Work is Mischief

Abbreviated thoughts.

2011-03-28T15:36:00.002+05:30

A lot has been said and probably a lot will be said about the social networking sites. Here are my two bits too.

1. A limit of 140 characters. Some one came and thought, hey people are very verbose. Why not cut down on these words and get to the essence of communication. And if they cant do it in 14o characters, they dont deserve to be heard. So now we have character limits on status. Ergo, status messages like, Morning peoooopleeee!! Aw hot coffee burns..! Just out of shower. Water is sure wet!

2. No limits on friend requests: I am guilty. Its kinda hard for me to refuse a friend request. Am planning to now though. Earlier, I thought it was kind of cool to have a gazillion friends on FB, Orkut (Does any one still go there) etc. Now, I have a friend list of about three million and I dont even know one percent of them. So the shears have to come. Now.

Kitten Kitten in a box!

2008-06-10T22:53:00.003+05:30

A kitten in a box.

Mewling pathetically to one most certain to ignore it, there lay a kitten in a box. It was not a big box, it was not a natural box, it was a box of red iron. It had a fire hose curled around the central wheel like a rubber python. But in these strange environs, there it was, mewling away, trying to find some warmth in this cold cold world. Drenched in milk left on a saucer by some good hearted samaritan, foolish enough to believe a day old kitten could lap milk in a saucer.

Well, it couldn't. So there it was swimming in this saucer of milk. It had already been there a night. I ignored it thinking it's mother must have gone to hunt or something. By the next day, it's mewling had risen to such levels that it was hard to ignore. Looking in, I saw this pathetic creature, half drowned in this huge saucer that seemed to contain some rancid milk.

The moment I put out my finger in trying to scratch it, it mewled piteously and struggled towards my finger. Probably the only warm living thing to touch it since it was born. So, how could I resist? Unlocked the door, took it in my palm and carried it home. Straight to the bathroom. With warm water and some anti-septic, I cleaned it up. Took an old sock of my brother and dried it up. It stopped shivering then. Out came a carton full of old rags and paper and voila there it was, a kitten in a box. A proper box. A box to keep it warm and cosy.

How to feed it though? For all the wisdom of my years on this earth, I never had to feed a very young kitten yet. What to feed, how to feed, these questions raced in my fertile mind. Going over every nature-documentary, I had ever watched on National Geography and Discovery, my memory banks rolled. I harked back to those insomniac nights spent trying to find succor in the raising of leopards by tough looking women in shorts. Finally an idea came back. Syringe and milk. An advantage of living in a doctor's house is that these kind of kitten raising paraphernalia are easy at hand. Off I rushed to raid my dads dispensary and came back with a small syringe and a glass of warm milk and water to thin it down a little.

Little by little I syringed some milk down it's throat, till it started sneezing milk out. Pretty soon it was coughing and I could see drops of milk exploding off it's nostrils. Mortally afraid of aspirating the poor kitten, I cursed the tough young ladies with leopards. Then I did what I should have done earlier. Called a vet. Pat came a suggestion. A cotton wick dipped in milk.

All this while, my dear sweet mother tried nursing this kitten. She would take it in her lap and coo to it as if it was human and try feeding it with a small plastic spoon. Play scolding it for not drinking enough to grow up to be a large lion. (What's it with moms and them trying to make all small kids big and strong? While they try their best to remain slim and trim? Never could figure this out)

Pretty soon the cotton wick was applied and we could get some nourishment in the poor soul. But, alarmingly the volume of it's mews had come down and it no longer showed much enthusiasm towards the finger. By late afternoon, we were down to force feeding the poor thing. Grasping it's scrawny head between my fingers and pouring the milk down it's throat using cotton, syringe and spoons. Whatever worked. Then rubbing it's belly to make it pee (thanks Wikipedia!!).

Night fell and the hour of all decent men's sleep came about. Having received strict instructions to keep feeding it every couple of hours, I took the box and kept it beside my bed. Looking around for an incubator, could not find one. So, lay it on my belly while I lay reading a book. Pretty soon, I find this small chit asleep peacefully on the rising and falling mountain of human flesh. Tried lifting it out and it awoke instantly mewling furiously. So, I took it in my palm (it was so heartbreakingly tiny) and let it sleep in warmth.

Next day was work day. So off to the office with strict instructions to Ma regards to taking care of the kitty. Worked hard and worked long and returned quick. Saw a worried look on mom's face and thought the worst. She said, its not making any noise at all. Hurried to the box and poked its belly, still warm I thought and there it was struggling to mewl and crawl back into the palm.

Another night of feeding and warming, it was day soon. By now I had gotten used to the musty smell of this lil kid. The small weight in my palm, ensconced comfortably and sleeping. So, trusting the care to my Ma again, I left for work.

A hard day full of meetings and fire fighting at work. I came back home and Mom was distressingly hopping from one foot to another. Naturally, asked her whats up? Looking guilty and sad at the same time, she said, I have let it go. With a sinking feeling, I said let it go?

Apparently all her friends and family told her that the kitten will die if not re-united with her mother. Feeding it every half an hour is not possible and esp. with just milk. So, when one of the cleaners of the building told her that they saw a cat near the terrace, she got the neighbor's son to drop the box off there. I went up and had a look. It was not there anymore.

So, without a fare well.. with out a good bye..
My kitten, gone in the blink of an eye.
May it be alive and happy as a cat can be.
On cold and rainy nights, remember me.

Adios little one. May you live long and feed well.

Langkawi Langkawi!!

2008-03-13T22:11:00.002+05:30

I went, I saw and I floated.

It was a beautiful place. Pretty sunrises and beautiful sunsets. A place just like Goa, but without the crowds or the drugs. And murders too. Langkawi Island or Pulao as they like to call them, is about an hour's flight away from Kuala Lumpur and man is it beautiful.

It is a small little cluster of islands, with no buildings higher than three stories in the main island. I went there for training and was there for a week. My week started on a Sunday and I was free for the whole day. With no training or most importantly Jet lag after just five hours flying time, I immediately started exploring the hotel. The hotel was a resort on a beach front. White sandy beaches and blue waters full of miniature hermit crabs floating in them. Just sat down and took it all in. Collected all the small crabs and built a small cancerian army to command and conquer. With only about 15 neural ganglion between them, was kinda hard to get them to come out of their shells and parade in any semblance of a war like formation, but it was not due to lack of initiative or invective. (somehow Hindi abuses don't seem to work as well on Malay crabs, but what the bloody hell, right?)

Rushed back to the hotel room and got in my swimming costume, this really weird floral red shorts I had picked up in a nearby market for about 10rm or around 150 Indian. With me and just my non swimming colleague in the whole beach, it was kinda fun lording over all the Malay life forms littering around under our feet.

The water. It's something else swimming in the calm bay of langkawi's andaman sea. With barely any tide or waves, its almost as still as a saline swimming pool. Waded in deep and started swimming away. Had been a long time since I swam and pretty soon was out of breath. After 15 minutes of splashing in the sea water, I gave up playing shark and pretty much was back to the more natural Vibhu position; prone on my back. It's amazing how something so light can support a 90k frame so easily. Watching the sun set between the V of your feet lying back on the sea's surface is something I am not going to forget anytime soon. By now my friend was bored watching me frolick like a sea nymph and wanted to get about exploring the market places.

