This was almost too easy

Some weddings aren't worth the weight

I have three TamBrahm friends getting married in the near future. All male. And all of them have planned, in addition to the usual wedding preparations, to tone up so as to not embarass themselves when in half-naked glory on D-Day.

Without further ado, then, here is my latest bit of extremely scientific analysis:

Lyrical Fortress

Renowned Bollywood lyricist Sameer staggered through the vaulted archway of his study. He lunged for the nearest piece of furniture - a rather hideous chair with purple suede upholstery. Grabbing its arm, the fifty-year-old man heaved himself towards his desk, falling just short. The parquet floor shook. Far off, the last of his guest's cars gunned to life and was driven away. The lyricist lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still coherent. He crawled towards the desk and raised himself up. A voice spoke, chillingly, in his head. "Do not move any further. It isn't worth it." On his hands and knees, he paused, shaking his head slowly. Only fifteen feet away, outside the door, the mountainous silhouette of his grandfather clock rose. It struck deep, ponderous notes. Four a.m.

"You don't have to do it. It's only words." Words. In an instant, the lyricist grasped the true horror of the situation. If I pass out, the idea will be lost forever. Instinctively, he reached for a pen.

His mind, under the influence of an evening's worth of whiskey, protested and he felt a searing heat as he was wracked by a massive headache. He fell forward... struggling against the rising blackness. Sameer closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of discomfort and regret.

I must pass on the message. Staggering to his feet, he pictured the conversation he has had a short while ago with his friend and thought of all those whose careers had been affected like him... and in parallel of the job that he had been entrusted with. A chain between the two formed in his mind.

Suddenly, now, he knew this was the way to get his point across. Swaying, he gripped the pen.

I must tell the world....

One year later

A relatively unknown management consultant stepped out of his house to buy some groceries. He shivered in the cold evening breeze, and drew his jacket tighter around him.

Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the twenty seven year old had what his female colleagues referred to as an ‘absolute lack of any sort of’ appeal — wisp of gray in his thick black hair, bloodshot eyes, an annoyingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of someone who was down three vodka shots.

He was trying to make a thorny decision between multigrain bread and brown bread, when the sound of the radio in the store cut into his thoughts. It was a song, something about a comely lass named Dhanno. He forced it out of his head, completed his shopping and returned home.

As he lay in bed that night, the song came back to his mind suddenly, not unlike the manner in which the spicy food he had overindulged in earlier came back to trouble him. After a bit, he drifted off to sleep while it played in his mind, unbidden. With a start, he woke up. He sat up, wide-eyed and sweating profusely. "Oh my god!" he thought. "I see it now! The hidden message!"

----------

Ladies and gentlemen, I have cracked it. While the world might dismiss the song above as just another catchy song from a random movie, there is more to it than meets the eye. And the hidden message is so shocking, I have to italicise the fact. And the fact that it has been dressed up to sound like a typical Bollywood song just adds to the overall deviousness of the situation.

Sameer, the lyricist, clearly sympathises with the international Finance/I-Banking community, and supports a return to the practice of possibly irrational sky-high bonuses.

"WTF?" you ask. Hold on to your pants, take a seat and read on. This doesn't require any more suspension of disbelief than your average Farah Khan movie.

Let's go through the lyrics.

People on the floor, come and get some more, people on the floor...

Take it away!

Clearly, the 'floor' here refers to the trading floor, a common reference in the industry. The line, then, makes blatant sense - come on folks, get yourselves some more money! Even the interjection 'Take it away!' in the song serves to reinforce this point.

O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey

Any fool, even I, can see that Dhanno is clearly a derivative of the word 'Dhan' (which, for my Hindi-challenged friends, means wealth). Which this song clearly celebrates.

