tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75447229564137239262024-02-19T22:21:52.602-08:00MeanderthotsMeanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-42168782462626342092020-02-23T07:15:00.002-08:002020-02-23T07:15:51.254-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">ARUNBHAU</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">My maternal grandmother was widowed at an early age and spent most of her life thereafter with her elder daughter. My mother was the younger daughter. So her sister’s house at Rajkumar College Raipur was Maika for her and I spent many summer holidays there in the early 1960s. Arunbhau, the eldest of the three offsprings of my aunt, was 12 years older to me. He was the ideal elder brother I always wanted to have. He taught me how to ride the bike when I was barely 5. He also taught me how to drive a scooter on his brand new Vespa. He encouraged me to go around doing small errands on his Vespa when anyone else would have hesitated to give his precious new Vespa to anyone, especially to a callow teenager like me. He also encouraged me to join the nearby Library and read a lot during the holidays. My love for reading was his precious gift to me.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">On the other hand, in the initial years, he was also my tormentor-in-chief. Under his leadership, the entire household was teasing me relentlessly and 3-4 bawling tantrums in a day was par for the course for me. One giggle from him was enough to start the waterworks. As an only child, I was always clinging to my mum. I suspected that she loved both Arunbhau and Chandubhau more than she loved me and they spared no effort to rub it in. But again , he saw to it that I did not fall asleep without having a meal in the night. He carried me piggyback when I was tired/sleepy during our collective post dinner strolls.( To be fair, the other cousin, Chandubhau also performed this task often. )</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Arunbhau also bought me my first wristwatch, an hmt, a prized possession then, from his first salary, when he came to Jabalpur to work for MPEB for a brief stint before he went back to Government Engineering College Raipur as a faculty member. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">In subsequent years, he was always the object of my envy as he was doing my dream job in academia. He was always surrounded by books and periodicals. Whenever we met, he was full of his ongoing research projects and the next five or six projects on the anvil. He had an eclectic range of interests from Sanskrit to Vedic mathematics to history, apart from his chosen field of electrical engineering and other related subjects. He was, however, not one to give long speeches. “I” string was missing in his conversational violin. At the beginning of my working life, he forced me to quit a job I was miserable in, without giving me a long lecture; and consequently my career took a turn for the better. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Our meetings were less frequent in last few years as we were both caught up in our respective careers. But whenever I visited him, I always found some nieces or nephews staying with him for some studying/coaching stints. Students of various courses were always hanging around for ‘guidance’ and were never discouraged/disappointed. His house was always open to all seekers of knowledge/refuge. He helped many people without making a song and dance about it. He was in the habit of buying the return tickets for many of the relatives who visited his home, particularly for the condolence visits made after the deaths of his dad and mom. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">His quest for knowledge was eternal and his enthusiasm for research was boundless. He left us all in a hurry. I am sure he got news of some exciting research project being planned in the paradise land could not wait to join it. May his soul find many more exciting projects.</span></div>
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Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-23725649062196607712015-01-10T07:23:00.000-08:002015-01-10T07:23:12.495-08:00Mister H<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">MISTER H<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On confirmation as a Probationary Officer in SBI, I was
posted in a small village called “Umaria” in a backward district of Madhya
Pradesh. Despite being a native of MP, I had to search for the place on the
large map of the state hanging in the cabin of the Planning Manager in the
Local Head Office of SBI at Bhopal. Being a callow idealist at that time, I
went against the advice of almost everyone and decided not to ask for a change
of posting. My logic was simple. This was my first posting, the place was only
180 kms away from my native place Jabalpur; and our first born, a bonny
daughter, who was only 2 months old, would not be going to school for the next
3 years. Hence, there was no valid
reason for asking for a change. In addition, I would also get to complete my
mandatory rural posting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I almost
regretted my quixotic decision when I landed at the place. I had gone ahead
alone to join and a fix up a house for our small family of three. The place was
a one street town. The town ended before I realised that I had arrived. My
heart sank when I got down at the dusty bus stand. It comprised an uneven plot
of land surrounded by a paan shop, a rickety hut which was a restaurant of
sorts, a lifeline for the bachelors; and some stray dogs and grazing cows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> There was no
hotel or lodge where one could stay. So, when I joined at the branch, the BM,
Mr. Satish Chandra Sharma, who appeared to be a fine gentleman to me (only goes
to show what a poor judge of men I am), promptly told one Mr. Shrikhande, a
bachelor who was staying alone, that I was going to stay with him till I found
a house. Shri, that’s what everyone called him, made no secret of the fact that
he was not overjoyed with the arrangement. But he was gracious enough not to
refuse point blank to accommodate me. I was thoroughly embarrassed but kept my
counsel as I had Hobson’s choice in the matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Shri had a
two room kitchen house. i.e. two small rooms and a kitchen of sorts, all in one
row. Beyond the kitchen was a communal open well shared by everyone living in
that compound. The bathroom was an open area surrounded by chest high tarpaulin
sheets and the latrine was in one corner of the common back yard. Shri went
with me to the market to help me in buying a folding cot made of steel pipes
and nylon strips (called Niwar in local parlance). After adding a plastic
bucket and a mug to it, I was all set to begin my life in room two of Shri
palace. Shri slept in room 1 which was more spacious and airy. I learnt to draw
water from an open well without the luxury of having an axle and pulley
mechanism. Shri’s kitchen had a kerosene stove on which we made our morning
tea. I found a convenient position for my blue folding mirror in the window
where I could shave in a standing position and I was all set to start my
innings in SBI. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> House
hunting was no big deal as the three peons in the branch had up to date info on
the entire village. There was one kutcha house, a lime and clay affair, which
was readily available, probably because nobody else wanted it. There was one
row of 12 pucca houses, owned by one Mr. Ibrahim, which were in great demand
because it had flush latrines, a great luxury in those days and in that place.
The who’s who of Umaria stayed there. There was a waiting list in which I
promptly enrolled my name. The next vacancy was not coming up anytime soon. So
I decided to take up the aforementioned kutcha house as a stop gap arrangement.
It was a two storey 5 room affair with an open toilet on the side and a common
well in the backyard. The landlady was a very affectionate old Muslim lady who soon
taught my daughter her first words which were Alla alla. My wife arrived to
join me, with our daughter and our precious household goods packed in two large
steel trunks. My younger brother Chhotu and cousin Rajoo (now Padmashri awardee
Pandit Vijay Ghate) came with her to help setting up the house. As was the
usual state of affairs, there was no power when they landed up at midnight and
everyone was suitably disappointed with the place. We soon settled down to a
blissful domestic life and our daughter, who was a constant source of joy and
wonder, was the main reason for it. Like all parents, we thought she was the
most beautiful and precocious child in the world and forgot all about the
tedium and minor discomforts of the humdrum life of a bank officer in a dull
village. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As this
piece is about Shri Satish Chandra Sharma my first boss, I shall not delve into
the other aspects of our life in Umaria. We have a saying in SBI that howsoever
bad your current boss may be, the Bank never ceases to surprise you and the
next boss would soon make you realise what a great human being the earlier one
was, who seemed such a horrible monster at that time. Mister Sharma was,
however, an exception to this rule. As I soon realised, he was <b>the</b> most horrible boss one could have.
He was a bad leader who ran the branch with the help of a small clique which
consisted of three rotten characters; Suresh, a peon, Mr J K Gupta, the head
cashier and Mr Borkar the VLW (village level worker) who was on deputation from
the state government to assist in agri-business. Suresh was very powerful
because he alone knew where all the blank loan documents were kept. The main
business of the branch was giving gold loans. Hence, Suresh’s palms had to be
suitably greased by anyone and everyone wanting to avail a gold loan from the
branch. Mr Gupta certified the purity of gold, so he had to be fed a large meal
of two samosas and four gulab jamuns by every gold loan applicant. Mr Sharma sanctioned
the loan and took his cut in cash. Mr Borkar performed two important functions.
One, he took care of all the agriculture borrowers, their loan documents,
recovery etc; two, he lined up sex workers from nearby areas, for Mr Sharma.
Every Saturday afternoon, the entire branch witnessed the spectacle of Messrs
Borkar and Sharma driving away on Bank’s official motorbike, reportedly for
loan recovery; but their body language was akin to that of two boisterous and
naughty teenagers going to the village fair. They also furtively carried a
spare set of underwear rolled in an old newspaper which was disdainfully
pointed out to me by Shri several times till I started believing him. Mr
Sharma’s lecherousness did not stop there. He shamelessly flirted with every
lady who entered the branch. We, sitting in the banking hall, could easily
predict his <i>round</i>s (the BM is
expected to take rounds of the banking hall at regular intervals to make sure
that the customers are being served promptly) which accidentally coincided with
the occasions whenever a lady entered the branch. He also had this extremely
annoying habit of inviting himself for <i>tea
</i>at the homes of married staff members, especially those with good looking
wives. We soon learned to dodge his unscheduled visits adroitly by inventing
all kinds of excuses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Mr Sharma
brazenly took bribes on every conceivable transaction. One could see him
negotiating openly with all kinds of shady loan seekers. His famous, oft
repeated motto was “you are at risk only for the split second when you are
actually taking the money. After that nobody can touch you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Mr Sharma
was a compulsive gambler. Every day he went to a local club, where he played <i>teen patti</i> (a variation of three card
poker popular in India) with the rogues’ gallery of the town; a corrupt police
inspector, a slimy civil contractor,
SBI’s good for nothing landlord, some local politicians and sundry government
officials. These worthies, when they were not gambling with their ill gotten
money, were trying to drink each other under the table. For all his wild
living, Mr Sharma was a fine athletic looking man who kept himself in shape by
playing badminton every morning. Only catch being the matches were played at
high bets. He was quite a character. All these things I learned slowly and
reluctantly as I was naïve and refused to believe everything that was whispered
about him in the branch. I was, however, soon disabused of all my innocence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The clerical staff of the branch comprised young boys who
were always joking and teasing each other while working. Some standard jokes
were referring to the Head Cashier Mr Gupta’s moustache which had a habit of
drooping suddenly at weird angles, in terms of the time of the day. On some day
he was “quarter to three”, i.e. moustache parallel to the ground; sometimes it
was “seven fifteen” i.e. left side drooping and right side parallel; and so on.
