotyping a country of billions but in this particular case, I wish I were as argumentative as the rest of my clan is believed to be.

The realization dawned upon me sometime in my final year of engineering when all of us were bitten by the M.B.A bug. Typically, an aspirant would be brandishing tiny, green word-power booklets that he’d dig out, like Zorro unsheathing his sword, the instant he could steal himself away from the crowd. A tiny, green booklet that had a “B” stamped on it meant that it had all the words in English that began with a “B” and that the C.A.T took fancy to. I still regret grossly underestimating the value of these booklets. I am not completely to blame, for who wouldn’t find it rather quaint for overgrown hunks to be holding in absolute deference tiny booklets that had “A, B” and “L,M” written upon them in yellow, as if almost about to break into the ABCD song. I realized my folly and the oratory power they bestowed on their keepers when I once got into an argument with my friend. I cannot recall what the argument was about because the import of what was about to come trivialized the original issue. I am used to raising my decibel levels when in the heat of an argument and my friend here, capitalizing on it, shelved me with three bouncers.

Bouncer number one and two- ‘You’re being vociferous and obstreperous”. He could see that he had already derailed my train of thoughts. So he came up with the winning blow- “And you’re also being tautological” Voila!!

“I’m sorry??”

“That’s all right” And he walked away, triumphantly.

From then onwards, communication took a completely new meaning.

Nerds were no longer nerds but bibliophilic ; lectures no longer suffocated you, they made you claustrophobic; Angelina Jolie was no longer sexy but scintillating; guys did not get drunk, they got inebriated ; people no longer chatted, they confabulated.

But my desire to be The Argumentative Indian did not stem from my fantasy of throwing long, unpronounceable words at unprepared victims. It began from the mock Group Discussion practice sessions that followed the C.A.T.

I decided to attend one of these hoping that it would make some addition to my non-existing general knowledge as most of these discussions are based on current affairs. We were seated around a round table and everyone was looking suspiciously at each other. As soon as the coordinator gave us the topic, which was “Reservation for the Backward Classes in India”, fourteen of the fifteen of us pounced upon the opportunity to speak first, like a famished tiger who had been waiting to attack his quarry, and shot off simultaneously, each trying to speak louder than the other. Needless to say who was the fifteenth. I was trying hard to comprehend what they were saying but all I could hear was death-metal like music where each instrument plays discordant notes independent of the other, resulting in noise. By the end of ten minutes I thought we will need tear-gas but the coordinator was a hefty man and, thankfully, manhandling was not needed. Because I had not educated the public with my opinion the coordinator politely asked me if I would like to add something to the discussion. I came up with this : “ I think reservations are fine and every weak section of the society should get it- the economically backward, the socially backward, the politically backward, the ethically and morally backward, the intellectually backward, the physically backward, the linguistically backward, the aesthetically backward, the spiritually backward….”

“That will be all.” , said the coordinator, rather brusquely.

Something in the tone of his voice warned me not to speak of my revolutionary ideas on “Reservation for the obese in modelling” and “Reservation for the vocally challenged in Indian Idol”.

But the brighter side of preparing for M.B.A was that it made writers of some of us. (One of them is writing this blog). Application forms had questions that would compel you to spark your imagination. Like this friend of mine got a call from a reputed institute and called me frenziedly the night before his interview.

“Hey, this form asks me why I want to do an M.B.A. Any ideas??”

“ Yeah.. why don't you tell them why you want to do it??”

“ I don’t knoooooow. Think of something that sounds convincing”.

And think I did. Did he qualify? How else do you think I get the confidence of making up stories and putting them up on my blog!!

REMIX UNPLUGGED- The beginner's guide to making remix videos

So you don’t know how to sing?? You couldn’t care less if you were singing on beat or off beat and can’t make out the difference between Rafi and Reshammiya?? Hardly reasons enough why you shouldn’t be cutting your own album my dearies! Let such minor faults not deter you from making it big. Follow these simple instructions and watch yourself become a star overnight.

Remixing is like instant noodles. The ingredients are all there. You just have to put them in a dish and shove it in the microwave. The only part where you come in is choosing which song to remix. Having decided that, the first thing you should be doing is making an account on Orkut or any youth oriented social networking site. Now join a lot of communities that have names like “ Orkut hunks and dudettes” , “Mr. and Miss Orkut” , “We are kewl” (not “cool” silly! What are you?? Prehistoric??) , “Party Freaks” , “Rockkkkking People” , “Divas with Attitude” … you get what I mean. Now keenly observe their lingo. Jot down every interesting word that you come across. For instance kewl. rock, party, hot, weird, love, sexy, funky, dude, babe, heya, oh yeah, wassup, come on, really, hunk, gotcha, wanna, getchya, catchya, cya, fun, groovy, ass, et cetera.

Now try making a string of these ( it is not necessary for it to mean anything) and start speaking them really fast. Something like this:

Hey sexy funky groovy kewl bab-eh yeah oh yeah

I wanna getchya catchya cya love aan haan o yeah

I really really mean it come on rock the part-ti-yeah

You got a dude with attitude wassay oh yeah

Chorus: Fuuuunnkyyy, seeeeexxxyyyyy, grooooooveyy (o yeah)

Fuuuuunnkyyy, seeeeeexxxyyyy, grooooooveey (That’s right) [Dard-e- Disco tune recommended] ]

Intersperse your song with this track at every strategic location. I am being generous here by making this piece of genius Rights Free. I could have used more explicit words than these but we are a family blog.