Main raaj dilon pe karti hoon, manjale hai dhanno naam mera

(O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey)

Ye soch ke mushkil badh gayi hai jaane kya hoga hashar tera

(O dhanno, o dhanno, o dhanno, dhanno hey)

Mere noorani chehre se, na teri nazar hategi

Na tere din guzarenge, na teri raat kategi, kategi, kategi

Dhanno, the personification of wealth, clearly states (and rather cockily, if I may so) that she rules men's hearts, and goes on to sympathize with the bankers' hashar - the fact that they were very hard hit by the increased scrutiny (and subsequent temporary reduction) of their bonus payments. She further explains her irresistible attraction, pointing out that the greed for money (the 'noorani chehra' a reference to the glint of gold) haunts men day and night, affecting their ability to perform other life functions.

"Meh, big deal," you might say. "A bit of a stretch, eh, guvnor?" you might say if you wanted to affect a fake English style. Patience. Look at what's next.

Apni to jaise taise, thodi aise ya waise

O apni to jaise taise, thodi aise ya waise kat jayegi

Aapka kya hoga janaab-e-ali, aapka kya hoga

Oh, Sameer, you clever clever man, you. To further mask the true message, the lyricist lifts this section from a popular song from the early 1980s, thereby ensuring the controversy about plagiarism and copyrights will distract attention from the lyrics and their underlying meaning. But he didn't think he'd have to contend with me.

In this stanza, we hear the bankers responding, addressing the world at large. They say, in a blissfully carefree way, that they will somehow get away with it through hook or crook ('jaise taise', 'aise ya waise'). They compound this brazenness by mocking the rest of the world, feigning concern and asking them how they will survive in the return to the old world order.

Apne aagey na peechay, na koi upar neechay rone wala

Nai koi ronewali janaab-e-ali, aapka kya hoga

The bankers emphasize that the benefits of the high-bonus regime will be shared by all, not just the top brass at the banks. Everyone around them ('aagey peechey') and at all levels of seniority ('upar neechay') will have no reason for sorrow as they will all gain. They end by once again asking, a smug smile on their lips, how the rest of the population plans to survive.

At this point in the video (1:30), there are some gratuitous shots of assets (really, could they be less subtle?) and wads of cash being thrown about to further emphasize the point.

I rest my case. The interpretation of the rest of this song's lyrics is left to the reader as an exercise.

He's good!

(I have a lot of stuff I want to write about, but I'm feeling too lazy to do it. Silly strips are an easy cop out. Oh well.)

Hungry?

KakaMan #2

KakaMan continues to right the wrongs of the world... (check out his previous appearance here).

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Insomnia + Road Rage = KakaMan!

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On the news...

I can totally, totally identify with this

Source: Ryan Selvy's Tumblr: Step into the shoes...
Copyright: Ryan Selvy

Two left feet

Not a very good one, apparently.

A cheery bhangra is more in order, perhaps.

Rail Gaadi Chuk Chuk Chuk Chuk

I love train travel. There's a certain... earthiness, for lack of a better word, to it that no other mode of transport can capture (only driving comes close). I remember my trips to Bangalore, Delhi, Mumbai with friends, standing at the door as the world rushed past, my head stretched outwards and tongue lolling out like a happy dog.

There's the comfortable rumble of the train beneath one, the always-interesting mix of people and personalities to observe, the excitement and wonder of every station one stops at. The smells, the sounds, the whole damn experience is a lot of fun. In India, that is.

Recently, I took a train to Canberra. While the views of the landscape were beautiful, the train ride itself was a little disappointing because

1. Like trains in 'developed' countries tend to be, it was all closed in. No windows that could be opened to catch a whiff of the lovely morning smell, no open doors to hang merrily off, not even access to the outside world through the lavatory (as is so readily and efficiently provided by Indian Railways)
2. The stations were small, sanitised (for lack of a better word) and terribly boring
3. I slept for about half the journey

But this post isn't about the train ride. It's about what came before that.