Mr Sharma was always referred to as ‘Mister H’ in his absence, by everyone in
the branch including his cronies Suresh, Mr Gupta and Borkar. I was curious to
know the reason/story behind this strange sobriquet and asked everyone in the
branch what it meant. Initially, my queries were met with chuckles, snickers
and guffaws but no explanation. Gradually, one thing was pointed out to me that
Mr Sharma had to take a dump 4-5 times during the day. The reason given by a
sheepish Mr Sharma himself one day was chronic amoebiosis. One welcome fallout
of this habit of Mr Sharma was the cleanliness of the branch rest room. He saw
to it that it was always kept Swachh (clean). In Hindi<i>,</i> the verb<i> Hagna </i>means
taking a dump. So I deducted that this had something to do with the nick name
‘Mr H’. When I shared my discovery with Shri, he smiled indulgently and
mysteriously. It appeared there was more to ‘Mister H’ than the frequent trips
to the toilet. The mystery was finally accidentally solved by me when the
administrative officer from our regional office Mr Sonecha visited the branch.
He was an elderly wizened man with a wry sense of humour. He was a compulsive
gossip and a chatterbox and had an interesting anecdote for every
occasion/person. “So! How do you find Mr H?” was the first question he asked me
with a twinkle in his eye. After that I became his shadow and kept pestering
him at every opportunity with persistent questions about the story behind the
name ‘Mr H’. At last, in the evening,
over a chilled beer, he relented and narrated the entire story of ‘Mr H’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Before being
posted to Umaria as a branch manager, Mr Sharma was a head cashier in one of
the big branches in Jabalpur, the zonal headquarters of the Bank. Everyone was
familiar with his lecherous ways and his 5 dumps a day toilet routine. The
entire female population of the branch staff detested him for his leering
manners and his double-entendres. The male members of the staff were also
annoyed with him for his roving eye and his shady behaviour in cash
transactions. In short, he would not have won any popularity contest in the
branch. Power outages were a common occurrence during the sweltering summer
months. One day, during a longish power outage, the branch ran out of water
supply and the toilets had gone dry. Knowing his daily routine, everyone was
curious to see how Mr Sharma would conclude his noon visit to the loo (in
India, unlike the western world, water is used in place of toilet paper after
doing the deed. So without water, the act cannot be completed. Also, one has to
wash the hands with soap afterwards. Hence, water is an essential ingredient
for a visit to the loo.) Mr Sharma was smart enough to carry a bottle of water
to the loo. But, when he came out, he started looking for some water to wash
his hands. Unknown to him, many of his <i>well-wishers</i>
were watching him surreptitiously. Since he had no other option, Mr Sharma went
to the large steel drum in which drinking was stored for the entire branch
staff of over 200 people. The moment he opened the tap of the drinking water tank,
all hell broke loose. People started
shouting that he had contaminated the drinking water of the entire branch. Mr
Sharma, usually a very quick witted and resourceful person, was caught like a
hyena in full glare of the headlights of a truck (you obviously cannot call him
a deer or a hare) and was not in a position to defend himself adequately. With
an empty water bottle in one hand and with his sacred thread wound around his
right ear (old fashioned Brahmins are required to do this every time they go
the toilet), he was caught with his pants down. Soon, the chants of <b><i>Hagda!
Hagda! </i></b>(Pejorative for a man who
craps a lot) were reverberating in the branch premises. All the customers were
asking about the reason for the commotion. Chanting of slogans by union
activists was not uncommon those days. The branch managers had sweeping powers to
deal with local disturbances. Mr Rathnam, a very tough administrator, was the
branch manager then. But against the constant roar of staff outrage, for a
reason over which he had little control, he had to sanction half a day’s leave
and some overtime to the entire branch staff to quell the uprising that day.
From that day Mr Sharma became a laughing stock of the entire branch, entire
city rather. Wherever he went, the H word was hurled at him. Finally he asked for
a transfer to a distant place and was sent as Branch Manager of Umaria branch.
By the time Mr Sonecha finished his narrative, in his inimitable style,
interspersed with many choice unprintable adjectives, I was literally rolling
on the floor. After that day, I could not look at Mr Sharma without remembering
the story and smiling a little. From that day, he was <b><i>Mr H</i></b> for me also. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-66505482844053576472014-11-02T07:03:00.000-08:002014-11-02T07:03:12.225-08:00MY CRICKETING DAYS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">MY
CRICKETING DAYS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like
most Indians, I am an avid cricket fan, a cricket aficionado, an armchair
critic and occasionally a statistician. I remember many useless cricket trivia,
mostly from the 1970s and 1980s when our team was getting thrashed everywhere
in the world, barring the few purple patches in 1971, 1983 etc. I have picked
up enough technical jargon along the way to surprise and impress fawning
subordinates, who in any case are only too willing to believe in your greatness,
at least on your face. When somebody said on such occasions “Sir! You know so
much! You must have been a good player yourself”, I would preen and reply with
nonchalance, “yeah! I used to play for my college but did not pursue it later.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Now that I have retired, I feel the time has come to let
the world have a few more glimpses of my illustrious cricketing past. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I spent my formative years in “Sapre wada”, a small
bungalow with a few latter day additions, in the company of the six Sapre
brothers who had devised their own version of indoor underarm cricket which
they used to play all the time, in their small veranda. As some doors
surrounding the veranda had glass windows, there were strict rules forbidding
any aerial shots. 3-4 of the Sapre brothers along with an occasional friend
were vociferously engaged in their quaint version of cricket played with a narrow
wooden plank and a tennis ball which was more often than not totally bald, which
I found very fascinating. We were the tenants of the Sapre family and lived in
an annexe. I was three years younger to
the youngest Sapre brother. Whenever I was free, I used to hang around with
them hoping to be given a chance to play which was not often. My idea of
cricket was attempting a big hoik at every ball while batting and hurling the
ball as fast as possible while bowling. So
my style was not compatible with the strict restrictions in force. When I
insisted on joining them, and when my dad, on rare occasions, requested them to
include me in their game, I was allowed to play for a while and kicked out
promptly when I infringed one of their ridiculous rules. What is the point in
playing cricket if all the shots have to be played along the ground?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In school, there was no place or opportunity to play
cricket. During the lunch break, we used to play hockey or soccer depending on
the season. We even had a devoted gang of marbles players but no cricket. My
interest in cricket was reignited by the inter university tournament held in
Jabalpur in the year 1970, when we were in our final year of high school. The
Mumbai team was led by a flamboyant, handsome and long haired Sunil Gavaskar who,
if I remember correctly, scored three tons in that tourney; and the Indore team
was led by the 6’4” tall Sanjay Jagdale. When these two teams made it to the finals,
it created quite a buzz in the staid town of Jabalpur. The ground where the
match was played was near our school. We were a dare-devil bunch of crazy
cricket lovers in 11A. We all decided to bunk the afternoon session, a totally
unthinkable move in our very old and reputed govt school; and watch the cricket
match. Imagine the chagrin of the school authorities when they found that they
were one line short in the post lunch prayer assembly. The principal was livid
and our class teacher had to bear the brunt of his wrath. The match was very interesting.
Bombay, expectedly, won comfortably. (Sunil Gavaskar went on to make his debut
in the Indian team immediately thereafter and the rest is, as they say,
history.) All hell, however, broke loose the next morning when we all reached
the school. (The really smart ones stayed away that day feigning illness.)
After the mandatory tongue lashing by the principal, we were left to the mercy
of our class teacher to do unto us as he deemed fit. And he did not show us any
mercy at all. After thrashing all of us one by one till his hands started
aching, we were given the punishment of standing on the bench for one whole
week. Imagine the entire section of 50 odd boys standing on their benches for 7
days continuously. It was a big pain but still well worth it. We also became
some sort of heroes for the rest of the student community, not only in our
school but also in the entire city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In college, in 1971, when the Indian cricket was going
through a golden period when we defeated the mighty west Indians and the
pommies on home turf, we played our own inter class tournament. Here, some more
details are warranted. I studied in Agricultural Engineering College at JNKVV
Jabalpur. Our college started in 1967 and ours was the fourth batch. It was a 5
year course. Each batch had 35 seats. So after accounting for the casualties,
total student strength was around 120. 5 teams for 5 years. So, barring the
physically challenged and those rare species that were not bitten by the
cricket bug, almost everyone got to play in these hilariously played and
fiercely contested matches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I was the opening batsman and opening bowler for our team.
Those were the days of the famous spin quartet. So, everyone was bowling off
spins (leg spin was a little trickier). We needed somebody to bowl the first
few overs till the ball lost shine. Since I had continued with my policy of
hurling the ball as fast as possible, I became the opening bowler by default.
It is a different matter that Prakash, our main off spinner, was faster than
me. The spinners came along after 4-5 overs. Even when I was having my brief
place under the sun, I was repeatedly told to roll the ball on the ground while
throwing it so that the ball would lose its shine quickly. While batting, our
side needed some scape goats to face the fiery trundlers of the opposition teams
during the initial period. After that the middle order, the guys who fancied
themselves to be ‘Vishy’ or ‘Tiger’, strolled in to maul the slow bowlers.
Hence, I was the unanimous choice for the opening slot. I rarely lasted the
opening spell. But I remember one match in which I was on fire and went after
the opposition attack which was quite ordinary, with a vengeance. After I went
past the magic figure of 10 runs, there were frantic messages from the <i>pavilion</i> to throw my wicket so that the
stars could join the fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Now we have to solve the mystery as to how I got to play in
the college team. We had an interesting character in our college called “Badde”(
i.e. elder brother in Hindi slang). He was crazy about cricket and a walking and
talking encyclopaedia on cricket. He appointed himself ‘captain’ of the college
team and went around challenging other colleges for many a friendly match on
Sunday mornings. After fixing the match, he went around looking for enough
players to put together a rag-tag team to take to the ground. My enthusiasm and
persistence paid dividends sometimes when he ran short of players. I also had
two distinct advantages. One, my house was a stone’s throw from Badde’s house;
secondly, I had a white shirt and white trousers ready on Sunday mornings. I
was normally number 8 or 9 in the batting order. So I rarely got to bat. (I had
continued to spurn all the efforts of Badde and others to teach me the right
‘grip’ and ‘stance’. Although Viru was not around then, I strongly believed in
his policy of hand-eye co-ordination only, and technique be damned). And, as
‘Badde’ himself was an opening bowler, I did not get a chance to roll my arm. I
was, however, a very active fielder and even took some catches at times. Other teams being much stronger; we
normally ended up playing the veterinary college team which was as bad as ours.