So off to the showers and a quick change, we caught a cab back to the main town. The town market has a lot of small shack like shops selling Langkawi T-shirts and other apparel also exorbitantly priced souveniers. Like true blue Indians, immediately we started bargaining, half this price, reduce it further and all that jazz. There is something really different in conduction complex negotiations in english, it's just not a language conducive to big reductions. But, we managed. By the end of our extended shopping spread over a week, we managed to make two pretty malay girls bow down and exclaim " You are indeed Lucky. This we sell for thirty ringie and you have gotten it for twenty" This was after a long protracted negotiation involving lots of vigorous head shakes for no and displaying of the wallet contents to convince them about the poverty of Indians traveling abroad on business. We even went to the extent of telling them, if you reduce the price, we will take photos of the shop and ask all our friends in India to buy from them when they come to their beautiful paradise island.

What else was there except for beaches and pretty Malay shop women? Well, there was this water world theme park with some amazing marine and terrestrial life forms. Again when we went there, we pretty much had the whole place to ourselves. So, we snapped photos of all the seals frolicking and the penguins giving the cold shoulder to each other. All the fresh water sharks and piranha cousins. Jelly fishes, sea anemones and puffer fish. It was real interesting if a trifle expensive. Then again there was the langkawi cable car, the one main attraction of the island. It goes right to the top of the one huge mountain around 710m high. The platforms there command an amazing view of the islands, with sea on one side and all the beaches on the other. The whole mountain is pretty much preserved with lush green forests. A suspension bridge connecting one platform to the other is also a pretty good sight. At the bottom of the cable car towers is a small petting zoo. Where wild hare and fowl run amok in a small enclosure. Every time you go near the fence, they would gambol up to you; expectantly looking at finding some small tit bit or other. We just scratched behind their ears and disappointed the little buggers with our empty palms.

Pretty soon, my week was up. With a heavy heart and a considerably lighter wallet, I returned back to my city of love, Mumbai. A short flight and here I was. All the smoke and all the smells, the rickety taxis and the long queues to get in them. It's all worthwhile though to hear that voice again.

My first Ton.

2007-12-29T23:47:00.000+05:30

I learnt to ride by accident. No, I did not find myself astride a bike after a night of drunken revelry or anything, my brother had a small sporting accident. Languishing in his bedroom, his dear ride was languishing in the garage. Making rueful headlights at my car which was (and still is) my pride and beauty. How it would almost misfire on hearing me start my car and ride away.

Finally, one day, my brother singularly attuned to his mechanical side, asked me to get on his bike and start it. He was a little worried about the neglect of a month on the bike's battery. With a bigger brother's stern instructions to just start the bike and idle it for a while, how could I not take it out for a spin.

I had learnt to ride when I was a small kid on my uncle's KB100. But that was about a decade ago, when I was just 15. But, as they say, it is not something that you easily forget. Pretty soon I got the hang of it and was pottering about inside my building compound and parking lot at a top speed on ten km/hr. The main issue I had was that, my brother's bike was a P180, 5 speed with one up and four down gear shift. A huge difference from a KB100 all down format if you ask me. So for now, I had to make do with two gears only, first and neutral. Neat. Parked the bike and looked at the engine closely. Hero Hondas have their gear shifts mounted on the tank where it is usually visible. Bajaj, on the other hand believe that a label should be over the implement. So, the pattern is over the gear shift at the bottom of the bike. Success. Proud of my sherlockian actions, the next day I took it out to try the other four gears too!

Kicked the engine over, engaged first and.. dumped the clutch. Hmm.. interesting results I must say. I never knew that the sky could look so different when viewed over two round pods housing the speedo and tacho.. esp. when the tacho was doing numbers like 9k and redlined. Grabbing the brakes was not really helping me, till I grabbed the clutch again. Immediately the tacho came down and so did the front wheel. Waited to get my breath back and looked up to find my mom mouthing a silent scream from the seventh floor balcony. I had done 10 m on just one wheel and that too without a helmet. Not something that endears you to moms who just have had one son down and out with a broken leg. Ma ki mamta does have definite limits apparently. Sheepishly, I killed the engine and wheeled the bike to the garage. Straight to the temple and praying for success at this endeavor, I decided then and there a couple of things. Never to underestimate your ride and never to ride without protective gear.

Day Three. A visit to the local training school. Got my learners license. Got home, took my brothers helmet. Took the bike out and slowly started it. With the magical piece of paper in my back pocket, my skills seemed to have improved. I finally discovered the realm of second and third gears.

Cut to next week, I was getting pretty good on this thing and was pretty decent at low speeds, so time to take the show on the road. One of the great things about my locality is that it has one great incline that is a dead end. After 10 p.m. traffic is almost non-existent. But, I was patient. I waited till all of 11.30 and then took it out. Like a nice little boy, looked left and right and then away I went. First, second, third, fourth and then... fifth!! I was in motorbiking nirvana. Then suddenly a stationary cab (they usually park here for the night) turned in on the road and I was out of tarmac too fast for my comfort. Hit both the brakes and got ready to fall. Dint happen though. The bike stopped in time and pretty much easily. Thank god for discs.

As you can now imagine, I was pretty much hooked on two wheels. Got around all the time, every where on it. My mom was also pretty happy with the state of affairs, because her grocery hating second son, now would always offer to shop for her.

Got my license endorsed for two wheelers. To celebrate, went to the bike shop and bought the best helmet I could see for myself. A full face AGV. Plain visor and lots of reflective tape at strategic places to help blind and drunk drivers identify bike rider at night. Slowly I was discovering the nuances of the bike. It's clunky gear shift, the weight of the clutch and the service part of it.

A puncture and three services later, the bike was in as good a condition as I could get it on my limited budget. A new rear tyre, a new battery (the old one just could not take the month of neglect and died. To be fair, it was more than three years old as it is.) and boy did it go.

It accelerates real good and touches 80km/hr (my normal riding speed now) pretty much on time. Actually, the bike feels so good nowadays, that I get by with the clutchless gear changes almost all the time.

Soon, I felt that the day had come to crack the cherry. Had been riding for half a year and still hadn't cracked the ton on my speedo yet. One fine sunday morning, got up at six and took it out. It was a brilliant day. Cool and breezy with the sun just rising. Took it to the western express highway and let it rip. Man what a symphony! While I do agree that Pulsars are not the best sounding bikes around, any engine revving its way to the redline sounds absolutely great. Especially if you are hanging on to the handle bars with an insane grin on your face.

Went right through the gears without the clutch, finding the sweet spot to upshift all the time. It was one of the few rides you get in your life time, where everything goes just right. Each time I would shift up, the bike would respond with a gentle surge and add another 30k to the speedo. By, the time I could think of looking at the speedo, the needle was struggling against the 110km/hr mark. Immediately let the throttle go and cruised down to a more normal 60. Man, was it bliss. I had started out from nepeansea road and was almost upto the domestic airport before I knew it.

