Death - more musings

I have written earlier about death, where I stated that I'd like to die now rather than of old age at the end of the natural life cycle.

Recently, I had occasion to think once again about death as a concept and dying as an act, whether by accident or premeditated.

Given that I have to die someday, I felt it would an instructive, interesting and fun exercise to run through some of the different ways I could die and rank them in order of preference.

A few considerations

No suicide. Simply because my family wouldn't get the insurance payout in such a case

The more instantaneous the death, the better. I have a low threshold for pain inspite of my high desire for death

In compiling this list, I'm accounting for the possibility that the methods below may not necessarily result in death. I'm factoring this into the preference rating

Obviously, these are purely my views on the subject. You probably have a completely different set of criteria when picking how to die. If so, do share

I'll start from the least preferred route to death.

10. Car accident

Good: Extremely high likelihood of happening, given the amount of time I spend on the road and the general insanity of every Indian driver. Including me.

Bad: Cars provide a fairly decent level of protection nowadays. Airbags, and all that. Plus I am inherently a reasonably careful driver. Still, no match for a drunken truck driver.

Ugly: High chance of life-altering and crippling injury, but no death. Not how I want to spend the rest of my life.

Bottom line: Highly risky, from the point of view of the kind of death I'm looking for

9. Fire

Good: Can't really think of any. Except that your family could claim both life and property insurance. Oh, and that you might just choke to death before you burn to death.

Bad: Most fires that are likely to break out in the course of my normal life are in places that claim to have good fire systems. And unless it's a really big blaze and one is absolutely trapped, chances of death are minimal

Ugly: Third degree burns, no balm of death, painful disfigurement, social horror and a ruined life

Bottom line: Too ugly. The mind and soul quail at the thought of this route

8. Drowning

Good: Almost definite to kill you, if you're under long enough. If this occurs in a river, there's the added possibility you'll be crushed by rocks. Just to make sure

Bad: Unlikely to occur naturally, in the course of my everyday life. While I do visit rivers and waterfalls and seashores and such, they are usually not dangerous enough to drown me. There is the possibility of someone trying to kill me through drowning though - a silver lining

Ugly: A terribly painful way to go. Having briefly tried it to see what it feels like, I never want to do it again

Bottom line: The destination is great, the journey not so much

7. Terrorist attack: bomb blast

Good: If it's a powerful bomb, it can pretty much blow you to smithereens. Clean and complete

Bad: Bomb blasts are, mercifully (for the population at large), few. Relatively speaking, of course. I wouldn't want my selfish desire for death to claim other lives, at least not through a means as base as terrorism

Ugly: Extremely high likelihood of losing just a limb if I'm not within a few metres of the bomb. And the terrorists are unlikely to feed me inside info on the bomb's location, even if they read this blog

Bottom line: Terrorism is heinous, period. Given this point of view and the likely collateral damage through this method, my conscience can't support this

6. Falling off a building

Good: If the building is high enough, one is more or less guaranteed death

Bad: "High enough" is difficult to guage. My office building only runs to five floors. My apartment complex runs to ten. Will ten guarantee death? Will five? Also, most tall buildings are protected nowadays, with sealed windows and closed terraces. And it would be difficult to prove it wasn't a suicide. People hate me, but not so much as to push me off a building

Ugly: Anything short of death through this method. Exactly the same downside as a car accident, just more severe

Bottom line: Seems impractical and unlikely

5. Knife wound

Good: Reasonable chance of this happening somewhere, especially if I roam about in dark alleyways at night. I could lose a reasonable amount of blood and thereby die

Bad: The society around me is more of gun-oriented one, I think. Plus I don't spend much time in dark alleyways in the normal course of things - the most I get about in the dark is the drive from office to home

Ugly: An incision that isn't deep enough will leave me in terrible pain, bleeding very very slowly (or terribly scarred) but not dead. Which kind of defeats the whole point of the thing for me

Bottom line: This could go either way

4. Electrocution

Good: Given the general state of construction in many of the places I go in and out of (not the mention that my life is ruled by electrical and electronic gadgets), this is a very plausible way to die

Bad: It would have to be a very decisive bit of electrocution to kill me immediately, not just fry my skin or internal body parts

Ugly: One word - vegetable

Bottom line: This, too could go either way

3. Falling construction material

Good: In Delhi/Gurgaon, this is always a very real possibility. Maybe a roof will come crashing down when I attend the Commonwealth Games later this year

Bad: The Metro construction in Gurgaon is coming to an end. And there are no major buildings being built around the areas I visit - the CWG is my only hope

Ugly: Unless it's a really large and heavy piece of material - such as a multi-ton cement section that can crush my car like a pretty girl crushing a young man's hope - this could go the car accident way. And I'd be out a car.

Bottom line: Worth a shot, it could very well happen

2. Gunshot wound (mugger, police cross fire, encounter)

Good: More blood loss likely than a gun wound. Also more likely to result in near immediate death if aimed right (brain, heart). Plus gun-raj is reasonably prevalent in this neck of the woods, from what I hear and see. And death by gunfire is kind of cool, in a filmy tragic-romantic sense

Bad: I don't frequent too many places of ill repute and high crime rates (relatively speaking, of course. Gurgaon city's is pretty high as it is.) So while I've seen many gun-toting drivers and such, I don't know if I'll actually be faced with the desired situation in the course of my normal life. If I was, though, I'd probably ask the guy to kill me

Ugly: There's always the possibility of a slow, agonizing, death. Or just slow agony, if someone finds you before you die

Bottom line: I like this, but it needs to be done right. I might have to be asked to be killed, but who's the killer going to complain to?

1. Airplane accident

Good: Perfect. Near 100% chance of death, especially if mid air or involving two aircraft. In a warped way, a cool, worry-free way to go. And I fly a fair bit on work

Bad: The probability of dying in an accident if flying one of the world's top 25 airlines is just 1 in 9.2 million, and only 8% of fatal accidents happen mid-flight (Source). The majority of accidents are on the ground with no major casualties.
Ugly: The other lives that may be lost. Hopefully very very few, ideally none except mine.

Bottom line: I'm fairly sure this is the way I'd like to go.

In summary,

10. Car accident

9. Fire

8. Drowning

7. Terrorist attack

6. Falling off a building

5. Knife wound

4. Falling construction material

3. Electrocution

2. Gunshot wound

1. Airplane accident

Well, there it is. The problem is that this is all wishful thinking. There's little I can do to hasten one or more of these methods of death without it bordering on suicide, so I just have to continue (a) flying, and (b) living in Haryana and hope that one of the top two on my list, respectively, happens.

(To my parents and a few others who care: No, I am not going to kill myself. So there's no need to worry, for now.)