We had some really crazy guys and we played some really hilarious matches. As I
mentioned, this guy Badde was the opening bowler. At the beginning of the
match, when he opened the attack, he would stand at the beginning of his run
up, with his back towards the batsman. Then he would suddenly turn back and
start running towards the wicket. He had a long run up but neither the speed
nor the accuracy to be a serious threat to the batting side. We were often
deeply embarrassed when his deliveries failed to come anywhere near the wicket.
Once he hit the silly mid-off fielder on his rump. After that, nobody wanted to
field in close in positions when he was operating. We had another guy Kishore,
a lanky and gauche character, who fancied himself to be ‘Vishy’ and had more
mannerisms than Ian Chappel. Kishore would more often than not strut in to bat,
make a big show of taking guard, adjusting his pads etc and promptly get clean
bowled on the first ball he faced. To be fair, he did manage to play an
occasional elegant knock once in a while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> During these matches, normally the umpire used to be from
the batting side. So he was under strict orders not to concede any LBW/run
outs/catches taken close to the ground. Clean bowled and caught were the only decisions
given. Even then, I once had the ignominy of getting stumped by a mile when I
was deceived by a wrong one. In my memory, only once did I have the privilege
of hitting the winning stroke. Jubilant,
when I went to Badde, who was batting at the other end, to ask what stroke it
was, his reply was- that swipe could only be described as a Kanhai shot. ( You
may know that Rohan Kanhai of West Indies was famous for playing unconventional
shots). I was quite pleased to be bracketed with the great Kanhai and missed
the sarcasm completely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As I was saying, I regularly played cricket for my college
eleven. I also played Kabaddi for my college. But that story is for another
day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-17479600940722327402014-09-11T07:16:00.001-07:002014-09-11T07:16:24.765-07:00Babulal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Babulal<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In my childhood, we had a
neighbour who had this nasty habit of giving outrageous pet names to kids in
his <i>Bundelkhandi</i> dialect. His own son
was called <i>‘Lungdi’</i> and I was called <i>‘Gunthaduwa’</i>. I do not know what these
words meant or whether they had any meaning. But in a grotesque way, call it
reverse snobbery, I was proud to be called <i>Gunthaduwa</i>
and not just <i>Lungdi</i> or <i>Bangdu</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In our school days, it was customary to have code names for
all the teachers. e.g. B M Tiwari was called <i>Bum</i>, L N Bhargav was <i>Lalloo </i>and
R K Tiwari was <i>Rocket</i>. I am sure many
alumni would not remember the real names of some of the teachers. I for one
cannot remember the full name of <i>Lachchhoo</i>,
our maths teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This practice continued in college with one modification.
Even some of the boys were given nicknames. Some names were common like <i>Gullu</i> for Gulati and <i>Sonu</i> for Songaonkar. <i>Babulal</i> was, however, a departure from
the ordinary. Prakash was a handsome boy with an aquiline nose and longish
curly hair. He was a good sportsman and a decent and harmless kind of bloke.
His only fault was an exaggerated swagger and an affected manner. E.g. He bent
his hand outwards while shaking hands with others, walked with a stoop as if he
was seven feet tall and swung his hands like an 800 pound gorilla. He said Hi,
in the era when everybody else used to say Kaay!(meaning ‘what’ in Hindi). He was part of our gang, but his cockiness was
a little irritating. I, therefore, started calling him <i>Babulal</i>, which with due apology to all the <i>Babulals</i> in the world, was a rather down market name for a guy like
him. Initially he resented it and reacted violently when addressed as <i>Babulal.</i> But the more he reacted, the
more he was called <i>Babulal</i> till he
resigned himself to it. Soon, he was only <i>Babulal</i>
to all of us. We lost touch after college and I almost forgot all about him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The name had however not lost its utility yet. It came in
handy again when I was working in SBI at its local head office at Bhopal. We
had a great gang of boys, all about the same age, in our Credit department. We had
a blast during our lunch sessions, when we discussed, inter alia, everybody in
the building. Now we were giving code names to our bosses and senior
colleagues. Mostly it was a simple English translation. Sangeet was called ‘Music’,
Azad was called ‘Independent’ and Manoj was ‘Entertainment’. Our boss was one
Mr B L Joshi, a very suave and polished gentleman with fine manners. His
singsong English accent was aptly dubbed by somebody as the one picked up from
a girls’ convent school. Predictably, instead of Balkrishna Laxman Joshi, he
became Babulal to us, but of course only behind His back. Mr Joshi somehow
stumbled across the bantering, mostly good humoured, that went around in the
name of <i>Babulal</i> in our department.
His curiosity was aroused but he was too uppity to ask anyone what the joke was
about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Being a fellow Maharashtrian, I was a little closer to him
than others. One day, when I was standing in his room, waiting for him to sign
some papers, he suddenly asked me “Ghatey, who is this fellow <i>Babulal </i>you all seem to be joking
about?” I was totally gobsmacked. I never expected a direct question like this.
After hemming and hawing a little, I blurted out the first lie that came to my
mind. “He is a peon in the neighbouring department sir.” Mr Joshi did not
appear satisfied with my answer but he did not press the matter further. My lie
was promptly shared with the lunch club with much merriment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> After 2-3 days, </span></span><i style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Babulal</i><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">,
oops, Mr Joshi, called me on the intercom and said “can you please ask that
fellow </span></span><i style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Babulal </i><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">to come inside my
cabin. Our peon is on leave and I have to send some files to the executive
floor.” I was again totally taken aback by this unusual request and after </span></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21.4666652679443px;">realizing</span></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> what he really meant, feebly mumbled a yes sir. After some time, I
went in to inform him that </span></span><i style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Babulal</i><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">
was also absent that day. Again, he seemed unconvinced but let it go. This
incident kept our lunch club in splits so much so that some fellows had to be
physically restrained from literally rolling on the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> After that day, Mr Joshi kept asking us one by one about the
whereabouts of <i>Babulal </i>till the day
when one smart fellow told him that <i>Babulal</i>
had been transferred to a local branch. The matter was allowed to rest after
that and we all were more careful talking about <i>Babulal </i> around Mr Joshi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Last month, I got a call from an unknown number on my cell
phone. “Is that Mr Ghatey?” “Yes. Who is this?” I am Prakash Karanjkar.”
“Prakash who?” “Arre yaar, <i>Babulal</i>
speaking.” “Oh! <i>Babulal!</i> Why didn’t
you say so?” It was great talking to <i>Babulal
</i>after so long. We decided to meet the next week when he was coming here.
After meeting him in person, I realised that he had lost most of his curly
locks and acquired a substantial belly instead. His swagger now looked more like
a waddle, thanks to his girth. The
exaggerated gesticulation was now looking quite absurd rather than stylish . As the meeting was taking place after a
gap of more than 30 years, we swapped our life stories including the health of
our parents, jobs and marital status of our respective progeny, and so on, for
quite long. When we parted, I said “Let’s meet again Prakash.” I did not have
the heart to call him by his sobriquet Babulal again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Yesterday, somebody called to inform about the sad demise of
Mr B L Joshi. Mr who? “Arre yaar, <i>Babulal!</i>
Our boss in Bhopal.” The First thought that came to my mind was “Thank god! he
passed away without knowing the truth about <i>Babulal</i>.”
It is this piece of news which triggered off a torrent of memories which I have
tried to capture here. At the end of it all, I don’t know what was more
saddening; the demise of the <i>Babulal </i>who
didn’t know till his death that he was called <i>Babulal,</i> or the fading away of the other <i>Babulal</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-65176070002995066002014-08-22T07:32:00.000-07:002014-08-22T07:34:21.297-07:00Aqualung<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jethro Tull <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> After recently acquiring
a <i>home theatre</i>, I took out some old CDs,
removed the cobwebs and put on <i>Aqualung</i> by Jethro Tull, a 43 year old album. I had earlier liked Jethro Tull’s music
for their unique style dominated by flute and guitar riffs, rarely paying much
attention to the lyrics ‘cept applauding pithy stuff like “skating on the thin
ice of the new day”. Being a man of leisure, having retired this year, I desultorily
googled for the lyrics. I was really gobsmacked to learn that this was a
concept album with the central theme of “the distinction between religion and
god”. It was touted to be one of the most cerebral albums to reach millions of
rock fans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the final number ‘wind up’, the
last stanza says, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How do you dare tell me
that I am my father’s son<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When that was just an
accident of birth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d rather look around me,
compose a better song<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘cos that’s the honest measure of my worth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In your pomp and all your
glory you are a poorer man than me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As you lick the boots of
death born out of fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t believe you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You had the whole damn
thing all wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He’s not the kind you have
to wind up on Sundays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The words are really deep and philosophical, quite
iconoclastic also, denouncing the ritualism deeply embedded in all religions. Even
Osho couldn’t have said it better. And that is saying a lot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-30243352508658866362014-08-10T21:13:00.001-07:002014-08-10T21:13:25.865-07:00Shikanji<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">SHIKANJI<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was attending a typical Indian
wedding of a scion of a well to do family. The <i>barat</i>, was a shortish affair in keeping with the desire of the
socially conscious head of the family. This, however, did not stop the
bridegroom’s friends from indulging in wild contortions in front of the equine
carrying the ceremonially decked out bridegroom, in response to the blaring
brass band mangling the latest Bollywood hits. We all, fitted out in pink <i>saafas,</i> a traditional headgear made on
the spot by tying a long cloth into an intricate giant knot which tightens
around your pate, were strolling along. Soon the groom’s mom also joined the
merriments to the delight of all others who were politely waiting for just such an
encouraging signal. Now potbellied balding oldies and frumpy matrons, who were
carrying a major portion of a gold souk on their plump shoulders, also joined
the dancers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To avoid the embarrassment of getting
dragged into the dancing melee, I stepped back a little and started observing
the proceedings detachedly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To provide bright light for the <i>barat</i> and to add glitter to the
proceedings, some hired hands were carrying garishly decorated lamps (tube
lights) on their shoulders/heads, which were powered by a genset on a handcart.
