Hello there, Everest.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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:
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Emotional Atyachaar
(Note: features some literal translation from Tamil)
On a visit home recently...
Aged Relative (AR): Vaada, va. How are you? Are you eating properly?
Me: Yes, don't worry, I'm eating properly
AR: How is work?
Me: Yes, yes. Work is going. How are you? Are you without ailment?
AR: Something, I exist. When are you going to get married?
Me (sighing): We'll see, paati, there's time
AR: What, pa. Simply don't keep saying this. Age has happened, you should get married.
Me: What, paati... where has age happened...
AR: You must. Only if you get married now, two years from now can have a child-small, before you are thirty
Me: Child-small-a! Little too much, no? Let the marriage happen first
AR: Listen to what I'm saying, da. I am alive only to see you get married and settled with a nice girl
Me (seeing the loophole and swooping in to win the argument): Aha! If you are with life only for that... I don't want you to die, so I shouldn't get married!
AR: Ada poda... In comparison to living unhappy, dying happy is so much better!
Me (flummoxed): ... (retire at a loss for words)
Sunday, January 09, 2011
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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I'm a twit
So after months of fighting my inherent anti-technology and anti-social nature, I'm on Twitter. Though how I’ll adapt to 140 characters, I d
Dammit, it’s going to be tough going for a verbose chap like me. I anticipate quite a challenge fitting everything I want to say and/or shar
Ah, screw it. @arvindcac, for anyone who cares. (Is that how one uses the ‘@’?) #outofmydepth
Sunday, December 05, 2010
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.)
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday, October 08, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Betrayal
He worked almost mechanically, his mind numbed by shock and sorrow but his body moving to a practiced rhythm.
He lined up all his ingredients. A large group had requested the Chef's special, and he was expected to deliver. Eight years as Head Chef, he had never failed. And he wasn't about to start now, whatever his inner turmoil.
The saucepan clanked against the stove, the oil stopper popped, and he carefully measured out two tablespoons of virgin olive oil. Next, the meat. Freshly ground not half an hour ago, the process smoothened by the usual preliminary hacking and rough dicing. A few stray chunks were assiduously chopped further. He'd been asking them for a new processor for months now, but the idiots in management had steadfastly refused. They dared refuse him, among the finest chefs in the city!
He browned the meat on medium heat, carefully separating the tiny pieces with a wooden fork. It was a little soft, but smelt heavenly.
He sighed. What a day for it all to unravel. They were just a week from their twentieth anniversary, and he had had a romantic getaway planned. Now it would be just him. All alone with his thoughts, his anger, his regrets.
His eyes clouded over slightly, and a stray tear sizzled on the pan. The meat was browned, ready to be moved to a colander and drained. Mustn't daydream, he scolded himself. Mustn't slack. Focus!
He dropped in some chopped onion, sautéing it in olive oil. Watched it become translucent.
Why him? Suddenly, filled with a blinding rage, why that guy, of all people? Some two bit model with rock hard abs and rocks in his head.
He threw the drained meat into the pan viciously. Flung in some tomatoes and added half a cup of water.
Stupid, stupid, stupid fool. He'd never suspected, never dreamt that she would cheat on him.
A few finely chopped stalks of celery, a bay leaf.
He still remembered the first day he saw her, she a patron at the finest restaurant in the city, he a lowly apprentice. He'd wooed her persistently, charming and cajoling and wining and dining her until she agreed to marry him.
In went the sea salt and the pepper. The water seethed and boiled with him.
He had come home that afternoon from lunch, bursting to tell her about the new opportunity he'd been offered. Head Chef at the new seven star hotel everyone was raving about! He'd thought he'd reached the peak, but there was so much more ahead!
The meat was cooking well. Time to start on the side dish.
The house was strangely quiet, the living room deserted. Weren't her soaps on this afternoon?
His boys had already shelled the beans, softened from soaking overnight. He transferred them to a pot and added minced onion and a cup of water. Paused a second, and added half a cup more. He covered the pot, his hands trembling just a little from the emotion and exhaustion.
It was the noises that led him upstairs. The guttural cries. The sound of... of another man's voice.
He leaned back, resting for a few minutes, and looked about the kitchen with pride. His kitchen. Head Chef at the most swanky (well, now the second-most swanky) Mediterranean restaurant in the city. Possibly even the country. It had taken him years of toil and perseverance to get this far, to nearly the summit of his profession. Her modelling career peaked and then sputtered, as expected, but he loved her none the less for it. Had loved her, he reminded himself bitterly.
Back to the meat. Perfect. He quickly brought some broth to boil.
She pleaded for forgiveness, of course. That bastard pleaded too, but with a superior smirk on his face.
The oven had been preheated already. All going to clockwork, as it had the thousand or so times he'd made his signature dish - a traditional Greek favourite - earlier. He transferred the meat mixture to a baking dish and added the broth and pasta. Set to cook.
He hadn't known how to react. What does one say in such a situation, what does one do? It was bizarre, and he struggled to understand the betrayal.
A quick check on the oven and the stove. All was well.
What had he done wrong? Had he not made her the centre of his universe, given her everything she ever wanted, treated her like a queen? Then why... this?
A light rattle from the pot jerked him back to reality. He peeked into it. The side dish was just right, soft and mushy. He added salt, pepper and enough olive oil to make it just a little creamy, and set it aside to cool.
He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, almost in a trance. His entry, their protests, the angry recriminations, her soft hastily-clothed body, the screams and shouts, her young lover with his impossibly perfect body...
The meat was done as well. He removed the baking dish, and covered it with a cotton towel to absorb the excess moisture. He busied himself with the plates.
The marriage was, obviously, over. He sighed, and massaged his temples. He suddenly felt far, far older than his forty five years.
With a flourish born from years of practice, he plated the meal. The Yiouvetsi, a riot of bright yellow, brown and red, with fresh parsley and a topping of finely grated cheese. The side dish, an inviting green. And, to accompany it, a glass of the finest Tuscan red wine. Onto the cart, and rolled out personally to the table.
He'd lived his life an honourable man. He'd slaved to earn society's respect, and his harlot of a wife was going to bring it all crashing down. It had been too much to take. He had to protect his reputation. He had no options.
"The Chef's special, Sir," he said to the chief patron. "Traditional Greek Yiouvetsi - Ground meat with Orzo Pasta."
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.
"With some fava beans and a nice chianti."
Sunday, September 05, 2010
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
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.
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.)
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