Friday
1200: I book my tickets. The train is scheduled to depart at 0658 on Saturday morning. Easy, I tell myself. I'll have no trouble waking up and getting to this train. 7am is as civilised a time as it gets. Plus the station is only about 8 minutes' walk from my house.

1900: I head out for a night of the usual drunkenness and wild debauchery sedate tea parties and walks by the moonlit shore.

Saturday

0130: I return home dead tired but wide, wide awake. I potter around cleaning up the house (Seriously. And yes, I am absolutely sober.)

0200: I play a mixed playlist of Elvis and Sinatra. Humming along, I go through my basic workout regimen in an effort to burn energy and make myself feel sleepy.

0300: I fall asleep on the sofa watching an episode of Boston Legal (one of my favourite shows ever - but more on that later. In life I mean; not in this post.)

0600: Somewhere, in the vast wilderness of my subconscious mind, a little beeping sound is heard. It is promptly silenced - my subconscious doesn't inform me whether this was achieved by sheer force of mind or a violent movement of my hand.

0631: J calls me, and a brief conversation ensues

J: "Hey"
Me: "Bluggh?"
J: "We're just passing by your house on the way to the station."
Me: "Huh?"
J: "It's me, J. Are you at the station already? Or shall we wait downstairs for you?"

Suddenly, I'm wide awake. My eyes snap open. I glance at the clock and leap off my sofa. I have 27 minutes to make the train, and am struck by three immediate realisations

1. I have, as usual, put the alarm on snooze when it made a futile attempt to wake me
2. I haven't packed, having earlier scheduled that activity for 0615-0625 hrs
3. I am reeking of sweat and alcohol

You, dear reader, will appreciate that this was not a time for eloquence. If anything was to be said, it didn't call for Cicero/King/Kamaraj levels of oratory.

With remarkable clarity of thought and economy of vocabulary, I say: #$%^

0632: Rush, rush, rush. I brush my teeth fast but carefully (If there are any children reading this blog - and if there are, I apologize for any scarring I may have inadvertently caused - know this: never compromise on dental hygiene), almost taking my enamel off.

I rush into the shower, scrub vigorously (how the hell did wine get in my hair?) and bound out. Shake myself like a dog, towel hard until my skin begins to smoke. No time to shave, can't afford any further morning activities. Just a quick comb of my unruly wet hair.

0638: Mild panic. I rummage through the clothes thrown about on my bed, applying the two time-honoured bachelors'-code criteria

1. Does it have any visible stains?
2. Does it smell weird? If so, is said smell too strong to be masked by copious quantities of deo?

This helps whittle down the selection to 3 shirts and one pair of trousers. I cram them into the nearest bag I find. I also pack my laptop, 'cause I'll have to put in a few hours of work over the weekend.

I spray myself liberally with deo (sorry, ozone layer) and dump the can in the bag. Zip up, zip out.

0643: Cutting it close, very very close. I realise I've rushed out barefoot, and step back in to wear my shoes. Pop a mint into my mouth, and rush back out.

0646: The lift, infuriatingly, stops on three floors on the way down to pick up an assortment of people who all look like they are nursing hangovers and have just been thrown out of their respective partners' homes.

0649: I dash out of my building, laptop bag in one hand and a tote bag in the other.

0650: I call J as I jog towards the station, letting him know I'm on my way and telling him not to worry. To my chagrin, he doesn't sound particularly worried at the thought of my missing the train. This is what happens when you tell too many jokes, I admonish myself while trying to prevent the strap of the laptop case slipping off my shoulders and onto the path of an oncoming taxi that appears to have no intention of slowing down. I realise I am also in the path of said taxi and skittle across the road like a frightened horse.

0652: I reach the station, but realise I've never taken an intercity train and so have no idea if the platform is anywhere near the suburban train platforms I'm used to. Another quick conference with J, and with the aid of some helpful signage, I have line of sight of the trains. But there's still the small matter of getting through the gate.