Now am hooked. I use the bike to commute to work. Riding at a sedate speed of thirty most of the times. I am very careful of the gear shifts. Depressing the clutch fully before each shift. I watch my mileages too. Not revving the bike over much and keeping it in its power band with each shift. But, come night, when the city sleeps. I take to the road. Marine drive at night is a drive which should not be missed. Even at Sixty, with the cross winds and the bumps it's an interesting ride, but at ninety or so, it absolutely rocks.

It's been a great journey so far. I am currently looking at making my bike better and myself a safer rider. I am also looking for a second bike, a Jawa / Yezdi road king for a friend. So if any of you have any rides out there, please do let me know.

I loathe this world!

2007-11-05T19:31:00.000+05:30

You got to give it to the all mighty creator. When he has it in for you, he really does not let go. No one carries a vendetta as well as him. Cities, states, countries even do not really matter. Just goes to show how all pervasive he really is.

While, I do not mind his all pervasiveness or his crossing city boundaries, his personal attention to my character building really needs a lot to desire. Here is what is happening in my world.

Kolhapur, a wonderful city, with old Maratha architecture and great hotels; at least from the outside. I am staying at this great old palace, called the Shalini Palace. A chateau indage hotel, it is a Shahu Maharaj’s palace converted. Huge rooms, huger balconies and seemingly all empty. I checked in and did not see a single guest occupying the hotel. The front desk told me that they have about 40% occupancy. In the early morning dawn, walked out in to the balcony and had a nice cup of insta-coffee. Life, seemed to have forgiven me. I was thinking, OK, time now for me to move on. Concentrate on business at hand.

I had come with a lot of hopes for this conference. Oh, sorry, did I forget to mention that I was here on business and not recuperating from my sad little biking incident? Well now you know. I am carrying about three hundred sets of brochures and CDs and what nots. I go real early to the hall, set up my stall. And guess how many people visit? A dozen. I collect about three cards and hand out 12 brochures.

At the end of this stifling day, interspersed with bad lunches and worse ice – cream (they murdered even plain vanilla ice cream), I pack my bags up. Easily about 50 kilos on each arm, I head out to the Auto Stand. What do I see? Nothing. Well, with 100 kilos hanging on your arms, nothing is not a welcome sight. I let them down and wait. Finally, conveyance. Bring it down to the hotel and have some sad dinner. My wrists all swollen. I had forgotten that common sense tells you not to overload tendons after eighty kilos have landed on them rather hard. Well, now I seem to have done it. Definitely need to get it X rayed back home.

Today. Going by the past trend, I carry only a small amount of brochures. Reach early again and sadly it’s the same story. Not too many ENTs interested in Cochlear Implants in Maharashtra it seems. Almost all of them come to the stall just to inquire about the cost and then leave. Do not even bother to read the latest literature on them. Seemingly even doctors believe that money comes before a life full of sound. Hmm, interesting.

A day spent vacuously staring at the stall opposite; chit chatting with the med-reps next stall. There is nothing remotely interesting on display. Even the competition seems to have given this conference a miss. Bad lunch, but surprisingly decent dessert this time round, Ras-Malai. A few calls and then it’s time to pack-up. Wanted to go to the courier company and send all the brochures back. Would have been mighty difficult to carry all of that back with my broken arm. Guess what happens? I lose my wallet at the conference. I do not notice till I get to the hotel. Rush back and it’s not there. I call in advance to ask a couple of acquaintances to look for it and keep it safe in case it’s there. It is not. What could I expect? It was not the cash that mattered, neither the train ticket back. It was all my plastic. These little one inch by two inches rectangular pieces of my financial liquidity were all in there. I do not have a single pai now. Thankfully, the hotel I paid in advance. All my ID was in there. I come back to the hotel, hoping against hope that I must have packed it in my bag, even though I clearly remember not doing anything of this sort. It’s not there.

With a heavy heart, I get to the reception and ask him to get me the number of the nearest Police station so I can get a letter to cancel all my cards and get my DL back.

Here is the conversation I have.

Voice of police: “Hello, Havaldar Jadhav speaking, rajawadi police station”

Me: “Hello, I am Vidyabhushan, I have lost my wallet at the Mentcon 07 at DY Patil hospital at Kadamwadi. Can I come down and get a letter to get my cards cancelled?”

VoP: “Speak to sir please”

Sir: “ Yes, what is it?”

Me: “Have lost my wallet, can you help me?”

Sir: “Where? At Kadamwadi? Please report to Sahapuri Police Station”

Me: “But, I don’t have any money, how do I get there?”

Sir: “Call them and ask!!!”

Me: “Sir, but please, apply some common sense, I am a stranger here, no cash and you expect me to go to a police station 5Km away? Sir, how?”

Sir: Bzz Bzz (that was not him, it was just that he hung up on me.

Went back to the reception. Asked him if there was a bar in the hotel. Yes there was. Went and had a stiff one. Feeling a little more in control, went to the reception told them the case and asked them for a loan of 500 rupees to get to the station and back.

Made it to the Shahapuri Police station. What I went through there, is not really publishable. Want to put it all behind me. The constabulary wanted me to go to a magistrate and get an affidavit before they would even enter this on their books, like the magistrate is God who will turn all statements true. I still do not understand how me making a statement in front of a magistrate would change anything? As if I would lie to the police, the guardians of the law and order and not to the magistrate, who to me is just a bureaucrat. By this time Mom had called all her connections in the higher ups of police and they were trying to call me on the phone. I spoke to the senior person there and he was understanding and got the constable to record my report and give me the letter.

I thanked uncle who was calling me and got back to the grumbling constable who took down my application in Marathi. Not one of my best written languages. I somehow got it done and got the letter, and then the ass has the gall to ask me for Baksheesh. I imploded. What part of “I HAVE LOST MY WALLET, MY CASH AND ALL CARDS?” do you ass not understand? I just stood and stared. He stared back, I sat down and started calling the uncle, I was noting down his badge name and asking him his number. I told him very casually, “Bloody fool, till now I’ve been decent. Now lets have it out, you and me.” Against the ACB. By then the senior came out and told me. “Sir, Let it be. I got it done na, please let it go.” He had heard uncle calling on the phone, so knew who I was speaking about.

So, I calmed down, in a very controlled voice, told him in chaste hindi (somehow I speak kind of chaste hindi when I am really stressed) “I have lost all that I carry. You still ask me for a bribe, what kind of a buffoon are you? Then I stormed out.

Back at the hotel. Tapping away at the laptop. Need another stiff one and then I’ll turn in. Dad has arranged for his friend to give me money to get back. Been to the railway station and gotten my ticketing done too. Got a few customers here who can help me out in case I need anything. But right now I only need God to forget about me for a while.

Dear lord forgive me for past sins and any rash words.
With you, never wanted to cross swords!
You are the best and will always be,
Now can you just let me be?

Vibhu.

I hate this world.

2007-10-30T23:31:00.001+05:30

Not that the world has too many lovable qualities, still, till date it was never this hateful. With my usually amiable disposition such extreme statements are not usually my style, but I am beginning to get the hang of it.

Woke up early, real early, around Sixish. That’s earlier than the sun shows his face to me. One of my standing principles has always been, never to wait for someone who will not be there. Usually saves me a lot of aggravation. I broke it. Always a first time, right?