Insomnia + Road Rage = KakaMan!

[If the image doesn't load properly, you can view it here.]

Well, I'm Off

With due apologies to John Denver - both for toying with his lyrics and mangling the metre to satisfy the ryhme scheme. (Original lyrics)

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
My landlord's standing outside my door
I've paid the sweeper, car cleaner and the bai

It's coming on twilight, a new night is born
But the taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn
It suddenly seems too soon to say goodbye

Some'll miss me, or cry for me
But those who've heard a million jokes from me
Are probably glad to let me go :)

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, I've waited so long to go...

I've grown to love this crazy town
Finally found my feet, achieved some renown
Suddenly, now, these don't mean a thing

Every place I go, I experience anew
Every sight I see, I find fresh too
When I come back, my heart will once more sing

The last kisses, and smiles I see
Hugs and back slaps aplenty
She holds me like she'll never let me go

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, Gurgaon doesn't seem so bad anymore...

Now the time has come to leave India
And in spite of all said in the media
I can't wait to begin life in Sydney

I dream about the days to come
LOTS of travelling (and then some!)
And a whole new work culture awaits me

Oh, this confusing duality
This world that'll wait for me
And that one that's a distant land no more

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
And my spirits swing high and low

And I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, I'm off to foreign shores

Yes I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
What the future holds, who knows...

The previously unimagined perils of being male, unattached and in one's mid-twenties

I have recently realised a certain truth about society. Or, at least, the immediate society that I come into contact with and interact with daily. My profile (the three attributes mentioned in the title, in combination) works against me. And here are just three reasons why.

1. People suspect you of being a security threat
In every mall or store I go to, the security guards spend a good extra 5-10 seconds on scanning and checking my car and body. Either they're all gay and think I'm hot, or they have some kind of subconcious profiling in mind. And this happens every time. The happy families, hand-in-hand couples and unattached ladies who are before me in these lines are given a cursory check, while I'm looked askance at and patted down thoroughly.

And, when I protest ("Hey, you let that person through!", "Is this really necessary?", "OK, now that's just an invasion of privacy") I'm met with icy no-nonsense securityman stares or terse denials of being treated unfairly.

These times of high distrust and low belief in the essential goodness of humankind are quite trying.

2. People assume you're a party animal
Colleagues and acquaintances frequently assume that every evening, I'm desperate to leave work early, change into funky clothes (that reveal my many tattoos) and cool hairstyle, get onto my superbike and hit a series of pubs and parties until the wee hours of morning, drinking, dancing, picking up women and expanding my social circle. And particularly so on weekends. In such a scenario, things can get a little awkward and embarassing when I admit I'm working late/weekends or don't really have any party plans but merely intend to head home, cook a simple dinner, read a nice book and turn in by eleven.

I'm not averse to parties, of course. Not in the least. I enjoy a rocking do as much as the next guy. And I do head out for a night of fun every so often. But my lifestyle is nowhere near as happening as people believe it is or wish it to be.

3. Parents are scared to let their daughters near you
This is another thing that happens when I out anywhere... as I pass by, parents instinctively grip their daughters' hands more tightly, or shift sides so they they are between me and their wards. I don't know if it's just me, or if all parents are hyper paranoid. I sincerely hope it's just the latter. Because I really don't want to go through life giving out these kind of 'I-am-going-to-molest-your-daughter-Guahahahahaha-I'm-a-baaaad-man!' vibes. Particularly since a lot of the prettier girls are accompanied by 6'6" wrestler type dudes whose biceps are thicker than my neck.

And this kind of thing has happened so many times, I'm scared to even look at the women around me. Not that I'm really looking, of course. But when some pretty young thing comes across your line of sight - quite by accident, or by the laws of linear motion - you can't help but notice. I mean, us blogger/quizzer types are reasonably observant people, who take a
healthy interest in the world around us. Especially if that world itself is quite healthy and... er... let's not go there.

Bottom line (must...avoid...pun...): I find myself in a position where I studiously avert my eyes when a lady with a chaperone walks into my field of vision. It's weird and disturbing and... well, unnatural. Ladies, trust me. I know I look creepy but I'm a more or less ok sort of guy. Really.


So there you go. Three reasons why being me isn't so hot at this point in my life. I'd give you more situations, but it's high time I got back to work. My models await me.

The worm

I've bought a lot of books since I shifted to Gurgaon. At book fairs. At roadside pushcarts. At second hand shops. During sales periods at bookstores. During non-sales periods at bookstores.

And, until this weekend, I had no idea just how many I had. They were strewn all over the house. Within bags, under newspapers, behind sofas, inside drawers (not the clothing type). Several in their original packaging, unopened and (sacrilege, I know) unread.

But, with a little prodding from my flatmate, I spent several hours cleaning up my room... and the end result - bookwise - was supremely satisfying. My library, in all its diverse glory, was set. The books are a random selection of random genres. Some expensive, many ridiculously cheap. Some forbiddingly thick (big ones, small ones, some as big as your head (and bigger!)), most easily readable bites. And to be able to see my entire collection - meagre though it is in comparison to the one back home - in one place feels good :)

Life is, sometimes, about the little victories and the small joys.

If

A few days ago, a minor milestone in my life passed by almost unnoticed. I have just completed one whole year here at Gurgaon, and my first complete year at a permanent job. Time seems to have flown - it seems like only yesterday that I was embarking on my career, wide eyed and eager to show the world who's boss.

It's been one hell of a learning experience... and several small things - managing expectations at work, shopping for groceries, hanging out with friends, managing household and personal financials - have taught me so much, have helped me grow as a person; have helped me become - I'll say it - a Man.

Here's a little ode to the last year.


(With due apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

If you can drive your car when all about you
Are crashing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself not to hit the bulls and cows,
But make allowance for their movement too;
If you can wait in traffic and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being faced with cops, bribe them selectively,
Or, being honked at without reason, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't act too aggressive, nor drive too rashly;

If you can dream for your clients - and not make them your master;
If you can think complex strategy - and convey it with simplicity;
If you can meet with both triumph and disaster
And treat great client feedback and lousy reviews with equanimity;
If you can bear to work long slavish hours on occasion
Up to fifteen or twenty hours a day,
Yet find time for the occasional brief vacation
And satisfaction in adding value and earning your pay;

If you can make head or tail of all your earnings
And understand HRA and 80C calculations,
And deal with the landlord’s infrequent rantings
And pardon the help’s frequent excuses and explanations;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To subscribe to responsible expenditure and thrift
And so sniff out “Buy X get Y free” deals anew
Yet splurge when the occasion demands it;

If you can talk with crowds and use less than two swear words a sentence,
Or walk with kings – and avoid a pickpocket’s touch;
If you can tolerate local FM, irritatingly vacuous and dense;
If paneer, vodka and Subway count with you, but none too much;
If, in this unforgiving life, you submit
Yourself to incessant 24x7 Punjabification
You’ll have conquered Gurgaon and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


(Original poem: If, by Rudyard Kipling. One of the most incredible poems ever.)