0654:I don't have an electronic ticket. And the manual gate is blocked by an old lady who I'm sure I would find lovely and endearing at any other point in life except this one. She chats with the railway official about mince pies (what is it with Australians and pies?) while making her way slowly through the gate. I don't want to be impatient or pushy, so I choose not to hustle her aside or tap my feet in an aggravated manner but just see this through. It also gives me time to catch my breath.

0655:I shoot a beseeching look at the railway official and gasp the words, "Canberra. Train. Now. Five. Thanks." The last because he lets me through another gate and I'm on the final leg. As I pass the station clock, I notice it shows 06:55:53. Another quick call to J to identify the coach.

0656:I'm tired and panting but relieved as I sink into my seat. Run a quick mental checklist, and realised I haven't packed any toiletries. In a moment of deep philosphical understanding about life and the big cosmic picture, I say, "Screw it," and settle in as the train eases its way off the platform.


Now, I'm not a guy used to doing 200m sprints early in the morning. But I'm damn proud (and surprised) I made this train packed and clean. I have a history of close calls, most notably a couple of occasions where I have had to run after the departing train and haul myself onto it as it picked up steam. It's always good fun, gives one a great adrenalin rush and helps one starts the journey on a positive note (Ha ha! I made it! I'm the king of the world!).

Unless one doesn't make it, of course. But that's a whole other story altogether.

It appears all hope is not lost

[Warning: Longish post. Read at your own peril.]

There I was, on a flight from Bombay to Madras. Minding my own business. Energetically nodding off and lolling all over the place. Charmingly abusing the stewardess under my breath as she attempted to interest me in whatever pile of questionable edible matter they were passing off as a 'South Indian meal.' Politely jamming my elbow towards my neighbour to the right to assert my right over the armrest turf. And languidly shoving back the passenger in front of me who had made it his life mission to recline his suspiciously over-reclining seat all the way into my lap. A normal flight in every way.

You will notice I haven't mentioned the neighbour to my left. If you hadn't noticed, I'm sure you have now.

Let's jump back a bit. There's a little known fact about me that I will now throw at you under the assumption that you are at least mildly interested in learning more about me. I am an aisle man. In an airplane sense, not a wedding one. I prefer aisle seats because

1. They give me room to stretch my legs
   
2. They give me room to stretch my hands
   
3. They give me easy access to passing trolleys, allowing me to pick up more than my fair share of chocolates, mints, nuts and alcohol
   
4. They give me easy access to the stewardesses who, for the most part, are quite pretty (so I can ask for my share of stuff in point 3, of course; don't read this point in conjunction with point 2 above)

So, ordinarily, I would have only one immediate neighbour, given my preference for aisle seats. But that day was no ordinary day, as I was soon to find out. For starters, I was a little late for my flight (not, by itself, an extraordinary happening) and got stuck in a middle seat. I hate middle seats because of the sense of claustrophobia they induce. And all the general space-hogging on multiple fronts that makes you feel like a German in 1945 with the allies closing in on three fronts. Except that I'm the good guy here.

As is my wont, I digress. Let me list out the reasons I was in a less than sunny mood.

1. I had just had a tiring and busy day of work, and was therefore rather grumpy to begin with.
   
2. The middle seat (the only available seating at the time I checked in) did nothing to enhance my mood.
   
3. Add to that the fact that the aircraft was miles away (at the International terminal) which meant a tiring and boring 20 minute bus ride to the plane, with two noisy kids jumping around me all the time (not mine, as far as I know).
   
4. On the flight, the neighbour to my right was the aforementioned armrest hogger. A big burly man who spilled over the 25 inches or so of seat width that Airbus engineers had budgeted per passenger.
   
5. The flight was one whole hour late on the ground, and the air conditioning seemed moody and wilful.

The one thing to be thankful for in all this was the neighbour to my left. Not so much the neighbour herself, but her level of interaction with me. Which was none at all. Perfect.