The entire caboodle of about a dozen tube lights was carried by a motley crowd
of women and children clearly belonging to the underprivileged strata of the
society. Some kids were so small they were barely able to stumble along with
the precariously perched tube lights. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In keeping with the high social
standing of the families involved, light tasteful savouries were being provided
by liveried bearers to the merrymaking <i>baratis</i>.
One of the items being served was a concoction deceptively called <i>Shikanji</i>. It was not iced lime juice as
commonly understood by the north Indian meaning of the word, but thick boiled
milk made further thicker by adding crushed dry fruits to it; a deadly combo which can knock out the
stoutest tummy with just half a glass. Knowing fully well its effect on the
digestive organs, I and many others stayed away from the <i>Shikanji. I</i> found the young boys carrying the tube lights looking
at the glasses of <i>Shikanji </i>with ravenous eyes. They knew what it was, must have often dreamt of it, and had a
look of hopeless despair in their eyes knowing fully well it was not meant for
them. Suddenly, one boy who was well into his teens and much stronger and
bolder than the others, mustered enough courage to pick up one glass of from
the unsuspecting hands of a bearer, with a look of desperate defiance. Before
the bearer could say anything, he had taken a large swig. The bearer shrugged
and went away. The offender drank the rest of the <i>Shikanji </i>with a triumphant smirk. The other boys were aghast at his
daring and jealous of his good fortune. Their wistful looks met with a studied wariness
from the bearers. I marvelled at the irony of it all. Those who were offered <i>Shikanji` </i>were in no mood to consume it
and those who would happily give an arm to have a glassful, were denied it. I
felt like picking up a glass from one of the trays being swished around and
offer it to the youngest tube light carrier who was looking at it with more
desire than what Paris must have felt for the Helen of Troy. But I have never
been able to get over the “what will the people say “albatross around my neck. So
despite the haunting look of the young tube light bearer, I desisted from doing
anything quixotic. I wish I had the courage of the boy who got away with a
glassful of <i>Shikanji. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-85366477280121829812014-07-23T05:39:00.002-07:002014-07-23T05:54:26.211-07:00RUDE CITIES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
RUDE CITIES<br />
<div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="underline">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="PadderBetweenControlandBody">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we shifted to Mumbai in 2006, there was a
huge media uproar about the recent Reader’s Digest survey which had branded
Mumbai as one of the rudest cities in the world. Many media columnists
vehemently registered their protests against the totally undeserved sobriquet
of a rude city for Aamchi Mumbai. I tended to agree with them till I became a
Mumbaikar myself. Then slowly my opinion started changing. When I settled on a
tiny 3BHK flat in the swanky SOBO, I was told I will be interviewed by the
building society committee members. I thought it will be a mere formality. It turned
out like an inquisition. When they started asking how many brothers and sisters
I have, I asked them the reason for such personal enquiries. Their answer was
quite revealing. They said, we want to make sure that they do not join you once
you acquire a shelter here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, what
swung the wise men in my favour must be the reassurance that I had only one car
and no intention of buying another one. (Every flat had at least three cars).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When my luggage arrived, I was stopped at the gate and
told by the security that the truck cannot be taken inside without the
permission of the Chairman himself. I met the great man after crashing into his
penthouse flat. After telling me pointedly that he is making an exception by
allowing me an audience so early, he gave his permission as willingly as giving
permission to Shakti Kapoor to take his teenage daughter out. The permission to
carry the luggage by the lift was however denied as it was against society
rules. That was the time I understood why Mumbai was considered a rude city and
I told him so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having read so many jokes on Punekars and their Puneri
ways, I was prepared for rudeness when I landed here last week after retiring
from SBI at<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chennai. I was not
disappointed. When we landed, it was raining heavily. While we were unloading
our luggage in the parking lot of the building which housed the SBI guest house
where I had wangled a room after several fervent calls, two people came at an
interval of 4 minutes and fought with the driver for bringing the car into
restricted area. Pleas of heavy rain fell on deaf and insensitive ears. When my
luggage arrived from Chennai, I had forewarned the society people to avoid a
repeat of the Mumbai experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a crackpot
employee going by the unlikely name of Nazuk(delicate) started acting coy and
refused to open the rear gate unless he was requested by the society manager himself.
When I located the manager, Nazuk had managed to make himself scarce. Finally the
manager had to break open the lock to avoid further embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our neighbours never thought it necessary to even offer
us a glass of water while the luggage was getting downloaded and unpacked. But they
did manage to pick up a few scraps with the unloaders for blocking the passage,
keeping things in their doorway for a few seconds etc. We have recently returned from a trip to the USA. So it is really amazing that the people of Pune have obliterated all polite expressions like please, thank you, sorry, welcome etc from everyday conversation. not offering a chair, a glass of water or god forbid! a cup of tea, during business dealings is par for the course. The trauma continues
unabated. At this rate, by the time we settle down fully, Pune would have
overtaken Mumbai in being the rudest city in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-38896032523575741672013-12-31T09:09:00.000-08:002013-12-31T09:09:54.863-08:00NOW IT CAN BE TOLD<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">NOW IT CAN BE TOLD<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This piece is neither about revealing important state secrets
after the expiry of the statutory lock-in period, nor is it about a long lost
love/crush. The matter is a little more scatological. The story has been poking
me during those spells of lucidity after or in-the-process-of-trying-to-avoid,
the odd middle-of-the-night visit to the loo. (Could be the early onset of a
prostrate condition according to our family doctor, who normally dismisses every
complaint I take to her as ‘psycho-somatic’). So finally, here I am, at 0400
hours, writing about my windy issues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our only daughter Mugdha tied the
knot in the spring of 2008. Both I and my better half Shubha were in a tizzy
during the yearlong period between the engagement and the wedding. Shubha and
Mugdha spent hours and hours rummaging through all the saree shops of Mumbai
looking for just the right saree for every ceremony during the marriage
function. In the process, the best show rooms of wedding trousseaus in the various
upmarket parts of the ‘financial capital’ of the country were declared ‘Bekar’
(of no use) by Mugdha. But that is for another day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As all the shops in Hyderabad were considered
to be equally ‘ Bekar’, it was decided that our future son-in-law Ashvin would
visit us over a weekend to select his marriage-wear. Mugdha had calculated that
two days would be enough to select a formal two-piece suit for the wedding
reception and a few Kurta-Pajamas for other sundry occasions. I didn’t dare
mention that 30 years ago, I had picked my entire wedding wardrobe in one 30
minute visit to the Raymond showroom. That would have invited snidely
devastating comments on my sartorial ignorance. Also, that was before all those
movies like ‘Hum Aapke Hain Kaun’ and DDLJ. Anyway, the future bridegroom was
to arrive one Friday evening and leave by Monday morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We are a conservative family of
orthodox Brahmins. So the sleeping arrangement was to be like this: My old
parents in their own bedroom, my wife and daughter in the guest room and yours
truly and Ashvin in the master bedroom. As the day was approaching, I suddenly
realised a serious flaw in these arrangements. This was my pre Rujuta Diwekar
phase. So, like all normal Indian families, we were in the habit of having a
hearty dinner before going to bed. This had its ‘consequences’. We were not
unused to occasional fireworks of the noisy kind during the nightly rests. The nocturnal emissions of the gastric kind were
not of the noiseless and odourless variety. But in the privacy of our bedroom,
after 30 years of marital bliss (?), who cared? But, suddenly, I did! Any such
transgressions during the two fateful nights which I was to spend in the
proximity of our future son in law were unthinkable. The consequences could be
serious. I began to play out various versions of ‘Ye Shadi Nahi Hogi’ in my
nightmares. They all started with Ashvin rushing out in the middle of the night
with his nostrils shut tightly in a pinch. I was a deeply worried ‘father of
the bride’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank god there was Google. I searched
all the food groups which caused bloating and farting and prepared a mental
list of things to avoid. During the two days of Ashvin’s visit, both my wife
and daughter were surprised at my sudden health consciousness and admirable restraint.