With just a cuppa coffee rode out into a beautiful morning. October mornings in Mumbai are to die for. Especially, if you are riding the marine drive. With typical Indian timing, late as usual, the sun rose and smiled at me, a little wickedly I thought. Oh Mumbai, what poetry. Dawn on the waves, beautiful people with dogs walking the promenade. It was great. Then a corolla decided that it did not want to share space with a puny little bike anymore and coolly moved in to my lane. Wonderful. Eighty to twenty in three seconds. Heart pounding and finger pointing, I rode on.

Pretty soon I got to the place where I was headed. Turned out to be a place where I should not have headed. Got new directions and, stonewalled again. Finally made it to a place where someone was willing to help. God bless early rising Mumbaikars. Then, he turned a sad face towards me and gave me news, the bad kind.

Called a very hopeful person up and told him, that no go. He sighed and said all right. I then drove to the airport to collect a phone. A decrepit phone that has been with my company since the dawn of our office and plans to continue in that manner till it enters the record books or something. On this beautiful morning the traffic was so light, I made it quicker than my colleague who was coming down on the suburban local five stops away.

Then we turned back officewards. An empty stomach and three hours of riding was getting to me. So was the early Mumbai traffic. It was like the whole world wanted to use the western express highway to get to work. I then added the crowd in the suburban trains and was awed for a moment. There are actually so many hardy souls in Mumbai, who do brave inhuman conditions and travel to work daily to earn their livelihood. Had read about them in the morningers; but, first time in 25 years did I come bumper to bumper with them. Parked at the side, bowed my helmeted head in respect and then let rip.

In true Mumbaikar – Biker fashion, I zigged and zagged. Twisted and turned, bleeped my horn and cleared the log jam. It was just like dodging the meteor belt at the Star Wars sequels – prequels or whatever Lucas named them. And was I accelerating. A ton on the speedo, made it to the office in half an hour. Dropped my colleague off and thought now I’ll take a break. Head home have a nice breakfast, chill a little. Was not feeling too good, so thought I’ll work from home this morning.

Trundled out from the office lot. Thinking no hurries now, as I was traveling in the opposite direction. My wrist and back needed a break. Mumbai roads are not really made for long distance riding on two wheelers. Actually the only reason these roads are made, I think, is so that the ruling politico’s uncle can make about a million times what I make in a year and then get a percentage of the insane amounts these company service centers charge for setting the bike right after three months of riding.

On the home stretch now, the final kilometer before home. Slowing down for a signal when this huge grey Santro (all right a small grey Santro) decided to swerve on the road and see what happens to the small helmeted guy trundling homewards.

Well bikers and the road have a love – hate relationship. The road carries us along to our destination and saves us from wasting time on the trains. But, when it really comes to the nub, it really is not a very welcoming surface. I found gravity and momentum really are two forces that should be experienced only when you are upright and not horizontal and close to the surface. I rolled from the bike in an elegant two point somersault and found to my surprise that leather is really fragile material; especially while it’s still on your bones. Three abrasions and a bruise was what I got for an experiment in the functions of a steering wheel by a seemingly 16 year old female driver. Not to mention that a grand’s worth of cloth covering my lower limbs were letting atmosphere in where atmosphere had no business going. I sat up and observed my self. A small crowd had already gathered muttering, “Whose fault was it? Do you know whose fault was it? Is he bleeding? No, wow amazing. Such a long skid and no blood?”

I got up, gave her a silent stare and then took pity on her trembling lip and watering eyes. Someone handed me the decrepit phone back and I put in the bag. Stood up and stretched. Checked the bike for any damage; of which there were none and kicked it alive. It started at first kick and then came home. Reached home and found that while that helpful some one had handed me the old phone, my beautiful smart phone was missing. Someone picked up when I called and had the nerve to tell me to stop calling as he was already removing the SIM card off it. Thanks a lot for the same and all that.

Took my car to the police station and pleaded with the khaki protectors of the guilt-free and innocent to get me a certificate of loss. The constabulary of the city is so helpful that they usually point out the nearest police station except their own. As if they were a telephone exchange. “Sorry boss the lane in front of Stephen’s church belongs to the Gamdevi Police exchange. All crimes originating there should be reported to them. You see, we got an agreement with the Gamdevi Gangs, they do not operate here and so we do not harass them. You understand na?” But, I did not understand and demanded to see the senior guys and they grudgingly gave me the certificate.

Came back home and went to the doc to get meself fixed up. They got this nice little liquid they put on abrasions called tincture benzene or something. It smells evil and man does it sting. They dab little wisps of cotton soaked with this devil’s brew and seal the broken skin with it. Being stoic and manly and all that, I waited till I got in the car to hold my hands and whimper.

A couple of whimpers later, I took the painkiller the doc so thoughtfully provided and tried to sleep. Each time I would enter the REM phase, the decrepit phone would ring with some shweta trying to sell me a HSBC credit card. She somehow has gotten fixated on this number and still calls up and hears my voice and says “Oh! Sorry sir!” and hangs up.

So here I am. Poorer by a phone, a couple of sq. centimeters of leather and without sleep. The tincture benzene seal still hurts and my ankles swollen. I still hate this world.

Dentist and the Tooth

2007-07-31T11:39:00.000+05:30

My dentist is a nice guy. In fact he’s a great guy. But, don’t blame me for not liking him too much. Each time I go to him, I loose either a tooth or about a grand. Needless to say, I like both of them too much to make this guy with the white apron, green mask and shiny little bits that go whir inside the mouth my favorite guy of the month.

This visit was not too bad. He had a whole array of pain alleviating stuff lined up in the shiny tray he had in front of me. Made me recline on this nice comfortable chair and then turned on the light. A dab of this ointment and then a jab of that needle and pretty soon half my mouth and the lower jaw was numb. Thoughtfully his assistant handed me a tissue to wipe my drool away.

Then came the dreaded moment, the great reveal. With great foresight and about Rs. 350, this guy wonder had taken an X-Ray of the wisdom tooth. He held it against the fluorescent screen and tut – tutted. Believe me, it’s not a good sign to have your dentist tut – tut when you are reclining on his chair with half your jaw numbed.

“It’s curved” he says. “There is a bone also that prevents me from taking this out. You should have come in sooner.” I nod my head dumbly; loquacity is not really a viable option with a nice jab of lindocaine in your jaw.

Moving to his little chair next to my jaw, with a nice shiny medieval looking thing in his be-gloved hand, he said now relax. Yeah right. Took a couple of deep breaths and let go. By this time, his assistant had moved into position and had a nice grip of my face. What with the good doctor prying away with the pincer thingie and the assistant twisting my face sideways, the tooth came out easy. He plonked that in the tray and then put a swab in my mouth.

Don’t speak, don’t spit and don’t gargle. Remember these three don’ts.Just a liquid diet and cold ones today. Come back after a week for a follow-up. Do you think India will win today? That will be Rs. 1200 please. Wait outside for fifteen minutes and then come back in.

Waited for fifteen minutes. He was really good, all this had taken barely fifteen minutes of his time and already the numbness had begun to recede. I went back in after watching India’s bowlers bowl dispiritedly at England. Our chances of winning were slowly dwindling away.