And, to begin with, she seemed content to keep it that way. We meddled with our respective in-flight entertainment systems. We gagged on our respective meals. We read our respective magazines. We slept in our respective seats. All in complete, blissful silence.

Is there's one lesson I have learned in life (and there are many, which I shall some day bore my grandchildren with a detailed exposition on), it is that good things seldom last. Consider vacations. Consider roadside chaat. Consider relationships. Consider stick-kulfi. Consider the ozone layer.

About 20 minutes from the end, just as I was beginning to hope we would make it through without conversation, she piped up.

"So, you live in Bombay?"

I turned to take a better look at her. She was, in many ways, the epitome of a Madras maami. Almost.

• Neatly oiled, parted and plaited hair, partly silvered with a few strands beginning to rebel: check
  
• Kumkumam and vibhuti in place: check
  
• Spectacles and kindly yet shrewd eyes: check
  
• Unmistakably maami-type saari: check
  
• Welcoming and soft, "Kanna, tell me more about yourself" smile: check
  
• Annoying stream of intensely personal questions: surprisingly, no
  

She seemed, on the whole, a fairly sweet and nice person. It appears all hope is not lost for maamidom.

Wait, that's not the end of the story.

"So, you live in Bombay?" she had asked.

Not particularly in the mood for conversation, I replied in as businesslike a voice as I could muster.

"No, I don't." Straight, simple, to the point. A clear-message-conveying kind of response, one would think.

"Oh, you live in Madras is it?"

"No, actually. I live in Delhi," I offered before she started listing cities.

"Oh, so nice. I also used to live there many years ago. Where do you stay in Delhi?"

"Actually, I stay in Gurgaon."

That stumped her. Delhi and its geography, the disappointed look on her face seemed to indicate, was a topic she was well acquainted with and well qualified to prattle on endlessly about. Gurgaon was a completely different kettle of fish vethai kozhambu altogether. She pressed on gamely.

"Nowadays I live in Madras, I shifted back some years ago. But my daughter is living in Bombay with her husband. He's working in a bank. She just had a baby, so I had gone there to help. My first grandchild! I spent a few months with her, and now am coming back home."

I was rather taken aback by the sudden flow of information.

"Errr... that's very nice. Congratulations." I went back to studiously examining an advertisement for some random product.

She realised I wasn't very forthcoming, and masterfully chose a different tack. And, to ensure that she would gain information, she switched to multiple-choice instead of Yes-No questions.

"So are you here on business or is your family here?"

I sighed, and resigned myself to the inquisition. Over the next ten minutes, I disclosed that I was indeed visiting family, that it had been three months since I last met them and that I lived in T. Nagar ("Oh, that's nice. I live in Saidapet"). Also that I was a consultant, and an MBA.

I could tell she was impressed. She looked me up and down, and her eyebrows rose a couple of millimeters in appreciation. Let me mention here that I was not, as is my customary practice, travelling shirtless to flaunt my sixpack. I was in full business suit, tie and all. I must have seemed to her a dotting figure (even I wouldn't go so far as to consider myself dashing).

And then, the question I had been expecting... and dreading.

"Are you married?"

I groaned inwardly. Her increasing interest in my life, education and work couldn't have had any other conclusion. Almost on cue, the plane landed with a loud bump and a prolonged rattling of all its moving parts.

"No, I'm not," I said. And, to drive the point home, added, "And I don't expect to marry for atleast a few more years."

It takes more than stern statements on disinclination to matrimony to daunt a seasoned maami, however agreeable she is as a person. She was silent for a few minutes as the routine welcome announcements were made. As the planed taxied towards the terminal, she pressed on.

"If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

I gritted my teeth. "Twenty five. So some time to go for marriage and all that."

Her face fell visibly. "Oh, you look like you are twenty seven or twenty eight..."

I grunted in a tone that was noncommital, but carried undertones of, "Huh, tough luck!"