I avoided milk products, deep fried stuff, lentils, Bengal grams, beans, radish,
sweets and tea/coffee after sunset. This being the first visit of Jamai-raja,
Shubha had rolled out an impressive array of goodies and assorted sweets. I scrupulously
avoided all these temptations, to raised eyebrows, and finally came out victorious
in my battles of the boom. As soon as Ashvin caught the cab for the airport, at
5 am, Monday morning, I heaved a sigh of relief and assaulted the fridge with a
vengeance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking back, I wonder how the person,
who was the recipient of all those gourmet dishes which cause bloating and
acidity, managed. He happily partook them in large quantities, thanks to the
relentless pressure by the future mother in law, and gentle persuasions of my
parents (how can you say no to them without appearing to be rude). Not that I noticed
anything. I was a sound sleeper then and the fan was strategically kept full
blast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anyways, thank god Mugdha married at
the right time. Now? Such sphincter control? Impossible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-85217533367141898702013-12-24T16:14:00.000-08:002013-12-24T16:14:33.258-08:00Bhaiya kaka<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">BHAIYA KAKA<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The current brouhaha about molestation and attempted rape,
triggered by the Tarun Tejpal and justice Mukherjee controversies has invoked a
raging discussion on the many ways in which women are sexually abused at home
and outside. This brought back some of my memories which were long forgotten
and buried. Every family has that one uncle who is a lech and a pervert. Women instinctively
know to steer clear of them and warn the girls about them also. But sometimes,
things are not so black and white. Some people always give you the feeling of
sliminess and creepiness when they are in female company but you cannot put
your finger on their exact transgressions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Bhaiya kaka,
my father’s first cousin, was one such character. When I was growing up, he was
well past his prime and was a balding pot-bellied man with faux dentures. Often
you would find him chewing a wad of tobacco, his mouth too full of spit to
speak coherently. He mostly communicated in grunts and sign language. At all
family gatherings, it was customary to touch the feet of elders. That was his
chance. As soon as a lady or a girl bent down to touch his feet, he would hold
her arms and give her a hug. In our family, physical contact of this kind was a
no no and it always irritated me and my cousin Parag, who were in our teens. My
cousin sisters, who were in various stages of tweens and teens, were equally
peeved by his behaviour. The other older ladies in the family, however, did not
seem to mind his hugs much and would laugh them off till I, Parag and the
younger ladies started talking about them after the family broke up post such
gatherings. Every time the girls would try to either forget (?) to touch his
feet or try to get off with a quick perfunctory <i>namaskar, </i>Bhaiya kaka was quick
to remind them of their manners and equally quick to hold their arms and snatch
a hug if they tried to sneak away with a half bend. Every time, he made a
successful hug, I and Parag used to fume and curl our fingers in suppressed
rage. When home, we would loudly protest against Bhaiya kaka’s excesses and vow
to insult him, or even hit him if he did it again. We were, however, always
chastised for being so brash and disrespectful, by the older ladies in the
house. My grandmother always forbade us from doing anything rash. Bhaiya kaka
never went beyond a hug and nobody reported a grope or anything more
objectionable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Thereafter,
it was always a dodging game which we, i.e. I, Parag and my cousin sisters
played with Bhaiya kaka, at all the family congregations. To our frustration,
however, we always lost against the guile of Bhaiya kaka and the indifference
of the older ladies in the family. Luckily, age soon caught up with Bhaiya kaka
and he was too old to run around hugging women. We could almost sense his
frustration at family meetings and gloated about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Bhaiya kaka
was either a lech or a compulsive hugger of women, we would not know for sure. Today,
I do not remember anything about him except his obnoxious behaviour, which went unpunished. I don’t think he was a closet
rapist, but you never really know the boundaries of a pervert human mind. Interestingly,
it were
always the older women in the family who restrained the boys from doing anything
drastic about his excesses and the men simply did not condescend the subject a
serious discussion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-28667422983786769022013-07-29T10:33:00.002-07:002013-07-29T10:33:42.556-07:00WEB CHECK-IN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">WEB CHECK-IN <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have a running gripe with my secretary’s web check-in
habits. My requirements are simple. No middle seat. I want aisle on long
flights and window on short ones. Front row (better leg room) except when
travelling by ATR, when back row is preferred (rear entry). She seldom gets me
a middle seat, but rarely gets anything else right. Yesterday, on my flight to Coimbtore, when I got
1A, I was cautiously elated suspecting that it might be an ATR. The check-in
girl confirmed my apprehension but gamely shifted me to 15D. All was well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> When I got
the boarding pass for the return journey, the seat no was 4D and the counter
confirmed that it was not an ATR. But my satisfaction was short-lived. When I boarded
the flight, I saw that my colleagues Shah and Prasad were occupying seat nos 1B
and 1C. What the heck. If their secretaries could get them the front row, why
not mine? My deflated ego got a sudden boost when boarding was completed and
the seat next to mine was not filled up. I luxuriously crossed my legs and
opened my ipad. Before I could immerse myself in Stephen King’s bizarre world, I
heard a loud racket going on at the seat across the aisle. A young lady was
frantically trying to control her two sons aged roughly 1 and 2 yrs. Both started
bawling as soon as we took off. I wanted to help but was handicapped by the language
barrier; the tykes spoke only the local lingo. Just then, a Good Samaritan lady
(if that is the right metaphor), came to the rescue of the harried mother and
started expertly cooing to the screeching monsters. I silently thanked her,
shoved in my earplugs and opened my ipad again. However, I soon realised that
her only contribution was adding her own mite to the prevailing cacophony. Luckily
the flight was before time and the landing and disembarking was pretty
efficient. To my utter delight and against all odds, perhaps thanks to the law
of averages, my suitcase was the first to roll off the belt and I triumphantly
marched off waiving to the waiting duo of Shah and Prasad. Alas! I had to cool
my heels outside for about 10 minutes as the driver had not taken into account
the early arrival of the plane. Moral of the story, everything evens out in
life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-2522202806512880682013-04-23T05:01:00.000-07:002013-04-23T05:01:10.324-07:00CIVIC SENSE<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
CIVIC SENSE</div>
<br />
I read somewhere that in some Scandinavian country, those who reach office early park their cars in remote corners of the parking lot so that the late comers can park theirs more easily. Can't imagine anyone here including yours truly doing this. But we can surely try to be a little more civilised in our public behaviour. I really hate it when seasoned air travellers Stow away their bulky what-can-hardly-be-called-handbaggage in the luggage rack over the first or second row even when they are sitting in the 17th row. Saves them the trouble of hauling it till the 17th row. Smart! But pity those poor souls sitting in the first or second row who have to find storage space over the 13th row. Have you ever tried going from first row to the 13th while disembarking? Getting down from the Virar local at Dadar is much easier.<br />
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-67696969489839948422013-04-13T05:52:00.003-07:002013-04-13T05:52:48.567-07:00Women's Lib<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">WOMEN’S
LIBARATION</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I fly frequently on business. I normally
try to reach the airport well in time to avoid the last minute rush. After coping
with the unpredictable Chennai traffic, there are queues to be negotiated at
every stage which are manned by the people who are not known for either their
efficiency or their courtesy. So I often reach the airport with some time to
spare. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was standing in the first queue near the entrance at the airport, clutching my
id and the ticket in one hand and the weather-beaten suitcase in another. A well-dressed
attractive young lady, 35ish, rushed in waving a phablet in one hand. “May I go
in please? I am late”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pleaded. With
their hearts full of human kindness for the plight of the working woman, the
other passengers readily agreed. The security guard at the gate shrugged. She breezed
through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Likewise, she sashayed through the
second tier of security and the check-in counter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">By the time
I had managed to check in, she had already sailed past the long queue for
security check. When I went past the humiliation of security check, I found her
sitting in one corner, sipping coffee, chatting idly with a colleague/friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was surprised. I thought she was late? It turned
out she wasn’t. She was going on the same flight as mine and had ample time on
her hands. All this subterfuge was to avoid standing in tedious queues. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A little
peeved, I couldn’t stop myself from asking “madam! You said you were late but
you weren’t”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gave me a withering
look which clearly said “mind your own effing business” and declined to favour
me with a verbal response. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She again
managed to glide past the queue for boarding the bus and the final queue for
boarding the flight. When I went in after a while, huffing and puffing after
the exertions of standing in 5 different queues, the lady in question was
snugly ensconced in her seat, chatting idly on her cell phone. She looked at me
with a smirk and turned disdainfully away from my accusatory glare. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My heart bleeds for the battered, bruised and abused Indian woman. </span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-21019124099444250222013-04-10T22:53:00.003-07:002013-04-10T22:54:13.486-07:00THE CIDER HOUSE RULES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">THE CIDER
HOUSE RULES</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">There are many books, which, once
started, you don’t want to put down. But there are some which are so good that,
as you start nearing the end, you want to go on but at the same time, don’t want
it to end. THE CIDER HOUSE RULES is one such book. As I was nearing the denouement,
my heart was filled with the sorrow that the exquisite pleasure which I was
deriving from it was soon going to end. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A very
unromantic setting in a decrepit orphanage, an apple orchard and a Cider House;
a very unlikely hero- an ill adjusted erratically educated orphan, and a
subject as controversial and relevant as abortion form the background. With such
an odd assortment, John Irving has weaved a magical tale of intense human
emotions, an epic love story with his trademark twists and turns which leave
you amazed at his total mastery over his craft. In his inimitable style,
independent unconnected events inexorably converge into a crescendo of breath-taking
catastrophe which you can see coming but can do nothing about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It also has
a poignant war story with predictable ingredients. But it is not the wounded soldier
who meets with a tragic fate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The issue
of and the moral angle in ‘abortion’ is handled with sensitivity and without
any ideological bias. Exploitation of blacks by the landed gentry is also
touched upon in a non-judgemental way, more like a chronicle of those times
rather than as a social commentary on the ills of slave labour. Even rape and
incest are depicted without dramatization and without condemning the offending
persons as black villains. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In short, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it is an unlikely masterpiece from a great
author. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Reading such
books also shatters all my fond hopes of ever becoming a writer. I despair I can
never write half as well, howsoever hard I may try. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-73728429664779461762013-04-10T22:09:00.000-07:002013-04-10T22:09:01.270-07:00FACEBOOK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">FACEBOOK</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One day, at least one day, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I want to
open my Facebook homepage, without anybody uploading <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>photographs of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hindu
deities,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sai
Baba,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Their
own nocturnal trysts;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without anybody gushing about</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Narendra
Modi,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Rahul
Gandhi,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Arvind
Kejriwal,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nitish
Kumar;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without a request for </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Be
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Forwarding
a miracle report;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anyone making profound statements, like </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Friendship
is –blah blah blah…</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why
am I bored today,</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why
am I not bored today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That would be the day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you like this
statement, please forward it to at least 10 friends and you will be blessed by
Lord Ganesha within 7 days. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-56162006399326185222013-01-27T08:15:00.003-08:002013-01-27T08:16:51.792-08:00consortium meetings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Consortium meetings</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am sitting in my hundredth
consortium meeting and scribbling this blog to fight a serious attack of
boredom which is overwhelming my whole being. Consortium meetings have their
own group dynamics which needs to be followed meticulously and carefully. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The less
important people i.e. senior officers of smaller banks, who are conscious of
their lower status in the pecking order but resent it, come late to prove a
point that they also are important. They are, however, careful not to be so
late that the meeting would start off without them. They keep sending messages
to their minions, who arrive early to reserve important seats for their bosses,
about their whereabouts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These worthies
keep striving to keep their inflated egos airborne by asking for green tea when
everyone is having juice or vice versa. They spurn cookies and ask for roasted
(not fried) almonds (not cashew nuts) and throw a minor tantrum if these are
too salty. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
gentlemen always dress garishly; and prefer suits with loud stripes and
psychedelic ties. After the meeting kicks off, the Company bore, normally the
CFO, launches into a 50 page power point presentation starting with the company’s
genesis as a mom and pop shop in 1918. By slide 2, everyone whips out his
blackberry and starts playing BRICKS seriously (Bricks is the only game which
comes free with the blackberry). Then, the ritual of picking up the cell phone
and walking out while furiously whispering into it, and returning in the same
manner, starts. The movement of people in and out of the meeting hall closely
resembles the ten hats of an expert juggler in the circus. Then the
presentation mercifully ends and the serious discussion starts. As the company
officials would already have taken care to speak to Individual bankers, the
consensus is quickly and smoothly achieved. The pompous ass tries feebly to
disagree on some minor trivia but is disdainfully ignored by everyone. The leader
concludes the meeting succinctly and then the serious business of wining and
dining starts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Time for me to mutter my well-rehearsed
excuse and make my exit before the garishly dressed boor launches into his
limited stock of dirty jokes. </span></div>
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Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-10983974653781251402012-09-18T22:29:00.005-07:002012-09-18T22:32:57.752-07:00GUNDI<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In local parlance, Gundi is a girl who is a bully and a
tomboy who has scant respect for authority. ‘A’ is growing into a real Gundi.