He asked me if I wanted to look at the wicked curved wisdom teeth of mine. I said yes, definitely. I wanted to know if I had to cremate them or bury them under a peepal tree. I really did not want to come back from the afterlife just for a tooth. He had it rinsed and put in a small plastic sealie for me.

I have them now. The curved pieces of oral agony. They lie on my desk, waiting to be gilded. So, they can also take part in the final journey of the flames with me. Somehow, Mom doesn't look too happy about them though.

Rains.Monsoon

2007-06-24T15:21:00.000+05:30

Well it finally rained. The monsoon rains, not the middling pre-monsoon showers in which you can almost dodge between the shafts of rain falling from the sky.

It was Mumbai rain at it's best. A symphony of water, wind and gray skies. It was rain that made rivulets in the drains of the streets, dragged stones for many a meter before laying them at rest at a culvert or a turn. It was rain that stopped or at least slowed the great Mumbai traffic on it's tracks.

I have a thing for Rains. I cannot just let them be, I have to go out and enjoy them. This day was no different. I had an umbrella in my hand and it was looking good and folded up and dry on this wet, wet Saturday.

So what is it about the Mumbai rains that calls me so? I wondered. Can it be because it lets me be free and mock the gentle public of this city, who crouch in inadequate shelters trying to escape getting wet or huddle under flimsy contraptions of canvas and steel to try and keep at least ten percent of their clothes dry. Or is it some deeper longing for water. After all, our bodies are supposed to be made up of almost 70% water, so can this need be osmotic? After the long dry summer, can the cells of my body need to replenish and the only way to do it would be by communing with these beautiful big drops falling from the sky. Hmm.. maybe. Never let thoughts stand in the way of a little happiness.

So, off I went from the office to home. Walking in this torrent. Smiling a superior smile at all the passengers of the cars stuck en-route to shelter and safety of their homes. I was already dripping wet and thoroughly enjoying it. I would hand over my umbrella to old ladies stuck by the sudden onset of monsoon fury and need to cross the road (must have collected at least three blessings that day).

Rains in Mumbai affect almost all things of this city. It causes great hardship to people traveling, it is not easy to travel around 30 km after you get dripping wet and it is actually tougher, if you have to do it with around another three thousand dripping wet men in a crowded suburban local. They stall cabs and this in turn causes traffic jams. Now, in such inclement weather, it is pretty difficult to find a traffic policeman. So, it falls on the shoulders of those who are most desperate to get home and don't mind getting a little wet.

Soon, some of these good Samaritans would climb out of their cars and start directing traffic and requesting other drivers to hold their tempers and lane changings in check. Soon, the jam would be cleared and all of them would get back in their cars and go home, deed for the day done and done well.

Seeing the good will of the public had a strange effect on me. I too felt like contributing to the good of public transporting in Mumbai. So, I decided to help each and every car that was stranded on my way home. Pretty soon, I came onto my first case. It was a black-yellow or the more melodious sounding kali-pili. I could hear frustrated horns from people behind him cos he was stranded in an oblique angle, blocking the whole street. The driver was some 16 yr old from one of the northern states almost frantically trying to start his car and flooding the carbs in the bargain. I got to him and told him:

" Dude, get out"
"Huh? Why"
" We need to get your car to the side"
"It is not starting sir"
"Dude you need to get out so we can push the damn thing"

After a little pushing and instructing the poor youngster in the art of maneuvering the car with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pushing, we finally got the car to the side of the street. After it was safely parked at the side, I told him to let it rest a while and it would start as soon as the distributor dried. Now, I did not really know if the distributor was the problem, but it felt good to offer advice that gave hope to the weary and unready.

Onwards I walked, feeling all good inside. By now I was all warmed up and had also gotten my technique down pat, rock the car a little and as soon as you get the forward momentum going, push a little harder and away you go. Another Kali-Pili and despatched to the sides in pretty much the same manner.

Then I came to a small Maruti suzuki. It was an old eight hundred with an even older parsi lady. She was trying to start the car but it had given up the ghost. So I asked her if she needed some help and she said if I could just start her car.

Now, this was a tricky operation, how to get her car started. By now I was almost home and the traffic was pretty much nonexistent. The narrow lane that connects our locality with the great wide world was already under a feet of water and was singularly uninviting to people with their minds in the right places.

So, instructed her very clearly. She would have to pop the clutch. This would involve putting the car in gear and depressing the clutch and when the car was moving, just let the clutch go. The car should start then. With some false tries, she finally managed to get it started and then drove away with a thank you dhigra.

Deeds done, I went home to a steaming cup of coffee and settled down in the room to watch the rains come and stall the cabs all over again.

B.E.S.T Proposal.

2007-05-12T22:40:00.000+05:30

One of the things pretty high on my wish list is to be a Double-Decker bus driver on the streets of my great city. These things are huge and cumbersome. No hint of power steering, no traction control or syncro-mesh gear box, or independent suspension. They are brutes of steel driven mainly by Indians' everlasting confidence in God and Brit engineering. The great Leyland company offers a cash prize to anyone who topples this bus by driving it rashly. Needless to say this prize has been unclaimed for about more than 50 years now.

The nub of the whole thing being, that I just can't imagine that I am the only one in Mumbai or India for that matter who desires being the driver of such a legendary public conveyance, so here goes a proposal to the BEST.

Start a course offering lay public instruction in driving a Double-Decker bus (DDB). They can charge a tidy little sum for the same. They own huge vacant plots where they can set-up a training track.

BEST can test the general driving skill of the prospective trainees before they let them start the course. They can also have a waiver stating that the trainees are learning at their own risk and it is not binding on BEST to let them ride the bus due to any reason whatsoever.

Then they can train the whole batch at once on the recently laid test track. Theory lessons interspersed with practicals on the working of the bus transport system in suburban Mumbai. Along with history lessons about BEST and it's role in making Mumbai what it is. There would be simulators along with detailed GPS maps of the city routes for the trainees to familiarize themselves.

After a fortnight or so of intensive testing, there can be a test. Candidates who pass this test, can get a license to drive the DDB on a select short route, on a Sunday, when the roads are not that crowded. Hopefully with the help of traffic police, a short diversion can be created for about three or four hours on that route.

They can have family and friends of the drivers, lined up at the different stops on the way, to try and simulate almost real life conditions.

Even the bus could be different. Open top bus, with streamers and other decorations. Serve as a warning to other vehicles on the road too. A celebration party for all the successful candidates on the bus itself at the end of the day. With a ceremonious handing over of the BEST license and Badge stating the wearer is formally trained in the rigors of DDB driving.

Wot say BEST?

Wish List.

2007-05-11T23:14:00.000+05:30

Am having a thing for lists nowadays it seems. Just the other day waiting at a doctor’s office, being bored and tired at the same time, my mind took a break. It went back to all the stuff happening at work, some good and some bad. It took me a moment to realize, that even when my mind was taking a break, I was actually thinking of work. I have become the degenerate corporate type, who just cannot leave work alone.