The plane came to a halt.

"Actually, I have a niece. My brother's daughter. She lives here in Madras only. Very nice girl, well educated. We're looking for a match for her."

Passengers began to get up, unload their luggage and move towards the doors.

"You know, I was thinking..." she began.

I cut in, in a silky smooth manner. "Well, all the best... very nice to meet you. Bye!" And I strode out into the fresh air, savouring the taste of freedom.


In retrospect, the entire encounter had its moments of frustration, but was sprinkled with a fair bit of dark humour. She was a very nice, sweet lady, but the good old maami-ness just couldn't be held back beyond a point.

Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that unseen and unknown third party forces such as her are working in their mysterious ways towards actualizing my marriage. It appears all hope is not lost for me yet.

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.

As a young man, my dream job always involved working with jaw-droppingly beautiful models...

Life, it appears, sometimes has an ironic sense of humour.

The Tale of the Orphaned Carrot

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, there was a farm where were grown several vegetables. In one section of the farm were grown a multitude of root crops - beetroot, radishes, onions, garlic, potatoes, carrots, leek and the like. These crops - neighbours, as it were - lived in peace, harmony and a spirit of friendship.

One night, however, tragedy struck. A blight struck the entire carrot crop, destroying all the carrots. All? Well, not quite. One tiny little baby carrot survived, the sole member of the carrot crop not to be obliterated.

All the neighbours came together to discuss the situation. It was clear the baby carrot could not survive on its own without parents, and would have to be adopted by one of the other crops.

Sadly, however, those who had been the carrots' friends till date turned their backs on the poor orphan. "I barely have enough eyes to keep on my own children," complained Mama Potato. "I haven't really been in the pink of health lately," said Aunty Beetroot. "We'll just make the poor kid cry," shrugged Daddy Onion.

Just when things were beginning to look ugly, in stepped the Garlic family. Castigating the others for not doing the right thing by the Carrots, they agreed to take in the poor child and rear him as one of their own.

Over time, he grew into a fine young carrot. He had been brought up with the finest of virtues and values, and dreamt of making his mark in the world. He hoped to find his way to a nice carrot juice at a gym, or a healthy salad at a fine restaurant. It was, therefore, with a great deal of excitement that he set off in the produce truck as it trundled its way to market, and onwards to its final destination.

As it came to a stop and the container in which he was being carried was pulled out, he peeked over the edge in anticipation. To his intense dismay, he found that his new home was Pizza Hut. He was depressed for a while but turning it over in his mind, he realised that, whatever his dreams and hopes, it was only appropriate that he ended up here.

After all, he was garlic bred.

Given the recent election fever...

Not the best way to spend a Sunday night in Mumbai

Context: I'm in Mumbai. It's a little after 10pm on a Sunday night, and I have at 5:45 am flight back to Delhi, and work. I just called up a cab company a friend recommended to arrange for a cab the next morning.

Here, in gory detail, is what transpired.

Flashback: A little over an hour ago.


I dial the number and, in less than one ring, I'm connected.

21:00
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) forty (pause) six. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

WTF, forty six?! Well, I don't have too many affordable options, so let's see this through.


21:02
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) forty (pause) two. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

This is going to take some time, and my ear is beginning to burn. Time to switch to loudspeaker mode.


21:05
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) forty (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

For some reason, the connectivity in the hotel room is rather poor. I take two steps to the right. No difference. I take four steps to the left. Ah, slightly better, though still a little fuzzy.


21:08
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) thirty (pause) five. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

It's bad enough that I have to listen to this crap distorted on the speaker. The fuzziness is just plain irritating. A little investigative activity reveals that the clearest reception is in the bathroom. Well, if that's what it takes to get this all-important cab...


21:11
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) thirty (pause) one. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

Hmmm... Their executives will 'service' me. Sounds rather naughty. Dirty, even.