Pitter patter

8:45 a.m.

I'm starting a new case today, a new industry. A Private Equity case, and a highly analytical one from what I know of it. A typically challenging and steep-learning-curve day stretches ahead, one that I know will give me the opportunity to step up to new challenges and new levels of responsibility as I grow into my job.

Yet, as I sit in my car waiting for the lights to change, my thoughts are less on the office and more on the way the overnight rain has given way to a wonderfully light drizzle... how the surprisingly stiff breeze does not carry the now-wet sand as it normally does, instead bringing me a whiff of spice, perfume and wet earth. The trees on the once-dusty roadside, newly planted, sway as though celebrating their clean, washed greenery.

The lights change, I put my car into gear and pull ahead.

A radio station is playing old Hindi songs. A fine spray of rain kisses my face, moistening and teasing my right earlobe. Little droplets crowd my windshield, clinging onto the glass in a brief declaration of independence before gravity pulls them downwards, joining their bulbous brothers and coalescing as they fall below my line of sight.

To the left, the road leading to my office. Straight ahead, merely one hundred metres away, the highway.

Somedays, I wish one could just bunk work like one bunked classes in college.

Keeping Mum

Warning: This post contains a picture that might be slightly nauseating to some. I mean it, so read on at your own risk. For you witty wags who insist nothing can be more nauseating than my picture in the sidebar... well, you've been warned!

My mother dropped in on me last weekend. She had the option to come to Delhi on some work, and grabbed the opportunity to check in on her errant son, who does not eat meals regularly and doesn't call home often enough :)

I was, naturally, very happy to have her here. It's nice to catch up with family stories and have awesome home cooked food (that said, my culinary skills have vastly improved as compared to the last time I mentioned them on this blog. Maybe I'll write about that later.) And its good fun to show her my office, take her through my routine and lifestyle, and drive her around Delhi/Gurgaon to show her that drivers here really are as crazy as I make them out to be. And scare her by driving at three times the speed I drive at in Chennai. And of, course, to come home from work to find the house sparkling clean and a week's worth of cooked food in the fridge :)

Having a parent over, however, does put a lot of pressure on one. Especially if one is a bachelor. And especially if one is a bachelor living with two other bachelors, making for one hell of a bachelor-style home.

As information regarding a visit (from a relative or the landlord) filters through to the group, a mild sense of panic sets in owing to the need to clean the house and make it somewhat respectable. And so the manic cleaning starts.

1. Out go the four week old newspapers lying around on the floor, atop the chairs and under the sofa.
2. Ditto for the empty juice cartons and cigarette packs (I don't smoke, but my flatmate does. I would, of course, smoke if I was set on fire but as that is not a regular occurrence, I feel comfortable stating that I do not smoke.)
3. In a bachelor household, "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" is not just a song. It's a real life logistical difficulty, an issue of storage space. For variety, there's whisky lying around as well. All need to be deposited in a safe place.
4. Most of the furniture (and the floor, and the walls, and the electrical appliances...) has a layer of dust thicker than normally considered healthy. None of us has dust allergies, but if one of us was... well, let's just say there'd be a room to spare at home. Out come the dust cloths (yes, we actually have them!)
5. The sour milk/curd in the fridge and the rotting vegetables we passed on in favour of Maggi need to be disposed off.
6. The packets of Maggi and MTR Ready-to-eat meals are discreetly puched to the background, and the spices, pastes, purees, pulses and veggies are emphasized to indicate self-reliance in terms of cooking.
7. It's time to clean the vessels in the kitchen as well. It is at moments like his that one discovers weird string-like microbial growth in a container that once contained something edible but hasn't been touched for weeks on end. I'm serious, I'm not just saying this for effect. See for yourself.




This was not a dish of noodles. Detailed investigations later revealed that this was, at some point in time, a serving of daal, as evidenced by the glimpses of yellow below the stringy stuff in the picture above.

And all this is just the common areas (living room, kitchen, etc) in the house. My room is normally quite an ungodly mess by itself. I tackled the issue quite well, I think. I'm feeling rather proud of myself, actually.

1. Three weeks worth of sweeping done in three minutes
2. Two weeks of dirty (and, in some cases, smelly) clothes dumped into the washing machine and later hung to dry. This also helps spread a nice, clean, detergent-ish smell about the room
3. All potentially objectionable content (I shall not go into details here) disposed off in a retrievable fashion at a secure location
4. Books falling off shelves and strewn on the bed/floor collected and arranged in a neat pile on a table imported into the room for this purpose
5. The extra bed in my room (usually covered with aforementioned clothes and books apart from old newspapers, biscuit wrappers and credit card statements) emptied, wiped clean and covered with a new bedsheet that smells only mildly nauseatingly starchy
6. All dusty items stacked in one corner of the room to give the impression that it is only that corner of the room that I barely touch while the rest of the room is cleaned twice a day with disinfectant
7. The cupboard containing my clothes straightened out to give a sense of being organized
8. Air freshener liberally used and the door to the balcony opened to let in fresh air. (The latter, unfortunately, resulted in a lot of sand being blown in necessitating step 1 above being repeated.)

The end result was surprisingly good. I had no idea my flat and my room could look so nice and welcoming. It just goes to show what one can do if one forces oneself to puts one's mind to it.

And, here's the most important step, the best piece of advice I can give you, one that could come in very handy if you find yourself in a similar situation. Hope you've got a notebook to take this down.

Leave the door to your flatmate's room strategically ajar, so that you can smugly tell your parent(s), "Look, this is how bad my room could be. Now, aren't you proud of how clean I am?"

Damn you, Mr Murphy.

I wrote this piece sometime in January, but forgot all about it. Until now. And so, I shall inflict it on you.

Last week, I flew from Ahmedabad to Delhi. A very pleasant flight (Kingfisher Airlines - thought I'd try it out just to see if it was worth the hype. Verdict: It is!)

I got to Delhi airport in a reasonably good mood. My baggage didn't take inordinately long to arrive, and only one person banged his trolley painfully into my shins, as opposed to the usual three or four.

Yes, it seemed like a nice day.

Three seconds later, I realised it wasn't going to be all that nice a day - the queue for the prepaid taxi services stretched for atleast 45 people. Two queues of 45 people each. I sighed, got out a book (A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson) and settled down for a long wait.