Wrenching my attention from office, I started thinking of all the things I ever wanted to do. So, without much ado, the Vibhu Da Brahman to do Wish list:

Much thought went into the first one. It’s probably the most mundane, but has been bugging me for quite a while. Learn to ride a bike. My Bro has got one; need to get it on the road. For all my practicing, can’t seem to find more than one gear, except neutral that is.
Another locomotive one. Learn to fly. Does not need much explaining now, does it?
Learn and cook a great vegetarian seven course meal. From aperitif to dessert.
Learn Sanskrit again. Me gramps tried to teach me the Upanishads, never understood the need for it back then. Now I know. Nothing better than learning to read and understand them in the language written.
Learn to pray. Really pray. Empty the mind and speak to God. All those texts written, maybe I need to give them a chance.
Read and understand the Holy Bible and the Koran. Learn what the big deal is.
Put a week long smile on mum’s face.
Swim with the dolphins.
Blend the perfect cocktail.
Research and help develop the perfect gait for man. Using biomechanical tools, develop the most energy efficient gait man can have, with charts for different height – weight ratios, diagrams and mannequins to explain. Maybe start a great new revolution, help India win the Olympic gold! With our dependence on labor saving machines, we seemed to have forgotten that we evolved this way for a reason. Feet for walking and hands for picking stuff.
Build a prosthesis and rehabilitate people using the patented energy saving gait.
Climb the Himalayas. By foot, chopper or sherpa. Does not matter. Get to the top.
Build an iconic car. Fast and faster. Run it on Indian roads.
Build my house. My very own. Stuff science fiction is made of.
Write a great song.
Learn to play the guitar. Well.
Write a great short story, one that stands up to all the greats in the world.
Feel. Period.
Mourn a day for all the millions of Indians dead due to war, famine and all of their consequences.
Rejoice for all the thousands of Indians born each day.
Write a great poem, one that makes her smile.
Be a double-decker bus driver for a day.
Take a load of cargo, Trans-India, on a multi-axle.
Learn to farm.
Earn a profit on my farm.
Learn three languages. French, Spanish and Arabic.
Restore and use my very own vintage bike.
Be rich.
Be happy while rich.
Dream forever. For dreamers do live.

I think that about covers it for now.

Vibhu Da Brahman.

Stolen Mobiles!

2007-05-06T12:31:00.001+05:30

This is for all Mumbaikars who have had their phones flicked, stolen or robbed at gun, knife or stick point. Sometime back I formally joined the ranks of the mobile-phonetically deprived of the city. A nasty slick pick-pouch robbed me of the sublime joy of answering missives from friends, colleagues and clients. Of talking to near and dear ones, while on the move or just plain listening to music that I like while whiling away time in public transport, getting transported from one end of this mega-polis to the other.

But I digress. To help people deal with this problem, I have made a list of all the things that I went through and hopefully others would find it useful in dealing with such issues as and when they arise.

Stop the bus, train or cab wherever you may be on discovering the loss of the phone. Let out a primeval howl of anguish that lets the world know, that you have lost something you rely on for survival and succor. Something, that brings joy and sorrow to your life, your gateway to love, life and happiness. In case you notice anyone trying to sneak away, do try to question him gently with the handiest, stick, bag or fist as the conditions may be.
Check your bags, pockets and surroundings again. Sometimes mobile phones like babies have to be constantly watched, because they have an un-nerving tendency to wander away. To be found, in the most unlikely of places. Enlist the help of others in this search for the holy cell, use their phones to ring it up and locate it Van-Dam style by sound only. If not found, use the howl again. With practice, it usually gets better and sounds more frightening.
Get off at the next stop and demand to frisk all passengers detraining or getting off the bus. Proclaim that, this is your fundamental right under the Indian Constitution, sub headed in the TRAI act, which incase any one asks, stands for: Telephone Retrieval Act, India. Create a scene and delay all the passengers. God, cannot be cruel to just one, he works on whole populations and not individuals.
Get yourself to the nearest police station. Get a complaint registered. Increase their work and take away their performance incentive. Mobile phone convictions are very low. If you trouble them enough and are loud enough (use the howl if you have to, only in dire emergencies though) they usually have a stock of recovered phones and they let you take your pick (usually works only if you are twenty something, in a fetching dress and are sobbing hysterically about your father killing you for losing this phone) This should last you till you have saved enough to get a new phone.
Always carry the IMEI number around. Policemen have the habit of asking the most awkward questions and the most incontinent of times. If you don’t know where to find the IMEI number, this page is not for you.
Use the pay phone and call up the office and home to inform them that the phone is lost.
Go to the relationship center and get the card discontinued or blocked.
Enjoy your new found status as the unconnected. One of the rare breeds of isolated men and women. Sit in a garden, feed the sparrows, philosophise. Try and ignore the blissful neighbors talking on their life line to humanity and sanity.

And if all these don’t work, get out that credit card, walk in to the store, purchase a new one and call me to share your agony.

Vibhu.

A list of things I like.. May it always grow!

2007-04-02T23:37:00.000+05:30

After a dreary day when everything was going wrong, I realized that there are so many things that I really like but have never actually thought about much. So today I will set down stuff that needs to be documented, if for nothing else just to remind me to enjoy life as it should always be.

The feel of an early morning when there is no work to be done.

The cup of coffee when you are tired and in need of succor.

The smile on your mother's face when you give her a gift she never expected.

The satisfaction of completing your work on time.

A nice stretch at the end of a good nights sleep.

The warm fuzzy feeling on waking up after a good night's dreaming.

A self satisfied smile after reading some of your own good works that make you laugh inwardly.

The memory of good clean water when you dive in.

The push of the waves, those bring you back to the shore. Effortlessly, feels like the hand of god.

The high of good conversation with a dear friend.

The smile in the voice of a friend when you call after a long time.

A good joke in your message inbox.

Setting a new name on the speed dial.

The first morsel of Dal roti after a full days work.

The first morsel of Mom's Dal roti after a full weeks hotel fare.

The first smile on Mom's face when she kisses you after a full week’s absence.

The first smile on your face when you get your first birthday kiss.

The goofy look on your face when you get your first kiss.

The feeling you get when a mobile customer care agent actually solves a problem on your service.

The feeling when you see less than usual on your monthly phone bill.

The feeling you get when you see more than usual on your monthly phone bill and you think back of all the wonderful conversations you had this month.

The feeling of checking your bank account on the tenth of the month and finding that you still have all of your salary left and that you can actually go the ATM and withdraw some money.

An E-mail from a long lost friend, sending me photos of his latest trip to exotic places.

An E-mail from a long forgotten girl friend, thanking me for the things I did.

A kitten rubbing against your leg, when you come back from work.

The same kitten coming running down to greet you when you come out of the lift.

And so much more. Man, it feels good to be alive.

Faith.

2007-04-01T20:17:00.000+05:30

Faith moves mountains and parts seas. One of the many clichéd statements we hear almost daily. Well, I believe in clichés now.

It started out as a normal day. Week day, so had to go out to work, earn my bread, make my directors happy and earn my accountants some profits. I got up late, (as usual) so rushed through the morning. Was finishing my shower and just slipping on my ring when it slipped through the drain.

Let me tell you a little about my ring first. It is a gold ring, with a moon stone set on it. It is a pretty old ring, not a ring of power or anything, but something that I associate with happy memories for a very long time. It was a ring that helped me get in to conversation with my first girl friend at college and all that. It has been with me through thick and thin fingers, so forms an eternal part of my life. This ring was made by my grandma and handed over to my mum; I saw it on the day of my eleventh birthday and immediately asked for it. Surprisingly, she agreed and gave it over.