21:13
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) twenty (pause) seven. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

It's been almost fifteen minutes, and I'm getting a little pissed about wasting my time sitting in the bathroom (lovely though it is). The only consolation is the fact that my call is still important to them, as the lady with the sexy recorded voice assures me.


21:17
You also also book an XYZ cab on the net at www.XYZ.com or through SMS by sending XYZ to (pause) 5 (pause) 7 (pause) 5 (pause) 7 (pause) 5 (pause). Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) twenty (pause) three...

Random music.

Uh huh. Well, breathy-voice-lady, you're website doesn't seem to be working. And if you think I'm going to spend five rupees per SMS on a series of back and forth messages, think again. I'm quite comfortable on this here commode, and I'm sticking it out.


21:20
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) twenty (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

This music isn't too bad, really. A little tuneless, but with a definite element of classicality to it. Far more bearable than the Air Deccan and Amex IVRS tunes. This tune will spook in me in my sleep, but it's not as bad as it could be.


21:23
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) fifteen (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

All this walking about in nervous irritation can be rather hard on one's bladder. Thankfully, I'm conveniently placed.


21:26
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) twelve (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

This bathroom has two bottles of body cleanser and one each of body moisturizer, hair cleanser and conditioner. It also has two bars of soap, two shower caps, one pack of cotton buds and two loofahs. Ooh, loofahs. Gotta have those. Into my pocket they go.


21:29
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) seven (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

Yippee! I'm into single digits! A celebratory dance - boom shika shika boom shika shika. (Bet you're thanking your lucky stars this isn't a video blog.)


21:31
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) three (pause). One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

I'm nearly there. Just two people ahead of me in the queue. I can almost taste it. I sing along with the music that I have now, almost subconsciously and involuntarily, adopted as my personal anthem. Which, now that I think of it, is very weird given that it had no words.


21:32
Good evening, welcome to XYZ Cabs. This is Amrita. How can I help you?
Me: Good evening. You know, they say the fruit of patience is sweet.
Sir?
Me: Never mind; I'd like to book a cab for 4am in the morning.
Sir?
Me: I'd like to book a cab please.
Hello?
Me: Hello?
Sir?
Me (mild panic in my voice): Hello? Can you hear me?
Hello?
Me: Hello!
Click.

Dial tone.

Me (an anguished wail): Noooooooooooooo!

I try again.

21:35
Thank you for calling XYZ Cabs. You are caller number (pause) fifty (pause) eight. One of our customer care executives will service you shortly. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line.

Random music.

F%&*.

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.

Happy Walletines' Day

So another Valentines' Day has come and gone. And the attendant hysteria is finally beginning to die down just a little.

I'm sorry, but I just don't get it. I don't understand Valentines' Day.

Saint Valentine, after whom the Day is named, is apparently the patron saint of affianced couples. He is also, my sources inform me, the patron saint of bee keepers, epileptics and travellers. (So if you're an apiarist in love, are bitten by wanderlust and are prone to the occasional fit, you've hit the jackpot.)

Saint Valentine may as well also be the patron saint of overpriced flowers, candy, cloyingly mushy love songs, the colours red and pink and marketing/advertisement agencies.

Love has never been so commoditized, dragged down from its deservedly ethereal heights and crammed into the greedy mould of mass commercialization. An emotion that is something relatively simple and (potentially, should you choose to make it so) uncomplicated is repackaged to morph into a confusing mix of expectation, guilt, tension, disappointment and anxiety culminating in a big fat credit card bill.

I don't see why there has to be ONE day to make the person you love feel special. I don't see why there has to be ONE day to tell them how much they mean to you. I don't see why there has to be ONE day to convey your emotions. From my experience, an unexpected rose on any random day is a greater sign that someone loves you than a rose (or several) right on cue on Valentines' Day. Predictability and a sense of expectation will be the death of spontaneous expression of love.