As I inched closer to the ticket window, I was able to observe the activities on the other side of the glass window. It seemed immediately obvious to me that the person meant to manage the prepaid taxi booths had no clue about
a. Service time,
b. Resource optimization, or
c. Efficient man management.

There were six windows. These were manned by four men, and a surprisingly agile bit of mathematical calculation told me that meant atleast two windows were closed for service. Of the four men, two were actually taking money and disbursing the prepaid tickets. One was counting huge stacks of cash (and yet refused to offer change to the customers) and the fourth was, almost unbelievably, sipping on tea and working the Sudoku in that morning's newspaper! And it wasn't as if he was taking a quick break. He was doing that (tea + Sudoku) for the full period of 45 minutes that I waiting in the queue. And this, when there was a flight landing every 5 minutes and an increasingly irate line of tired grumpy customers waiting for some service.

I parked myself at the end of Queue 1, and steeled myself for a long wait. As expected, it was moving at an annoyingly sluggish pace. Soon, the sluggish movement slowed to a crawl. And then a complete halt. No one seemed to know what was happening, and the head of the queue was too far away to allow a detailed investigation. All of us just stood about, resignation writ large on our faces. And then, like a bull that has had a hot iron placed against its rump, Queue 2 began moving at breakneck speed. Before the disbelieving eyes of us poor chaps in Queue 1, the folk in Queue 2 were served twice as fast as we were (before we came to a standstill, of course. I know two times zero is zero.) It was at this point that a helpful official cut into our line about 15 people ahead of me and recommended we move to Queue 2 for faster service. Letting a collective whoop of joy and victory, we swarmed towards the second line.

Four minutes later, it came to a screeching halt. A complete standstill. All due to two people at the head of the queue arguing over the fares and the change. We stood in position for about 5 minutes, muttering and cursing under our breaths. The man behind me said something that sounded like 'Monkey', but was decidedly in Punjabi. And then, suddenly, the line began to move at a phenomenal speed. Except that this wasn't Queue 2 moving, it was Queue 1.

Cue (heh, heh) for everyone in Queue 2 to run helter skelter to Queue 1. And there we were back where we started. The queue moved fairly quickly, and I finally got myself a ticket. I strode out of the airport triumphantly, only to deflate when I saw the long line for the taxis themselves. It was at that that I decided to stop being a nice guy and become a Delhiite. I resolved to kick, punch, scratch, bite and claw as necessary to ensure I did not lose out. Life became a big red blur...

Anyways, I somehow wrestled my way into a taxi and gave the driver my address. And that's when Act 2 - the thriller - started. My driver weaved in and out of the morning rush hour traffic, tyres squealing and chassis creaking (and I am NOT exaggerating!) as he swung wildly across the lanes in the general direction of Gurgaon. He very nearly hit about 12 cars in a 5 kilometre stretch. I counted. At one point, he drove over a divider on the expressway - I kid you not - just to get to a relatively free lane. I thought it prudent, after that harrowing incident, to ask how long he'd been driving. It turned out he was a 19 year old kid who'd got this driving license only 4 months ago. And through means that were not strictly legal. Just my luck. The death ride somehow came to a satisfactory end, with neither the car nor its occupants much the worse for it. I paid the driver and trudged upstairs to my flat.

Life wasn't done throwing me sucker punches yet. I had locked the keys to my house in my pants (my other pants, I was wearing a pair at the time), which were in my suitcase. There followed a five minute session (liberally punctuated with the choicest expletives) as I unpacked the tight-to-the-seam box at my doorstep to get at the keys.

I stepped into my house, and collapsed on the nearest sofa, worn out by the morning's experiences. The simplest of tasks can be so phenomenally tiring at times. Sigh.

But wait, dear reader. Act 3 unfolds.

I had not had a bath for quite a few days, and decided it was only fair to my coworkers (I was planning to go to office later in the day) that I cleanse myself with liberal use of soap and hot water. I am all for not having a bath, so long as one does not stink. But there's only so far that deodorants can work. So a quick bath was chalked into the agenda of the day's activities.

I went into the bathroom, peeled off my clothes (I see you swooning, ladies, and not because of the smell!) and turned on the shower. I stood there for 5 minutes, oblivious to all in the world except the lovely feeling of water running down my face and body. I reached out to the soap, and proceeded to lather myself well and truly. I even sang a cheerful little ditty as I did so. Midway through this operation, the power died. As the comforting hum of the geyser died down, an eerie silence descended upon my house. Not that I minded - at 10 a.m., this kind of stuff isn't really scary. I continued singing the aforementioned ditty. Just as I finished lathering myself all over and placed the soap back in its tray, the water stopped. Without warning. The shower, pleasantly gushing mere moments ago, gurgled and made a sound like it was clearing its throat. It slowed to a trickle and then stopped.

A rather shitty situation to be in, this. Buck naked, wearing nothing but a 3-day stubble. Covered in soap lather and with no idea of what to do next.

The tap at the wash basin wasn't working, and I didn't fancy washing in the commode. After 5 indecisive minutes, inspiration struck. I trudged to the kitchen (dropping little soap suds all along the way) and washed myself with mineral water and beer. (Seriously, I'm not making this up.)

And there, dear readers who have survived to the end of this post, ended my ordeal. The rest of the day went pretty smoothly, thankfully. Even though my beer-sticky legs did cause me occasional discomfort.

Road Rage

Warning: This is a long post. A very long post. I started typing it out and didn't seem to be able to stop. If you are reading this at work, as I strongly suspect you are, this could seriously impact your productivity. As it has mine.

Driving in Gurgaon can be an incredibly frustrating experience. The sheer lawlessness, chaos and the perpetual sense of death and destruction makes for a very emotionally draining experience. There are two ways one could look at it.
1. Positive view: It gives you a renewed appreciation of how good it is to be alive. It makes you feel like a man again (engaging in all those testosterone-driven duels). And when you begin to celebrate reaching home safely each night, you know you've learnt to value life's small victories.
2. Negative view: It's a pain in the ass. It's life threatening and rage-inducing. The world appears to be full of maniacs and idiots with no concern for either their own lives or that of others.
As can be expected from a naturally cynical and angry guy like me, this post deals exclusively with the latter. So here's a guide to some of the phenomena you are likely to encounter on the roads of Gurgaon.


COWS
All over the bloody place. And they aren't just the normal kind of cows one finds all over the country. These are very large cows and bulls. Huge bulls with massive humps and dangerously long and sharp horns. Much like the ones depicted on Harappan seals





It's clear they have been terrorizing travellers in these parts for years but nothing whatsoever has been done about them. They lie around on the roads, protected by the irrational Indian belief in their touch-them-on-pain-of-your-life holiness. They stand in front of your car in the middle of the roads, gazing at you unflinchingly, daring you to use force against them. And, occasionally, their luck runs out and they die on the roads, their deep dark blood seeping across the asphalt as we shake our heads sagely and continue driving.