As you can imagine, when I discovered it bouncing its way down the drain, I was terribly distraught. I dried myself out and then did what every 25 year old engineer does in such situations; I went to mom and said, ma the ring has gone down the drain.

Thoughts such as, it is just god’s way of telling me not to attach too much importance to material possessions were already coursing through my head. I was already imagining myself making a clean start with new confidence and leaving old ideas behind, embarking on a bold new journey with no ties to the past, fresh ideas and fresh thoughts equaling a fresh new life. When mom said, just stand in front of the family temple and pray. You will get back your ring. 25 years in this world has made me realize that when it comes to such matters, it is always better to listen to your elders and betters, so that is precisely what I did. I stood in front of our family deity and told him how much I like the ring and how much it means to me. I did not do anything as blasé as telling him that I would give up all my bad habits, fast for three days in a week and give alms to the poor. I just made a heartfelt request and did as all Indians generally do, left it in his hands.

I finished my breakfast and was preparing to go, when I saw my Mom taking out her favorite prayer book and reading a few choice stanzas. I gave her a hug and asked her, please mum, please get that back for me. She smiled in complete confidence and asked me to forget about it and get to work.

Work was hectic and was busy the whole day. The missing feeling on my finger was really bothering me and I was plagued by a phantom ring all day. I would look to feel for the stone to turn it around and around on my finger (one of my nervous tells) but it would not be there.

Lunch was not an afternoon affair, because I could not find time for it. So, by the time I got to it, it was already early evening. Then mom calls. She starts reciting lists:
One chiffon silk saree
One sweet perfume
One set dress material
One dinner at the fancy restaurant. Etc. etc.

Immediately I understood she had done it. She had gotten my ring back from the dead. She called plumbers, the cleaning lady; a whole team of impromptu ring rescuers and got the ring out for me. She then had it cleaned and sterilized, ready for me to wear.

The feeling of slipping the ring back on my finger is something that still lingers till date. Rationally, I know it’s just a ring and should not count for much, but in some matters ration can go take a hike.

Thanks Mum for a great gift. The ring and the Faith.

The moon is dying.

2007-03-15T21:14:00.000+05:30

The following is dedicated to the one and only LMJ. A person who with the power of her conversation makes me ascend greater heights of folly.

A silence on the other end, does tend to give you great artistic freedom..

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"The moon is dying."

The statement reverberated in the plush confines of a Delhi office. It was no ordinary office, but the office of the exalted ruler of the most populous country on earth. A country which on the turn of the new millennium had finally awoken from its slumber and was charging like a lumbering elephant (animals, slow to start, but on stampeding, exceedingly fast and difficult to stop). Using the Two Billion or so Indians as currency, the Indian economy had risen by astronomical percentages in the past few decades. But all this is unimportant in view of the immediate demise of the closest astronomical body.

The Great Exalted Ruler Of Most Populous Indian Nation (GEROMPIN) or Grumpi as he was called behind his back, looked suitably abashed at the maker of the aforementioned silence creating statement, the Chief Astrophysicist of the Most Populous Indian Nation (CAMPIN) or Champi as he was known to all and sundry.

With a most undignified opening of the oral orifice, GEROMPIN gasped and asked what, why, how, when and where in rapid succession. With great reluctance at parting a state secret, Champi decided that the time had come to make Grumpi familiar with a few facts of Indian life and it was not going to be very easy on him. Traditionally Indian rulers have believed in beheading the messenger of bad news and somehow unreasonably, Champi was quite attached to it. (The only other person with that failing was his mother, god rest her soul).

Champi began, "A long, long time ago when the Himalayas were still adolescent, just a middling sized lump of volcanic matter on Mother Earth’s body, India was being settled. Though the name India had not been decided yet, the seeds of the culture and the nation were being sowed. At that time the master Indian race were past-masters in relativity physics and time forecasting.

They had realized that ten thousand years down the line, evolution and great Indian politicos would necessitate a cheap source of energy for helping Indians down the destined path of glory and riches. Otherwise the phase of existence that should have been “Sat” yug or Satellite yug would turn to Kal yug or dark yug. So they gave us the technology to harness cheap light energy.

Here Grumpi timidly raised his hand, “us?” He asked, “What us are you talking about. This is the first time I have ever heard of this. Is not our energy coming from the little Middle Eastern country we annexed about twenty years back, what was it called, some southie or something. Not to mention rivers falling on fans and stuff like that?”

With great forbearance Champi replied well these things do provide a small part of our vast energy needs. But that’s just to fool the world. We get our energy from vast satellite and terrestrial power plants that work on a specific frequency of light, special receivers that charge deep underground power cells working on 88% efficiency. The next generation of power cells would be able to work at 88.25% efficiency. He paused here with a happy smile of remembrance of the party they had when the scientists discovered the new material that could conduct light energy more efficiently. He had almost gotten laid that night.

Grumpi was trying hard to fight the glazed look on his face. (Something that had taken a semi-permanent residence on his facial configuration since the conference started. He interposed,” You mean to say I captured the whole region, solved the middle east issue, the contentious Jew – Arab conflict, with Christian leaders baying for Jerusalem just to throw dust in the eyes of the world???!!!”

With a look of almost Gandhian patience Champi said that is true. Now stop interrupting and let me get on to the important stuff. In layman’s language, the light of the moon makes this country run. The great elders put receivers of the suns rays on the dark side of the moon. These receivers kept the moon full and bright, the moon then beamed this light down to earth at specific intervals- Amavasyas. With 88.25% efficiency it takes us twelve hours to charge our reservoirs to last us for a fortnight.

With so much intellectual input, Grumpi was actually smoking in his seat. Squirming uncomfortably, he asked,” So where is the problem?” (Almost added O great one) and after a pause, “How come you know all this and I don’t?”

To this the great Champi replied, “We come from a long line of moon worshippers. Our lineage was started to keep the secret and put it to good use when the time arose. So for the past forty years, I and my cousins have been keeping your economy running.” All this with a smug smile that surprising did not increase his facial popularity factor to more than the pre-existing two.

Now Grumpi had almost had it. He had sat for two whole hours listening to this fool with the ugly mug and getting insulted in the end. It was reminding him much too disconcertingly of his school days. So with a chilly smile he said, “So this moon death is all your family’s fault, huh?”

The chilly smile won the contest over the smug one and brought Champi back to earth and reminded him about the li'l fact about Indian rulers and messengers. Hurriedly he moved on.

“No, No. We did our best. All the equipment is in excellent running order. It is just that the receivers are not receiving the regular hertzial excitement to keep them in perfect functioning order. “

Grumpi growled “ Hindi Champu, Hindi”

Champi: “It is just that, for the solar receivers to work, they require a particular sound transmission. For the past few years this particular sound transmissions have gone down drastically. We tried different frequencies, but nothing seems to work. Do you remember a couple of decades back, when you were the information and broadcasting minister? You passed just one law....?”

Grumpi: (Beaming) ” Yea. The high point of my career, The B.I.A.S.E.D Law, Ban Item dances And Songs in Entertainment Directive law.”