She is very particular about the genre of music she listens to, the toys she
plays with, the food she is given and the company she keeps. She wants to dress
up and go out every evening with one of her progenitors. She yells at her
parents when she is bored, when she is hungry, when she is sleepy or when she
feels like changing her attire. She cranes her neck to see what her parents are
up to and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>coughs discreetly but
insistently if they are engrossed with each other and ignore her for long (i.e.
for more than a minute); and starts bawling if they still ignore her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She, however, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>has enough sense to be at her best behaviour
when there are visitors; or when the family is visiting some friends or is out
shopping. She also smiles sweetly whenever a camera is aimed in her direction,
but seldom otherwise. But let us give her some more time, she may mellow with
age. Ahana<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is just<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5 months young. </div>
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Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-83615665877269235582012-06-04T10:00:00.003-07:002012-06-04T10:00:40.623-07:00grandparenting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a great feeling being a grandfather. Holding the new-born of your progeny in your hands opens the floodgates not only in your tear ducts, but also on the cache of long forgotten memories of the infancy of your own child which submerge you completely. You remember vividly how your own child looked at that age and how the grandchild looks exactly the same but still totally different. You also reminisce how your own child was an angel whereas the latest addition to the clan never seems to stop bawling. Soon enough, however, you realise that it may not really be so. Fact is, on one hand your tolerance for sleep deprivation has waned considerably, in inverse proportion to the spreading midriff and the receding hairline; on the other, your anxiety levels have risen steeply. So initially, every groan and every howl of the tyke may fill you with deep concern bordering on panic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You, however, slowly adjust to the altered sleep patterns, frequents bouts of the child’s crying and inverted priorities. Going for the morning walk gives way to cuddling and humming to the little devil, who seems to come into her own only at 4 in the morning. The baby’s bath becomes the most important event of the day. Watching a one month old whooping in joy at the sight of the bathtub is the greatest joy in the life of four adults. If the child can go through the entire bathing ritual without crying, we keep talking about it ad nauseum till the child excels herself with a better performance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You marvel at the steady progress made by the child every day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every shake of the clenched fist and every kick of the legs seem like an act of extraordinary intelligence, every look is full of prescience and the child is soon declared extremely precocious. And if she happens to respond to your silly cooing and clucking sounds on more than one out of 10 occasions, she is an absolute genius. Everyone in the family feels that the child smiles only for him/her and all the adults start behaving most childishly to attract the child’s attention.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some things have, however, changed beyond recognition. My daughter (the new mom) is always on the prowl with a bottle of hand sanitizer and douses your hands liberally with it before you can lay a finger on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> daughter. Extra stretchable diapers, wipes and the baby’s party dress for the naming ceremony (with matching mitts, booties, bib and a rose bedecked head band) and many other interesting things are ordered on line by the mother while she is feeding the girl on a strap-on cushion. The new mom is also surfing the net often to decide on the right time to start her tummy crunches and cardio workouts. Grandma’s remedies and wisdom have been completed supplanted by the internet. So no gripe water for the baby’s colic pains, no mugli-ghutty, no talcum powder and no water for 6 months. I shudder to think what will happen when the child starts crawling about, putting things in her mouth and playing with her toys. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gotta go. As usual, the baby has done her thing at the least opportune time; when the grand mother is having her bath, the new mom is having her first meal of the day and this is that rare occasion when the baby is not girdled with a water absorbent nappy. The baby is howling in anger. The cradle is full of crap all over. I don’t see any sign of the ubiquitous baby wipes. I pick up the baby and carry her to the wash basin. Alas! Some things never change.</span></span></div>
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</div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-71620791716271630242011-08-09T17:45:00.000-07:002011-08-09T17:45:52.916-07:00DADA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">DADA</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dada, our father who passed away at the ripe old age of 90 recently, belonged to the old school when PDA was a strict no-no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I have to really rack my brains to reminisce about some tender moments spent with him in my childhood days. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I do remember those early winter mornings, when I used to climb into his quilt and listen to the story of “Androcles and the Lion”. While narrating it for the nth time (for some reason, I always found this story fascinating) he used to nuzzle me with his perennial stubble, which was not a very unpleasant sensation. I still remember the coarseness and the tingle on my cheeks which must have been tender those days. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was a selfless RSS worker (it took me years of adult life to accept this resignedly),<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>hence he was always saddled with the most thankless tasks by the pompous asses who ruled the roost<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>He used to bicycle to distant<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “Shakhas”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>(branches of RSS which conducted the daily drill and games), trying valiantly<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to </i>keep them alive. As a child of 5 or 6, I had no option but to accompany him on these expeditions. In cold winter evenings, I used to ride the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> danda </i>(the top horizontal bar of the frame) of his old bicycle (among other things, one of its pedals used to be always broken), always sleepy on my return journeys and often shivering with cold. Sensing my discomfort, he used to stop midway, take off his pullover, (knitted from cheap wool by my mother during her free periods in the government school where she used to teach) and drape it around my frail shoulders. I can still feel the heat of his body (generated from vigorous cycling) conducted through the pullover, dispelling the chill from my bones like magic. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even in those good old days, it was not safe to leave the bicycles outside overnight. The locks could be picked in no time. So dada had to carry the bicycle up the stairs every night to park it in the balcony of our first floor flat. I remember one little game we often played to my great delight. While sleepily riding the danda of his bicycle on my return rides, when we used to reach home, I used to pretend to be sleepier than I actually was and refused to get off the bicycle when he had to carry it upstairs. The strong man that he was, from years of “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Surya Namaskaras</i>” (a yoga exercise), he could easily carry the bicycle upstairs with yours truely precariously perched atop, to my great delight and excitement. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember with love, a word he never actually uttered with us, the tingle of his stubble on my cheeks, the warmth of his pullover around my shoulders and the wild excitement of getting carried atop his bicycle over the staircase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-10437904171720041192011-08-09T17:44:00.000-07:002011-08-09T17:44:37.284-07:00RITUALS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">RITUALS</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We continued our morning walks after moving to the central Mumbai suburb of Sion. But somehow it was not the same. Instead of the picturesque environs of “Sagar Upvan”, we had to do with the bye lanes of Sion East, which were full of second grade schools and colleges of various hues. The children were always milling around on the roads. One school had their students dressed in whites for the sports day and they were pretending to play various games ranging from cricket to football, on the narrow sidewalk, already crowded with morning walkers, maids, milkmen and the newspaper delivery boys. I thought it was pathetic. The girls studying in the junior college nearby were clad in the cheaper versions of the dresses worn by bollywood starlets in their latest movies. (The maids wore the cheaper replicas of the dresses made popular by the actresses on popular soaps). The boys were always rushing sleepily to their classes while chattering excitedly all along. The stray dogs always thought that they owned the place and fought and shat all over indiscriminately. All things considered, morning walk ceased to be the pleasure of yore and became more of a chore.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then somebody introduced me to the dilapidated apology of a garden on the Sion fort, not far away from our apartment complex. We had to climb 85 stairs to reach the garden. There were another 70 odd stairs if one wanted to reach the top of the keep. Otherwise, people walked on the walkway which went around the castle. It was far from clean and quite slushy in the rains. But slightly better than the roads and devoid of the obnoxious morning traffic dominated by empty cabs, speeding needlessly. The garden had a laughter club, a clapping club, a karate club and the ubiquitous gully cricketers. Some middle-aged women were busy doing grotesque contortions which they must be thinking as exercise. One dapper looking old man played ‘ring’, (a rubber tube in round form, an ancient version of the Frisbee without the excitement, played in the style of badminton), with two ladies. I wonder wherever they still find the ring. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We soon got into the groove and sort of adjusted to the poor man’s jogger’s park. I soon became very good at breath control. Every corner, every secluded spot, which was not occupied by the ubiquitous lovers, reeked of urine. So you either had to hold your breath or exhale while passing these places.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I was diagnosed with vitamin D deficiency and advised to get some sunshine whenever possible, I started climbing to the top of the castle and sat in the sun for a while doing my breathing exercises and believe me I was the most normal human being in that keep of broken walls. I found a good unbroken spot on the parapet wall where I could sit cross legged, do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pranayama</i> and soak in the sun. But to my utter dismay, somebody had spilled some lentils (Daal) there. So it was totally uninhabitable. I had to settle for the second best spot where I had to sit with feet dangling over the parapet wall. Whenever the lentils started to dry, somebody would renew the deposit without fail. I had a good mind to tick off the guy who was doing this to me. Finally I did see him once. He caught my attention because he was being followed by a cackle of crows cawing excitedly. He opened the polythene bag he was carrying and deposited the remnants of his yesterday’s dinner on the same spot. The crows swooped in cawing hungrily. To my horror, the guy kept sitting cross legged among all the noisy crows, looking at them with glazed eyes. Then I knew that this was a hopeless case and if I so much as whimpered in protest against his rape of a perfectly sittable parapet wall, he would kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reason? His eyes were full of religious fervour and his look betrayed that he was making an offering to his ancestors via these crows (in Hindu religion, the offerings to the crows are expected to be directly transferred to the ancestors).