RASH DRIVERS
If there's one thing the Haryana police have learnt, it's that there is no point putting up speed limits on any roads. Simply because the limit is merely a number. Most drivers see it not as a restriction but as a challenge. Not just a 'Can you reach this speed?' challenge but a 'Can you reach twice this speed?' challenge. And, almost invariably, the drivers win. With the result that you have huge masses of people roaring down the roads of Gurgaon with scant control over their movements and scant respect for those of others.

The motorcyclists are worse; young blood pumping ill-advisedly in their hyperactive veins, they zoom in and out of traffic, executing death defying stunts, sharp swerves and risky cross-signal tactics. Thankfully, there aren't very many of them - Gurgaon seems to be extremely unsafe for anyone not protected by something with an airbag or, at the very least, a seat belt.

All these rash drivers (two, three and four wheelers) will cut across lanes, insist on overtaking you on the wrong side, believe it is their god given right to not have to stop at traffic signals, cut wildly into traffic travelling at 100 kmph, drive on the wrong side of the road, ram into the occasional cow and, in general, make life a living hell for everyone else on the roads.

They count among their brethren truck drivers, tanker drivers, motorcyclists, tractor drivers, half the car-owning population of the city and even the occasional daring bullock cart driver. But the king, the absolute baap of them all is...


CAB-MAN
Not to be confused with Spiderman, Superman, Batman and the like, even though he does perform death defying stunts. He would be a crime fighter, except that he's almost always on the wrong side of the law. And no, he's not an anti-hero, he's pure evil villain.

I refer to those who drive cabs, particularly those employed by BPO companies to ferry their hapless employees. These are all private operators (Gurgaon has little or no reliable and safe public transport) and are, I think, paid on the basis of how quickly they get from point A to point B. Which results in them zooming in and out of traffic, muscling in on the flow of traffic in any and every direction and generally making one hell of a nuisance of themselves. Apart from, of course, being a serious safety hazard on the roads. Not a week goes by without news of someone being mowed down by one of these cabs (or mooed down, if attacked by one of the aforementioned bulls).

They are not averse to giving you a little nudge from the back if they feel you're travelling too slowly. Or, what's worse, socialise from the side by bringing their cabs within a couple of nanometres of one's doors. This is, as you can expect, an extremely frightening and heartwrenching thing for someone with a relatively new car that he would like to see survive for as long as possible without scratches. But where there are mad cab drivers, there are scratches galore. The Viking raiders of old left smoking ruins after every plunder. The villainous robbers in Home Alone left the water running after every robbery. Gurgaon's cabmen leave a wide range of scratches after every interaction.

And nobody seems to be able to do anything to stop them.


LANE? WHAT'S THAT?
Have you, dear reader, driven on city roads? If you have, you might have noticed little white lines on the roads, usually dividing them into roughly equal fractions. These fractions of the road, referred to as lanes, are meant to facilitate orderly flow of traffic in neat lines. Queues, if you will.

Gurgaon, apparently, finds lane driving an alien concept. No one EVER EVER follows them. Which is extremely frustrating for someone who was brought up (in driving terms) in an environment which taught him to respect lane flow.

The Haryana Urban Development Authority (HUDA, which sounds surprisingly like Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman - and some believe is just as blind)... where was I? Oh yes. HUDA, in all earnestness, paints lines all over the roads, only to have them completely and utterly ignored by practically every single member of the driving populace.

Two lanes of traffic are often converted into three, with the ones in the middle not seeming the least bit remorseful about breaking driving etiquette (is it a law?). They merely nudge, cajole and threaten (ever had a tall bearded Jat brandish a heavy stick at you?) their way into any open space to create a lane of their own. The road I take to office morphs from 3 lanes to 5 (sometimes 6!) during rush hour. The National Highway to Delhi miraculously transforms from 8 to 14 lanes, all choc-a-bloc with irate drivers and peaceful cows.

What's more, they often do not stay in their lanes (imaginary or official). Everyone glides, slides and pirouettes across lanes, in and out of traffic with absolutely ZERO regard for the situation of traffic in the lanes they are cutting into. As one who has often been cut off by such insane lane-switchers, I have learnt to control my anger ("I'll kill you, b#$%&@*d!") and become more philosophical about it. ("The way you're driving, you're going to die sooner or later. B#$%&@*d.")

Lanes are a thing of the past, a needless imposition of order and discipline in an environment where order and discipline can get one abused, scratched, beaten up or killed.


SUICIDAL PEDESTRIANS
I do not know which city/state reports the largest number of suicides (for non-agricultural reasons) and/or accidental deaths each year, but I would be very surprised if Gurgaon is not near the top of the list. The local people seem to be blessed with an innate propensity to take risks, some of which take the form of walking in the middle of a busy road or sprinting across a eight-lane highway, even as rash drivers (especially cabmen) bear down upon them with unflinching bloodlust.

Trust me, driving here is not an exercise for the faint-hearted, given the nature of these pedestrians. They jump onto the roads when you least expect them (you are, of course barrelling down a 80kmph highway at 120 kmph). They play peekaboo with you from behind telephone poles and/or cows, a now-you-see-them-now-you-don't cat-and-mouse game that usually goes "accelerate, turn up the volume, accelerate, press the pedal all the way down, glance up at the man doing a jig in the middle of the road, slam down hard on the brakes, skid on the road, screech to a halt". It wouldn't be out of place in a Jerry Bruckheimer movie.

What irks me is not so much the fact that they cross the road at all - they can't help it, even chickens have been known to do it - but that they
a. Seem to have no idea that walking at 0.2 kmph across a busy highway puts them at significant risk of dying a gory death; there is NO move on their path to hurry across, even with crazy drivers zooming down on them.
b. Seem to wait for a car to come on the horizon before stepping onto the road, almost flaunting the fact that they, being human, have greater right to be on the road than the machine thundering on it day and night; said machine must necessarily stop before the frail 90 year old, grinning in the middle of the road. It's a power game, I tell you.

The safest thing to do is to never drive on the innermost or outermost lanes. Stick to the middle. Or if there isn't a middle, create one (as described earlier). At least you'll have a little more time to react to your opponent/victim.


RICKSHAW DRIVERS
It's hard to crib about these guys. Unfair, almost. After all, they do have to make a living. But if there's one thing I pride myself on, it's my ability to rant about anything and everything without conscience.