Anybody and everybody jumps onto the Valentines' Day bandwagon nowadays. Here are a few examples.

- Florists have a field day as the price of roses shoots up 500%. And giving one's Valentine day-old flowers is simply considered too tacky and cheap for words. (Try explaining the 50% cost arbitrage advantage to a miffed girlfriend.)

- One has apparently not celebrated Valentines' Day in its true spirit if one has not been to the most eye-poppingly expensive restaurant in town. For a steep price (special Valentine offer, of course), one gets to experience fantastic ambience, soft romantic music and often tasteless food.

- Or, one of the many plush multiplexes in town where if one buys couple tickets, one will get popcorn free! Romantic as it may be, I'd much rather watch the movie I paid up to 300 frickin' bucks per head for, and not be distracted by my girlfriend nibbling on my ear.

- We consumers are reassured that this is the ideal occasion on which to buy your loved one lingerie. (Yeah right. Given the traffic snarls to and from that expensive restaurant so diligently recommended by all known media, I doubt one would have the time or energy for much action.)

- Jewellery, of course, is the perfect gift for the occasion, ads plead. (What occasion? Me loving my girlfriend/wife is an occasion?!) Other perfect occasions in the future will include Diwali, New Year, Akshaya Tritiya, Holi, Pongal, Eid, Christmas, Krishna Jayanti, the various regional New Years, Independence Day...

- "Love is a matter of taste," urges a consumer electronics company in an ad (that they doubtless consider clever) in today's paper as it positions a microwave oven as the best present for one's beloved. (Oh screw the swanky restaurant, honey. Let's just stay home and try out our new microwave!)

- "If you cant say those three words today, say two," is the sage recommendation from another. The two words? "iPod Nano." An informative little callout on the ad tells us to buy the iPod in pink, as that is the colour of love. (If anyone were to get me a pink iPod, I'd kill them. And use their blood to colour my iPod a sporty red.)

- Do you know how to show your loved one how much you really love them? "Gift your Valentine something special... Buy them a car! Now available at a special 10% discount, repayable through low EMIs over the next 7 years." (But which time one would have got a new car, and probably a new girlfriend/wife as well.)

- Everybody with the equipment and time to churn out a music CD comes out with a 'Love Collection' or something of the sort, featuring exactly the same songs in every single CD, with perhaps a change in the sequence or the addition of remixed tracks being the only difference.

- "Love at first ride!" screams a wildly original ad from a bike manufacturer.

- How about this, from a popular beauty parlour chain: "This Valentines' Day, gift your loved one a special slimming package." Right, nothing quite like telling her how much you love her and sending across a subtle message at the same time.

- "This Valentine, charm a million hearts with your new look... avail of special discounts on our non surgical treatment for baldness!" Quite a turn-on, I'm sure.

And there are many many more. Everyone's out to make a quick buck on this most profitable of days. And you can't blame them, they're just doing what makes good business sense. It's all of us, the society at large, that has been brainwashed into feeling the need to 'celebrate' it. In my view, it's nothing more than an excuse to get off work early. (No manager can deny you time with your beloved on Valentines' Day. She/he probably has to rush home herself to deal with a spouse brimming with fancy notions and high expectations of an evening's expensive affirmation of love.)

Bal Thackeray, the head of the political party the Shiv Sena has long crusaded against Valentines' Day being celebrated in India, deeming it a western influence that spreads immorality amongst the youth. He considers it an attack upon Indian values and culture. (The land with the second largest population in the world does not understand love and/or lust, apparently.) In a front page editorial in the party newsletter, he wrote, "What is this Valentine Day? In what way it is related to Indian culture? It is a rotten imported culture thriving on the neo-rich with easy money to squander."

Now I have a deep, long-standing loathing for him and his party, given their highly divisive politics and hate mongering. But you have to admit, in the context of the statement above, he kind of has a point.

Valentines' Day is no longer about love. It's all about the money, honey.