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt he must have treated his progenitors real bad to be required to do this every day without fail. I remembered some of the prayers I had memorised in my childhood. One prayer ends like this:” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you recite this once, your greatest sins will be washed away; if you recite this twice, all the riches of the world will be yours and if you recite this thrice, your greatest enemy will be destroyed”</i>. Another prayer ends thus: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“If you recite this prayer in the morning, the sins of the previous evening will be washed away; if you recite it in the evening, the sins committed during the day will be washed away and if you recite it morning and evening, all your sins will be washed away”</i>. These prayers definitely do not advocate that you commit sins so that you get the opportunity to say the prayer and absolve yourself from their after effects. But we tend to interpret these things to our own advantage. Religion does not teach us to sin but we find it convenient to assuage our conscience with prayers and rituals and use this as a licence to do anything during the day. Recite a powerful prayer in the evening and hey presto, you are as pure as morning dew again. The more you sin during the day, the more bizarre the rituals in the evening. I could go on and on, but this is the time when I feed grass to the white cow every evening, so ciao for now. </span></div><div closure_uid_7oa71d="102"></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-79121143341474539782011-05-05T17:44:00.001-07:002011-05-05T21:07:51.940-07:00SNAILS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">SNAILS</span></u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We stayed in the posh southernmost <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>locality of Mumbai called ‘Colaba’ for two years. The view of the sea from my 13<sup>th</sup> floor flat was absolutely breathtaking. We took great pride in telling all visitors that we had Ratan Tata and Mukesh Ambani for neighbours. Although I never saw either of them, I did, however, sometimes get a glimpse of some of Ratan Tata’s 26 dogs when they were being taken by the staff for a drive; and occasionally saw from afar the parties hosted by Mukesh Ambani in his terrace garden. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The best part of the stay was the morning walks we took in the BPT (Bombay Port Trust) garden behind our building. Named “Sagar Upvan”, it was a paradise for walkers/joggers on the seashore. Well maintained walkway, with lots of neatly tagged shady trees, with detours going up and down, it also had two grassy knolls in the middle for yoga enthusiasts. There were some covered areas with benches for taking shelter if it rained and some benches on the seafront where you could sit and enjoy the view if there was no low tide and there were no crappings/crappers nearby. The park was devoid of the ubiquitous obnoxious bunch of noisy urchins who are usually found at such places making a total nuisance of themselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The walkers were a curious bunch. Most of them were nattily clad in the latest sports attire and expensive sneakers. One gentleman had a funny way of swinging his arms as if he was trying to elbow his way through a milling crowd at VT station. One chap greeted everybody coming from the other side with a loud Hari Om! And one lady scurried about like a frightened mouse. There was a group of three desperate housewives who insisted on walking together side by side on the narrow walkway and walked so furiously with elbows flying around and gossiped so loudly that everyone got out of their way when they approached. That was their “power walk”. I found it mildly irritating and soon learned the trick of getting the better of them by looking sideways at a distant object when they approached, which forced them to check the offending elbow from swinging out when I crossed them. Some workaholics kept vigorously yelling away in their hands free cell phone devices all along. There was an occasional young mother with baby and Ayah in tow. There also were the love birds without whom no Mumbai public space is complete. I used to marvel at their devotion. You have to be really in love to get up in the wee hours of the morning, put on your Sunday best, slap on some make up and head for the nearest park for a lover’s tryst. Not to forget the occasional Adonis with a perfectly toned body, armed with the latest ipod, clad in the trendiest running gear and trainers and loping effortlessly through the melee of the morning walkers with a bottle of energy drink in hand, smelling of sweat mixed with expensive perfume.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In rainy season, many trees were in bloom, the grassy knolls became wet, and the sea became much more majestic. Some walkers gave up, other diehard ones persisted. With the help of an umbrella, one could negotiate the stray showers, till Mumbai settled into serious rain. We normally continued our walks, with some other faithfuls, till the walkways became too slippery/ water logged. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The snails and leeches came out in large numbers and were at times found crawling around on the walkway also. The most heart rending sound I ever heard was the loud crunching sound of a careless walker stepping on a snail. I always flinched on hearing it but the careless share broker/businessman went on babbling on his cell phone as if nothing happened. Whenever I saw a snail crawling across the path, I wanted to pick it up and keep it in a safer place, but was too busy/lazy to do it. Then, inevitably, would come the next crunching sound and I would feel terrible again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One day I saw an old gentleman carefully picking up fallen leaves, fruits and flowers from the track. I could easily understand the feeling behind it. He was trying to avoid these beautiful specimens of nature getting crushed on the walkway (which would have made it all squishy and slippery). I felt like kissing this guy who was quietly practising what I was not even thinking. Then I realised, it is not enough to have good, pious and noble thoughts unless/until you decide to do something about it. <span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Grieving for crushed snails does not absolve me from the guilt of tacit complicity in their demise</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-55457752143384420382011-04-16T01:25:00.000-07:002011-04-16T01:25:08.682-07:00TOP<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">TOP</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In my childhood, the rainy season brought many Hindu festivals esp. in the month of Saawan in the Hindu calendar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always enjoyed the outings with the family, many of them on the bicycles, to various places of worship, best of all to the river Narmada for a holy bath. Sometimes the ladies sat in a cycle rickshaw and I had the choice of riding the bicycle with my dad or sitting in the cycle rickshaw with mom and granny. Due to the Spartan seating arrangements on offer on the bike (with possibility of serious damage to one’s posterior), as compared to the soft lap of granny, I normally opted for the three wheeler ride. My dad’s vigorous peddling however posed a serious threat of facing the ignominy of being overtaken by him and my other equally enthusiastic uncles on their bikes. It was a tricky choice which one should not be required to make at such a tender age.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, apart from the swim in the river, I was more interested in the various goodies available at these festive gatherings. My favourite item was a pair of goggles made from coloured cellophane papers fitted into the rings of hard paper with a rubber band for tying it around the head. Obviously, due to the fragility of the material used and the rough treatment it got from me and my cousin Parag, the goggles never came back intact. Then there were cheap plastic mouth organs which were normally vetoed by the senior members of the family, due to the serious threat posed to the noise level of the universe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During one of these outings, I was introduced to the magical world of the ‘top’, a simple wooden item, conical in shape, with an iron nail at the bottom and a rounded head. The colour of the top was a bright red or green which became indistinguishable after weathering some usage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were ribs on the slanting middle of the top where one had to wind a thread, first around the nail and then around the rest of the body. The whole routine was quite complicated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the thread had to be pulled up with a jerk while flinging the top down, to give a spin to the top. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The thread had to be of a special quality. It resembled the wick used in oil lamps, hence, was quite expensive. Dad gamely offered to make a homemade substitute which he expertly made by rolling old rags across his thigh. But somehow it was not the same. I had to challenge him to make the top spin with his homemade thread, to force him to buy me the real thing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Initially, the entire rigmarole appeared too tough to master. I kept staring wistfully at the big boys who could not only spin the top effortlessly but also, make it do many tricks like picking it up while still spinning, on their palms, throwing it up and down etc. Sometimes, if they were in a good mood, they would put the spinning top on my tiny palm. The tickling sensation of a whirling top on the palm and the thrill of holding it made me ecstatic. Later, after hours and hours of frustrating attempts, the top suddenly started responding to my command and actually spun majestically before slowing down and eventually rolling away on its side. When spinning the top became easy, I moved towards more esoteric tricks and the culmination of the entire experience was throwing the top down and flicking the thread expertly before it lands on the ground and voila you have a spinning top on your palm. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Boys played many games with the tops, but once the thrill of making it spin in various expert ways was over, I soon lost interest in it. Then on, it was a forgotten art practised only occasionally to train the younger boys or impress the girls who always swooned when I demonstrated my special tricks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I discovered marbles. But that is another story. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-3134328666555495812011-04-10T08:10:00.000-07:002011-04-10T08:10:14.652-07:00Unkempt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">UNKEMPT</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Unkempt was the word to describe him. He was all of 5 feet tall, was built like a wrestler i. e. muscular, stocky and thick necked; wore dirty, smelly clothes and had a thick mop of unruly hair, resembling an inverted wicker basket matted with grime and dirt. He had a thick moustache which completely covered his upper lip and often carried a giveaway evidence of his last meal. He had a loud, booming voice which was put to good use in the late night shouting matches we occasionally had with the hall next door, Lala Lajpatrai hall (Lallu in IIT Kharagpur parlance, no disrespect to the great man). He could yell the choicest Punjabi curse words with great gusto. He walked with a peculiar shuffle dragging his feet on the ground. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Folklore has it that he was a really wild kid in his childhood. After his day’s romp with the other brats in the village, he used to often return home with so much dust and dirt in his hair that finally his parents decided to chop off his locks and make him mona i.e. a sikh who has decided to sport a shorter hair style. He was named Amrik Singh, as his parents like many others in rural Punjab those days, wanted their son to grow up and go to Amreeka, the Promised Land. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was a man of few words but he could shout “Shanta!” at the top of his voice every time he saw the buxom lass, who was the secret fantasy of all male iitkgpians, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>passing by. (The word stalking had not entered the social parlance in that era and it was considered perfectly all right for hot blooded jocks to shout their appreciation of a girl’s beauty and the girls took it in good spirit). He was, however, a staunch supporter of the hall and always cheered the hall team lustily in whichever activity we participated including chess and bridge tournaments. When I won the chess tournament, in spite of being a foot shorter and at least 10 kgs lighter, he easily lifted me up and shouted “Oye Pande! You did it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His sense of hygiene was wackier than that of Lalit Bhanot (of CWG fame). His room was full of dust and you could clearly see the foot marks made in the dust where he found his way to the bed from the door. There was a permanent pile of dirty shirts lying in one corner. Whenever I went to his room calling him to come to the mess, he would pick up shirts from that pile one by one, sniff them and chose the one that smelled the least. He had put up a poster of Katy Mirza on the roof just above his bed so that he could look at her as soon as he woke up. Despite his outward appearance of being an uncouth yokel, he happened to top his class in aeronautical engineering. When and how he studied remained a mystery to all of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I met him 15 years later in a venture capitalists’ conference at ISB Hyderabad. Had it not been for his trademark shuffle, I could have easily missed him. He had lost some weight and gained some sophistication. He wore a black Armani suit and his hair was short and well groomed. He had got rid of the bush over his upper lip. He reeked of expensive French perfume. He looked the quintessential investment banker. I tapped him on the back; he turned back, politely extended his hand and said Hi! I am Mikey from JJM Capital. I said, “Oye Amreek, don’t you recognise me? I am Pande, your hallmate from VS?