Rickshaw drivers (RDs, in the interests of time, energy and my not getting Carpel Tunnel Syndrome) are a law unto themselves. They know they're onto a good thing. In the absence of credible public transport, they are the average person's best mode of transport. When the average person's car is at the mechanic's, of course - the average rickshaw-using person, as defined by Gurgaon standards, owns a car. Two, sometimes.

RDs think nothing of driving in exactly the opposite direction to the rest of traffic flow. Perhaps they feel the same sense of power pedestrians do. Perhaps they feel they're giving their customers their money's worth by taking them from Point A to Point B with death-defying thrills thrown in. The same applies to when they randomly cut across four lanes of traffic (officially two) just to get to a nearby U-turn or chat with a fellow RD on the other side of the road. Also, in what infuriates me more than anything else, they ALWAYS occupy the fastest lane. Which is fine in Gurgaon where no one gives a damn which side you overtake on, but it still affects what's left of my road sense.

The best way to avoid hitting a rickshaw is to stick to the National Highways. Or else ride in a rickshaw oneself.


UNANNOUNCED SPEEDBREAKERS
It's ironic that for a city that moves so insanely fast, there are speedbreakers all over the place, seemingly laid out at random. There are several stretches where one would encounter four or five of them within a kilometre. Which is all for the best, I guess - I'm sure they help save lives - but what gets my goat is that many of these are a. horribly formed, making a single hump a bloody roller coaster ride, and b. not marked or coloured in any way. Which means that I often get jolted horribly and have my insides shaken up irrecoverably, with absolutely no warning whatsoever. And this results in me being reduced to a nervous wreck whenever I'm driving in any remotely residential area...


BEAM ME UP...
What the HELL is wrong with everyone? WHYOWHYOWHY do people have to travel with headlights at full beam all the time? I have enough things to give me a headache without the random guy ehind me shining full force into my car and my rear view mirror. Does he not realise it is blindingly painful? How would he like it if I was to flash a bright light straight into his pupils, huh?

I can fully understand the use of high beam on the dark highways, but NOT within the city where you have enough glitz and neon to light one's way. Do you really need 500m worth of visibility when there's a car 2m in front of you? Huh? Huh? I spend a significant portion of my night-time driving making flashing symbols at the guys behind me, a desperate plea for him to dip his bloody lights.

Unfortunately, it hardly works. And what I hate most about idiots who drive on full beam all the time are those who drive on full beam all the time with...


HALOGEN LAMPS
This paragraph is addressed directly to the user of halogen lamps, not you, most dear and respected reader.

What the fish is wrong with you? Is the normal headlight that insufficient that you must get yourself this insanely bright, piercing, obscenely white light? If you were in a coastal city, you'd be mistaken for a bloody lighthouse. What madness possessed you to feel that the standard lights are not enough, especially when the car in front of you is never more than 10m ahead (and that's on a good night!)? Do you see the pure white light as some symbol of your purity, or a literal reflection of your mental brightness? Do you think people will be impressed and mentally say, "Damn, I wish I was him!". No, idiot, no. People will be pissed and say "Damn, I wish I could kill him!"

So there you go, ladies and gentlemen. Everything on the roads that irritates me. I've left out a few of the minor irritants - undercar lighting, slow tractors and somewhat incompetent policemen come to mind - but these are the biggies. Do keep a watch out for them. Steer clear of them, and you'll live longer.

My baby just turned one!

I took her out to celebrate, bought her some stuff (she looks so beautiful decked up), went on a long drive... just a little private time together to convey to her how much she means to me and how important a part of my life she is.

Yup, my car is now one month old. And boy, do I love her.

There's something incredibly special about the first major investment one makes with one's own, hard-earned money. The sheer exhiliration, the thrill, the oh-my-god-I'm-so-grown-up feeling. And the insane attachment to the object. Buying her in my second month of employment resulted in my bank balance becoming very dangerously low, but I didn't care. I'm probably going to sell her a year or so from now when I move out of Gurgaon, but she'll always be special. There'll always be a little corner of my heart where will nestle an image of my Alto.

She isn't particularly remarkable in terms of looks; there are a million others just like her across India. But she'll always be the most beautiful of them all to me.

Some of my friends refer to their cars/bikes as their mistresses or girlfriends (which allows for corny dialogues like "I was riding her last night"), but for some inexplicable reason I view my car as a daughter. A little kid who has brought new meaning, a new emotional focus to my life, someone who I will nurture as she grows older and her wide eyed innocence (silky smooth gearshift, lovely suspension) meets the big bad world (potholes, pollution, maniacal drivers). Someone who, in just a matter of minutes, can make me forget my worries and strifes. Some who, without a single word, can cheer me up when I'm down. Someone to come home to (or with) after a hard day's work.

As she grows older, she will begin to rebel. She'll acquire a mind of her own, one that simply will not listen to what I have to say. She'll grumble and whine and be difficult. And someday, she'll leave me and go to someone else, someone who will become the new center of her life. But I'll always love her.

Happy Birthday, baby.

What part of "It's a Sunday" do you not understand?

I look forward to the weekends as a time for me to wake up late, laze around and in general not be bound by the need to be at work.

Last night, I had a nice dinner and then watched a couple of movies back to back. I went to bed at 4 a.m., content in the knowledge that the foundations of my world would not be shaken if I didn't wake before 2 p.m. Or, at the very earliest, noon.

Fate had other plans for me.

8:00 a.m.:
The doorbell peals loud and long, breaking through the suffused fog of my dreamless sleep. I search for and put on my glasses (why the $%@# are they never where I left them last night?) and stagger to the front door. The unwelcome visitor is a refrigerator delivery guy. Yes, a refrigerator. At freaking 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. What makes things infinitely worse is that the delivery isn't even meant for me; the guy had the address wrong. I make it clear to him that I most definitely do not want the refrigerator and if he didn't clear off my doorstep in 2 seconds, I'd be glad to show him where he could go put that blasted refrigerator of his. I swear loudly at the world in general, and at lost refrigerator delivery guys in particular, and go back to bed.

8:15 a.m.:
The doorbell again. This time it's the guy who washes the cars. And he's brought a friend! He goes into this long story of how he is going home for the week and his friend will be standing in for him. I hand him the keys and stumble back to bed in a sleepy stupor, stubbing my toe on the doorframe along the way. Another volley of curses before I drift back into sleep.

8:30 a.m.:
Yup, you guessed it. The doorbell. Now it's the newspaper guy come to collect his monthly payment. He doesn't have change for a hundred, so I lean groggily against the doorframe while he wakes up the neighbours to get the change from them. The neighbour offers an obscenely cheerful "Hi!"; I reply with "Grumble mumble freakin’ hell mumble grumble" and find my way back to bed.