Next you need to go on a high protein low fibre diet before you start recording. This will ensure that you get the constipated look for your video and desperation in your voice. It can do wonders to your sex appeal if you also go without water for a few hours before the shoot. Your camera person can then hold a glassful right over the camera so that when you, with your eyelids heavy and mouth dry, make a lunge toward it, with a bunch of anointed ladies (or six-packed men, as the case may be) pulling you back, your “it” factor seems convincing.

Now walk up in style, flaunt some “kick-ass-attitude” and learn to talk in “oh-you-know-my-next-album-with-pritam-ji” terms every time someone asks you even about your grandmother back in Jhabua.

Enjwoyyy….. ;-)

Drawing-room Dilemmas

Have you ever found yourself smiling inanely in a conversation you don’t really understand; people telling you things that are considered universal truths so much so that not nodding your heads fervently enough, let alone committing the blunder of questioning them, can put you at the risk of being branded a heretic? Here are a few such popular drawing room truths of which I have only had contradicting experiences.

“She’s sad so she listens to sad music”: She must be suicidal if she does. I mean isn’t that like prescribing a boxful of laxatives to someone with Irritable Bowel Disorder?? When I’m sad the last thing I want to listen to is sad music.

“The best poetry is written by he who is under the greatest mental trauma”: Bah! That philosophical, melancholic look is from hours of practice in front of the mirror and some good PR advice. Trust me I’ve tried it. Who would trust you if you wrote something like “ Oh Cassandra! Will we not be?” and talked as if you were just released from a laughing-gas chamber??

“Designer bathrooms are the ultimate ablution experience” : No. They’re so nauseatingly expensive and high on maintenance that they’re more intimidating than luxurious. You’d rather sleep in there than do anything else. And God forbid that a guest should ask you if he could use your wash-room. Makes you wonder if it is under your insurance cover.

“Most problems arise because of lack of communication”: In my twenty three years of existence almost every time I’ve fallen into trouble it’s been because of too much communication. If we didn’t talk such a hell lot, life would be simpler. The next time you talk to your girl/boyfriend on the phone, try playing Solitaire simultaneously. You won’t listen to half of the things that make potential argument grounds. Only, be sure that you don’t burst out into F-expletives when you make a wrong move!

“Women laugh because they find you funny”: I hate to break it to you dude, but it’s only because she wants to be told how pretty she looks when she laughs.

“Shopping is therapeutic”: For the shopkeeper, you mean? Makes my heart sink with guilt. When I hear “shopping is therapeutic”, I hear “Keep funding me and I won’t tell you that I’m having emotional troubles in the middle of your football game”.

“Fish is vegetarian”: The fish is, but you ain’t if you eat one! I was surprised when I found out how in many parts of the world fish is part of vegetarian cuisine. And even more amazed when I found out about the existence of different kinds of vegetarianisms. There’s the simple vegetarian, the Asian vegetarian, the Indian vegetarian, the European vegetarian, the Vegan… I won’t be surprised if there’s a North Western Sub Saharan vegetarian too.

The list is long. And if you too have faced such moments, have patience. Over time and with effort you too shall, as I have, master the art of contorting your facial features into an acceptable expression every time you are caught in the line of fire of drawing-room truisms.

STRANGE LOVE

Valentine’s day is over and I am heaving a huge sigh of relief. No, I have nothing against it. In fact, I quite like the love in the air and all those things. But there are some things about love that I’d never understand.

For instance, I remember watching this movie with my friends where this guy proposes to his girl by strategically placing a diamond ring in some creamy stuff that the girl was eating. The restaurant people were all privy to the plan and were giving encouraging looks to the guy (couldn’t have been a place in the city-centre, where getting the attention of the restaurant people is tougher than getting an application passed in a Government office). And then the girl, most delicately, discovers something not quite creamy in her mouth, and even more delicately, takes it out , says something like “Oh Chuck! You didn’t have to!” and thinks “Finally!”, and the rest is something we all know. While all my friends cooed and sighed , I was quite befuddled. I mean, what if the girl swallowed it? You swallow a diamond and you’re dead! I made a mental note to remember to tell whoever would be my would-be to not try such antics on me. I am very accident prone and I like my diamonds on my fingers, not in my mouth. Besides, when I discover something unwanted in my mouth I’m most likely to jump on my toes and spit it out right across the table. That can be tricky, unless you are quick to dodge.

Another thing that I cannot fathom is love messages in the newspapers. First of all, how would you know which news paper exactly does your object of affection read? And even if you did manage to find that out, why would you write something that reads like “Dear S, life without you is like soda without gas, yours Admirer4ever”?? I mean, how would Dear S know that it is she/he who is being talked about and that Admirer4ever is you?? Whatever happened to good old text messaging or emailing?? Much better returns on investment any given day, if you ask me.

For love-birds to act strangely can be justified as symptoms of being love-struck. But what I find stranger is the way some of these radio jockeys begin to hyper-ventilate on this day. Even in their normal state of existence their Electro Cardiograms would look like stalactites and stalagmites. One such RJ caught hold of a couple that was probably shopping for groceries. She wished them Valentine’s in all the musical notes her vocal chords could possibly engender and after twenty five seconds of uncontrollable giggles asked the woman two questions. 1) “Is that your husband with you?” and 2) “Do you love him??”(right under his nose). Much to the relief of the audience both the answers were in the affirmative. Imagine the poor woman’s dilemma. What if the answer to the first question was in the negative? I believe that the RJ would still have gone on to ask her the second question!

And then there is the inseparable concomitant of Valentine’s Day- Discount Sales. I can understand the 50 percent off on apparels and chocolates but what, in the name of Cupid , has kitchen appliances to do with it? But then maybe in some parts of the world they express their love with mixers and grinders (you churn up my senses??)

Love has always been strange. But stranger still are its manifestations. Then again, this isn’t the first time someone said that.