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 36.0pt 253.5pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He picked me up easily, although I had become 10 kgs heavier since we met last, and said “Oye Pande, b*&%$#d! How are you?</span></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-76615166171170805132011-04-01T22:25:00.000-07:002011-04-01T22:25:48.886-07:00Virtuous Cycle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span lang="EN"> <div align="center">VIRTUOUS CYCLE</div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify">We go through life with a complex relationship with our parents, which is always evolving and changing, comprising different shades varying from wide eyed adulation to resigned acceptance to embarrassed dismay.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">When we enter the world, we are totally dependent on them for feeding us, changing our nappies, putting us to sleep and for making our existence as comfortable as it can be, while lying helplessly on our backs in control of neither ourselves nor our environment. Whenever we get hungry/wet/crappy we holler for help and keep howling till we get it. Most of us get over this simple symbiotic relationship as we grow older. But some of us get stuck in this habit of <i>shouting mummy/daddy </i>whenever in trouble, may it be career planning, relationship snarls, marital discord or parental responsibilities. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">The next phase is <i>“My daddy the strongest man / My mommy the most beautiful woman (the best cook) on the planet“</i>. This phase lasts till the teen years (maybe only tween years now) when it becomes “<i>My dad the most rigid and stuck up miser / My mom the stupidest dinosaur with no inkling of the current fashion trends“</i>. They embarrass us. Again, some people go through their entire lives thinking their dad the smartest / mom the best cook syndrome whereas some others continue to think that their dad is too stuck up and mum is too uncouth. The vilest vituperation of the genx <b>‘uncool’ </b>is permanently branded on their nonexistent facebook profiles.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">When travails of parenthood assail us in the early middle age, we suddenly wake up with a jolt and it dawns on us that mom and dad couldn’t have been so bad after all if they successfully coped with our teething phase, dysentery, measles, several bouts of flu, numerous exams, tests, quizzes, interviews, school projects, stalkers and horror of horrors “pimples“. They also managed to play Frisbee/cricket with us occasionally, take us on picnics/camping, prepare us for the fancy dress parade/school play and ferry us to painting classes. And here I am stuck with this tyke who starts howling the moment I want to sleep and doesn’t shut up even when I am being so calm and reasonable. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">This renewed respect and appreciation for the progenitors sometimes remains till they depart for their heavenly abode. But it can also evaporate quickly when as doting grandparents they start spoiling the children rotten. -“Dad! Put him down. Or he will expect to be picked up every time he cries.” “Ma! no chocolates, I told you.” “Mom! don’t interrupt when I am scolding her.”</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Finally, when the parents grow real old and feeble; and become clumsy, sloppy, forgetful, garrulous and repetitive, we tend to get impatient and dismissive. -“Mom! You already told him that joke 17 times.” ‘Dad! don’t spill your soup again.”</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">To our utter and complete bewilderment, while our own parents are slipping into senility and being generally a pain in the neck, we are already graduating from “My daddy strongest” to the “My daddy dumbest” stage. “What me uncool??” “ Hello! You must be mad.” What does this chit of a girl think of herself? Doesn’t she know I was <b>the</b> <i>princess of the year </i>in Saint Joans Convent, Ludhiana? And the boys used to make a beeline at the gate to have a glimpse of me? Wake up princess. Smell the roses. This is life.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><b>And the cycle goes on.</b> </div><div align="justify"></div></span></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-84832183041891643372011-03-25T22:29:00.000-07:002011-03-25T22:29:53.017-07:00My Name is Paan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This was written some time ago, but may still make interesting reading. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Name Is Paan (MNIP)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The two idiots Farukh Khan(FK) and Taran Joker (TJ) are watching the preview of their forthcoming release MNIP. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shit! It’s a lemon. It’s a dud. It’s a big effing flop.” Taran is fuming. “Who told you and that girl Pagol to ham so much? “</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But you always ask us to ham<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on your TV show –Toffee with Taran(TWIT). So now we have forgotten how to act naturally. “ FK. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You forgot it long ago, after you made ‘Kabhi Ga Kabhi Na.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ok ok.” Farukh says... “no point in finger pointing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do we avert the disaster? This time the distributors will surely kill me. I barely escaped their suparis after the near fiasco of ‘Pub me banadi Phodi’”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taran laughed. “I knew this was going to be a difficult movie to sell. I have already talked with our friend Udao Thokle who has agreed to boycott the movie and create a big controversy provided you open your <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>trap wide enough to put your foot into it”. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">FK – “ That’s easy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But how do we release our movie if Udao boycotts it”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taran – “I have thought of that. Our young CM Alok Wahan has promised to take stern action if Udao calls for a boycott. He will stop Udao from stopping our release”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">FK – “ But Alok has never acted in his life. How will he act decisively this time”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taran- “Don’t worry i have thought of that too. I have asked prince Rajul Thandi to light a fire under Alok’s chair so that he jumps up and does the needful. Rajul will also tell him that Narayan Kane and Gilasrao are waiting for Alok to make only one wrong move so that they can stake their claims for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the hot seat.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“my god, Taran, you are really a genius. How come it never shows in your movies”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shut up. Does your stupidity show in your movies”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“OK OK Taran. But how do we still sell the goddamn movie? What about the critics”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh. That part is simple. The Trade Pundit is already enjoying a five star holiday in the Bahamas after filing his five star review of MNIP. The other reviewers will give us at least three stars out of politeness which is enough for a good opening”. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You seem to have sewn up the Indian market but what about the overseas markets”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taran – “The usual tamasha yaar. You and Pagol brush up your chemistry and go on a world tour. Remember to use only three sentences. My name is Paan, I am an Indian and I want to meet the US president. The Europeans will think you are Amir or Sallu and throng the multiplexes, the NRIs will think this is about India and flock to the DVD parlours and the Americans will be curious to see the idiot who wants to meet the president whom no American wants to meet any more”. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">FK – “that’s gr8 Taran. But tell me wont the moviegoers realise that this movie is a half star pile of dung”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They will. Of course. But by then, we would have smashed all the BO records of ‘3idiots’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then if somebody cribs we shall claim that the people have not really understood our movie properly like our<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>last lemon ‘Kabhi Phaluda Na Kehna’. Also, I have already purchased two awards for you. You only have to not only dance at the functions but also host the whole shows and keep the public amused”. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">FK – “that’s easy . i will keep hinting at our real relationship, mock Shahid, Salman and Saif and shovel dirt on the Bachpan family who will thank me secretly for the free publicity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ok. Now that everything is tied up, call that buffoon Phoney Lever. Tell him to bring some fresh jokes. He can accompany us to the swiss bank. I want to laugh all the way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544722956413723926.post-43961410152605584122011-03-25T21:53:00.001-07:002011-03-25T21:53:43.610-07:00'WIND BENEATH MY WINGS’<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">'WIND BENEATH MY WINGS’</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since my child hood I have been having this vivid recurring dream of flying. I am running away from some hoodlums who are for some unknown reason after my life. They are slowly gaining on me. I try to run faster but can’t gather speed. I am becoming more and more desperate by the second and the desperados are catching up with me. I frantically jump up and down. And suddenly as I jump up and flap my hands, I take off like the Harrier. Even then, the pursuers are running with me on the ground. I gain altitude slowly and then I am also able to navigate around more easily. I fly over treetops and power cables and go over tall mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, as suddenly, I start losing height.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look down and see my tormentors still running. I keep kicking down with both my legs and pressing down the surrounding air with both my hands. Sometimes I am able to lift off again, sometimes I can’t. When I descend to the ground in utter panic, I see the goons rushing towards me and to my horror I realise that what to talk of flying, now I can’t even run. I am frozen in fright like a rabbit in front of bright headlights. I try to cry out for help, but no sound comes from my mouth. With considerable effort, I am able to shout in a very small, choked squeak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the time when I normally wake up, often drenched in cold sweat, sometimes weeping in a noiseless shout. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have been having different variations of this dream over the years. On some occasions there is a girl with me whom I have to carry when I fly; normally I am all alone in my fancies of flights. At a few times, there is a body of water underneath when I am flying, or there is a snow capped mountain. While flying, I occasionally rest on the treetops. There are times when I am soaring high effortlessly like Icarus easily steering clear of the trees and the power cables. At times I find it difficult to extricate myself from the maze of power cables surrounding me. Normally there are no other animals on the ground. However, the trees are often full of different birds making their own cacophony/music. The owls and bats resent my intrusions very much and express their displeasure by screeching and squeaking and shrieking shrilly. But sparrows go about their singing without missing a flap. Often, the dream is so vivid and the experience of flying so exhilarating that I feel convinced even after becoming half awake, that I can really fly. There are days, rather nights, when I know that it’s a dream. But I am so ecstatic flying about effortlessly that I don’t want to wake up and miss the experience. Over the last few years, the frequency of the dreams has waned considerably.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now that I am approaching my twilight years, I find it funny that I had such puerile dreams for so long. But I am also in a way sad that I am past the age of dreaming. I have become very melancholic and nostalgic. This is the time when the realisation has finally dawned that I may have really lost my wings. I can’t even dream of flying any more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did someone say that you become dead the day you stop dreaming? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have, however, not yet given up hope completely. I still go to bed with the fervent desire that the mobsters will come chasing me again and out of shear desperation, I shall be able to lift off, to save the fair maiden clinging to my side.</span></div></div>Meanderthotshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08500728562330777775noreply@blogger.com1