8:45 a.m.:
You know the routine. (Suspense isn't one of the strong points of this narrative.) The car-wash guy's friend is back. He hands over the key and goes into this long spiel about how the original car-wash guy isn't really all that great, how he does a poor job, and how he (the speaker) would be way better. He ends with an earnest request that we transfer car-wash duties to him on a permanent basis and not trust his friend, the current car-wash guy. Complicated story? Try listening to it when you're half-awake, blurry-eyed and desperately trying to make sense of broken Hindi with a heavy Bengali accent. For all I know, he could have been talking about the body organ sales market in the area. Heck, for all I know I probably promised him my kidney. I have no idea what I said to him, but he eventually left. Having learnt my lesson, I plop down on the sofa near the door and try to get some sleep.

9:00 a.m.:
The @#%$%@%@$@ doorbell again. This time it's the garbage collection guy, politely enquiring if I have any garbage to be disposed of. I have loads of it, but I neither have the stamina nor the interest to go through the process. I promise to give him cartloads of garbage tomorrow if only he would please please go away. (Looking back, I shouldn't have done that; the poor chap looked a little hurt.)

The morning was ruined. There was no way whatsoever I could go back to sleep after that. I was condemned to live the day in a zombie-like stupor/trance. And that's that.

So much for Sundays.

True story. I kid you not.

The story that follows is an absolutely true one. Though it may read like a one-man disaster movie script, it actually did happen to me over a 75 minute period of my life that's never coming back.

Here's the dope, in seven scenes...

Scene One: The day is done

Finally, for the first time this week, I was in a position to leave work for home relatively early. It being a Friday evening and me not having much of a social life to speak of, I made plans to go to a movie with a few friends.

For various reasons that I won't go into here, I didn't have a car available. A friend of mine kindly consented to drop me home, and pick me up an hour later so we could go to the movie. One hour - ample time to have a quick bath (yes, I realise this is surprising, but I do bathe more often that I used to a few months ago), rustle up some dinner and change into something hip and cool (yeah, I'm laughing too) for the night out. Also, I very badly needed to use the toilet.


Scene Two: What to do?

So I walked towards my flat, eagerly looking forward to getting home because a. I was tried and hungry, and b. the need to use the loo was rising at a rather uncomfortable rate. And that is when the first Cruel Joke occurred. I didn't have my keys.

None of my flatmates or other friends staying in the same complex were at home, so there I was locked out of home, alone and in need of a loo. I decided to take a rickshaw to the movie complex (in a mall, where else?), figuring that there just had to be a toilet there.

There are usually three or four rickshaws standing outside my building, as there is a steady flow of customers. On this occasion, I was dealt cruel Joke No. 2. Not a single rickshaw in sight, and none turned up for the next five minutes.

I needed a toilet really really bad. And had no easy way of getting to the multiplex. That was when it struck me that there was another mall nearby that I had never visited. And where there is a mall, there is bound to be a toilet. The mall was about five minutes' walk away. And so I set off.


Scene Three: This experience didn't lift me

The very entrance of the mall did not augur well for the success of my mission. It was cast in shadows thanks to low lighting, and the parking lot was deserted. The security guards outside looked up from their chai in surprise, shocked that someone was actually entering the mall.

Inside, it was like a ghost town. Te lights were on, and the air conditioning was on in full blast. But there were NO people whatsoever and ALL the shops were closed. It was a freakin' desert mall.

I saw some signs mentioning a food court, and went by previous experience in assuming it would be on the top floor (the 4th). The top floor turned out to be the corporate office that ran this 180000 square feet of retail space in complete disuse. Plush sofas and awesome air conditioning, but no visible sign of the loo. I took the lift to the 3rd floor. Halfway there, Cruel Joke No. 3 decided to chip in. The lights went out.

Power cuts are not a rare occurrence in Gurgaon. Nevertheless, complete darkness in an enclosed place is kinda freaky. To the credit of the mall authorities, the lights came back on in a few seconds. But the lift didn't budge.

Let me summarize the situation at this point in time. I'm hungry. I'm in danger of soiling my pants. And I'm stuck between the third and fourth floors of a desert mall. This was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments.

It took an agonizing and worst-case-scenario-thought-inducing thirty seconds for the lift to spring back to life and take me to the third floor. I staggered out to be greeted by a sign welcoming me to the Food Court.

The population of the food court was more than the rest of the mall put together. There were three men, of which one was a security guard. All three were lounging around and watching the India-England cricket match (which India won!) On enquiring (with clenched teeth and crossed legs) where one might find the nearest toilet, I was guided down a long and tortuously winding path to a little door with the word 'Men' on it. Woohoo!


Scene Four: I can't take this shit any more!

The toilet was reasonably clean. Good beginning. Given how life had been treating me until then, I checked that the water pipe near the commode was working; critical given that there wasn't any toilet paper. It was working. Thankful that things were taking a turn for the better, I got down to the long awaited business.

Several minutes of grunting and relieved sighs later, I had a smile of satisfaction across my face, and reached for the water. It was at this point that Cruel Joke No. 4 realised that it had been slacking in its duty to make my life a living hell and kicked in with maximum force. The water pipe did not work.

Now this crossed the line from irritating to just plain frustrating. The bloody thing had worked just five minutes earlier, but now was dry as... oh, I don't know, the very memory stresses me out so far as to ruin my capacity to come up with analogies.

Luckily, I had my trusty notebook (which I carry to work) at hand, and it had some trusty pages. So that was what I used. Not a pleasant experience.

The main taps in the loo were working, which was good. The soap dispenser was not empty, which was better. So I squeezed some onto my hands, which was when Cruel Joke No.5 joined the party. My hands started stinging.

I scrubbed them until the feeling subsided, and confronted the guard about it. His explanation? "Oh, Sir, no one comes here. We use the dispenser to store cleaning acid." #@$$%^@&!

So not only had I used high quality writing sheets as toilet paper, I had washed my hands with an undefined cleaning acid.

Life kinda sucked.


Scene Five: I need food to stay alive

One of my two initial problems - egestion/excretion and ingestion - had been addressed. But I was hungry going on starving. The food court had only one of six restaurants functioning, and the guy manning it (one of the aforementioned loungers) said that as they didn't expect any customers, they hadn't fired up their grills or whatever it is they do to set up a kitchen. The result? A waiting time of half an hour. At this point, my friend called up to tell me he'd pick me up in 10 minutes. I passed on the Food Court dinner idea, and decided to seek nourishment elsewhere.

Just outside the mall was a small home-run store. I bought myself a couple of fruit buns and a packet of juice. Very tasty indeed. I then crossed the street to an ice-cream vendor. I chose a cone ice-cream and realised 6 minutes and halfway back home later that that was not a very bright decision, because I now had a raging thirst thanks to the dry biscuit cone. Enter Cruel Joke No. 6 (admittedly not as astoundingly cruel as its peers) - the store was closed.

There was no one in sight, and there was nowhere within easy reach that I could get a mouthful of water. Swallowing as much saliva as I could, I trudged home consoling myself with the knowledge that my friend would be waiting to whisk me off to what ought to be an enjoyable movie and a capital way of putting the torture of the last hour or so out of mind.


Scene Six: The evening's final tricks

My friend wasn't there. Which didn't strike me something to be worried about. Given Gurgaon's traffic conditions, incorrect estimates of driving time are acceptable. What did get my goat (figuratively, of course; I don't rear livestock) was when he called up five minutes later to deliver Cruel Joke No. 7 - he was completely, utterly lost.

Not good news because the movie was starting in under half an hour and I hate missing any part of a movie and particularly the beginning.

It took 12 minutes and three frustrating calls ("Left, left, left! How the hell can it be on your right? Can't you see the signboards? Just come straight. No curves, no turns, straight! And yes, take the left turn. No the next one. Whaddya mean there's no left turn?" You get the drift.)... but he got here eventually.

"Hey, Kaka, I'm sorry man. Really sorry. You look angry, and you sounded pretty frustrated on the phone."
"Uh huh, you think so?"


Scene Seven: This Puppeteer ain't going to heaven

I don't know who pulls the strings of my life, which sadistic cosmic puppeteer controls the things that happen to me. But I hate him/her, and damn him/her straight to hell.

The only good achieved out of the harrowing experience is that I got a lot of material to write about. But I still hate the puppeteer. *(&^@*.

Gyaan from Gurgaon

I've been in Gurgaon (Gudganva to the locals) for the last three weeks. It's been a VERY interesting experience so far... On the basis of my limited travels in and around this fine city (damn, I don't think the sarcasm came through as strongly as I intended it to), here are the top five things I learned/realized in all this time here...

Food
MTR's ready meals ROCK! All one has to do is pop them in the microwave for a couple of minutes and out comes fresh tomato rice, pulao, alu mutter and a whole assortment of other Indian dishes. Manna from heaven from a bunch of bachelors with a combined culinary experience that does not extend beyond Maggi. (Coming soon: The Noodle Bar blogpost.) Speaking of which, here's a friendly tip from one who knows: having Maggi more than four nights a week can cause unpleasant sensations in one's stomach. I know people say consultants are always full of gas, but you really wouldn't want to prove them right in a literal sense.

Traffic
This place is chock-full of lousy drivers. To the brim. I do not exaggerate. It is not uncommon to see a large truck zooming down a busy road in the wrong direction, a car choosing to travel half a kilometre in reverse just to avoid taking a U-turn, cycle rickshaws that Apparate out of nowhere (yes, I read Harry Potter 7 earlier this week), suicidal motorcyclists playing tag with Death, tempos carrying 400% their expected capacity careening past red traffic lights, traffic policemen waving their arms about ineffectually as a four road junction rapidly becomes a 15-directional traffic jam... on one day, it took us 40 minutes to travel home from work, a distance of about 1200 metres. The sad part is that it's not enough to be a good driver oneself. The maddeningly lousy road and traffic sense of everyone else forces one to conform, or get a severe knock or two. And yeah, just to add to the fun, I'm going to be buying a car in a month. Good thing I didn't tell the folks providing my life insurance about this.

Career options
It appears that most of the employment in Gurgaon is generated by just two roles - security guards and house brokers. Let me explain. Fuelled by skyrocketing growth in the services sector over the last few years, Gurgaon is a city that looks really stunning by night. Twinkling lights, enormously tall buildings and shiny glass in every direction, it's like Canary Wharf spread over about 50000 acres (I don't really know the area, I'm just throwing a figure so it'll sound impressive. Did it?). I've been told it contributes 35% of Haryana's income tax collection. The ever growing influx of multinational firms and their increasingly well-off employees has created quite a housing boom, and complexes of anywhere between three to ten 20-storey buildings comprising residential complexes is the norm, as are commercial complexes that satisfy two primary criteria - a. Glass everywhere and b. Never a normal cuboidal shape (there have to be weird angles, curves, shapes and towers jutting out, for some apparent reason).
More people implies more houses and offices. More houses and offices implies a greater need for protection/security given that the law and order situation here isn't anything to write home about (or rather, is something to write home about if your near and dear ones like reading macabre tales of robberies, road rage, murders and other assorted crimes). Hence, the need for security guards. Every major building has a posse of at least 4-5 of them, so if you're ever out of a job or fancy an alternate lifestyle for a while, you know what to do.
As I said earlier, more people implies more houses being built. And also more people searching for these houses. And also, given how much tax we're paying and how expensive living in this place is, more people searching for houses whose rent won't, ironically, drive them to the streets. Enter the broker. Usually an enterprising local chap armed with his trusty old bike and a vast network of fellow brokers, he is your guide through the frightening, wearying, frustrating jungle of house-hunting. For a commission, he'll take you to a bewildering array of flats that match your spatial and budgetary requirements, introduce you to (usually very well-heeled) landlords and help in negotiations. An extremely invaluable resource in the mad mad world of Gurgaon real estate.

Groceries
Big Bazaar ROCKS. If only because it sells stock that's close to expiry at dirt cheap rates. And has fundoo offers along the lines of "Buy 4, Get 2 Free" on a range of products from hangers to juices to diapers (no, that does not mean I buy diapers. I was merely illustrating a point). Again, this is a godsend for someone who isn't making as much money as he thought he would be (@$#%& taxation, etc) and is looking to save as much as he can in a place where the local populace seems to be oozing wealth from every pore and the cost of living mirrors this fact. And, almost all shopping is done at malls. Huge, glossy, popping-out-at-you-everywhere-you-go, neon-and-hip-young-things-filled malls. There are very few local kirana store type areas around here, and none within easy reach of where I'm staying now... as a colleague put it, "Even to buy a toothbrush, one has to go to a mall!"

Entertainment
In this day and age of mass consumerism and general optimism about the state of the economy, it is apparently acceptable - in fact, quite the norm - to pay Rs. 175 or more for a movie ticket. I believe the average price is around Rs. 225. I haven't actually checked them out myself for fear that my wallet will scream in shock, jumped out of my pocket and down my throat and attempt to throttle me for having exposed it to so fearsome a situation, thereby causing me to die a painful death. Reliable sources tell me the accompanying popcorn costs upwards of Rs 100. My conscience does not allow me to wallow in such luxury, and I look forward to going back to campus and downloading all the movies I want to watch. With a Rs. 20 Maggi + Lime Juice combo to keep me company.

Well, that's it for now. More insights and experiences coming soon!