Champi: “You used to say that all the Autos and taxis playing these songs gave you a head ache. Well actually these transmissions kept the moon going. For the past twenty years we have been trying to recreate the particular frequency. So in the interest of Humanity can you please get HIMMESH back?

A sound Miracle.

2007-03-13T20:38:00.000+05:30

Feel good stories are not something that I am usually good at, but some times you really need to put it down, maybe just to remind you that things are really not that bad to never lose hope.

About two and half years back, A small boy in north central India was diagnosed as having severe to profound hearing loss. Hailing from a lower middle class family with limited means, it was almost certainly a sign of doom for the child. The best hearing aids their money could buy did precious little to help him hear. Till one day, they attended a Cochlear Implant Education Program (CIEP).

Here they got information that meant a cusp in their lives. Here was a device that offered new hope and maybe a better quality of live envisioned till now. It was a device which could make their child, till date a stranger to sounds, hear again. Maybe learn to call his parents mom and dad in the normal way. Maybe, learn, understand and enjoy birdsong, the pitter patter of the first rain which till date was just a musty odor.

On hearing the cost of the whole operation and the subsequent therapy required, the father (the only wage earner of the family) was staggered, a feeling not very new to Indian fathers and mothers when they discover their children are hearing impaired. But, with typical Indian sanguinity and faith, he shrugged his shoulders and went to work.

Hard were the insults to bear, the insult to his pride when he had to spread his hands towards neighbors, family and so called friends. To collect monies he knew could change his boy’s future. He changed four jobs, because employers were not interested in his sob story, they could not understand why the assembly line had to suffer just because his young son was deaf and that he had go ask for donations from friends and strangers alike.

Insults such as, “Why don’t you put him in the orphanage? Abandon the child; you cannot take care of him. Turn him over to the state.” Were commonplace to him. With Mahatma like patience and humility he withstood all and went about his task of making his child’s future secure. At the end of it all, he had a sum of Hundred thousand rupees, about one sixth of what he required for the operation. By now he had already changed four jobs and relocated thrice.

At his final destination he met an Audiologist who referred him to a leading hospital and surgeon in Bombay where this surgery routinely occurs. The importance of this decision was that the Dr in question was very successful in raising funds for the needy and a letter from him was something that would ease the fund raising troubles a little, With great hope in their hearts they came to Bombay. Strangers in a strange land, with almost no money to stay in hotels in this oh so expensive city, they stayed at stations braving heartless people and police batons. They moved from station to station when the police got too much to handle. One man, woman and a deaf child. They had no idea that there were shelters to be had just outside one station, a temple that let people use the dormitory for free and also provided food at hugely subsidized rates.

Finally they met the good doctor at his free OPD and got the required letter. They also got a list of people and trusts to whom they could apply for funds. Returning to his town, the father went about applying in his usual fashion. Couriering scores of applications and getting rejects as he went about baring his soul and pride to the refusals to strangers again.

Recently we conducted another CIEP in his town. Reading the Ad, he came to me and said, “Hello sir, we have spoken often on the phone but never met before. I am ---.” I recognized him and asked about his son’s progress. He said the son was doing fine, but he wasn’t. Looking at his eyes I felt, the least I could do was talk to him awhile. Out came the complete story, all the pain and anguish, the rejections, the humiliations, everything. A person, who had spent the last couple of years of his life asking strangers to help, now felt only a stranger could understand his burden. Things had come to such a pass, that he said he was contemplating something that should never be. Shocked and scared at my inability to console him, I sternly told him that this could never be, that he had to think of his family. He replied that it was the only thing that was stopping him. Finally after some more useless platititudes, I took his leave and left his town.

A couple of days later, I got a call from someone, telling me that there were funds available for one CI surgery, if we had a good candidate. The only rider being that the surgery should be scheduled immediately. I almost screamed over the phone, there is this --- from ---. He has already done the prelim work up and also has a date for this week. Then came the bombshell, this person wanted someone from some other region. I said, I will check, but please keep him in mind. At the end of the day, came the message that brought a smile to my face and a glow to my heart. --- has been selected for surgery and is coming down to Bombay. I was with a friend then and in a theater, I almost jumped for joy. With great control I asked if this was confirmed. And yes it was.

It was another auto major who had contributed. I thank all Indians who have ever bought their vehicle in the last forty years or so of their existence, they have saved not one but so many lives. Every time any of you rides an auto or a certain brand of bikes, I want to thank you for giving a child the gift of sound. God bless you all. Amen.

Where is the food!

2007-03-02T18:50:00.000+05:30

Travel a lot nowadays and so as usual my diet has become pretty much vaired as it can be. From simple dal roti to all the usual usal / misal varieties of rural maharashtra.

The previous month, things had gotten to such a head, that the moment I used to board the ST bus, I would in my pidgin Marathi ask the driver of the conveyance, where in God's brown Maharashtra are you stopping for dinner? Is it any good, has it got a Michelin rating? On hearing the Michelin bit, he would sneer at me and say wot sir, this bus takes JK tires not Michelin.. but well, am stopping in Deopur because the owner of the canteen there is the cousin of the husband of the daughter of the ST corporation chiefs aunt.

So I ask is the food good, he very simply said no. Already fearing for the assault on my delicate duodenum lining over and above the jarring of the spine and the attack of high frequency and mid frequency noise on my beautiful ears, I would groan and ask why, o great mover of the rural poor, why do you do this..?

He justs looks back at me over his shoulder, starting the bus, saying.. the owner of the canteen is the cousin of the husband of the daughter of the ST corporation chief's aunt...

The Great Mumbai Marathon..

2006-11-28T22:48:00.000+05:30

Well the great Mumbai marathon is here. It was a little scary at first, to see people with hairy legs haring down streets in the early morning and evenings, till I saw the hoardings closely. It was not a new Mutual Fund, but the old Marathon Run being publicized. A lot of people are expected to run, some for charity, some for fun, some just because they got nothing better to do on a Sunday morning.

I got an invite from a person who heads one of the good NGOs in Mumbai. She gave me a form and asked me to run for her cause. Well.. I have nothing better to do on a Sunday, so signed up.

It has three parts, the dream run, the half and for the Kenyans, the full marathon. With a lot of side runs, like the senior marathon and the wheel chair marathon. After serious deliberation, I ruled out the senior marathon (fifteen gray hairs apparently do not qualify you) and the wheel chair one (swivel chairs do not count) which left me with the dream run, the half and the full.

Now, at twenty four, weighing in just 80 kilos, 20km is not really that long to run. Right? Well, since thats usually like ten times my daily commute to office (which usually is by the bus, the most empty one) I decided on the dream run.

Six kilometers. Should be a piece of cake. A walk in the park and all that. So decided to do just that. Walk in the park that is, not run six kilometers.

Beautiful morning and great weather outside. People walking the dogs, pretty young things in pretty small shorts running up and down the track. While it was raising my heart rate, conventional wisdom demanded that heart rate increase be independent of pretty young things and dependent on the number of times my feet left the ground, while propelling my body in the forward direction against the wind and the gravity. Started off. Marked the route and number of laps required for the dream run. And did just that. Ran. Not walked in the park.

After exactly three minutes my heart rate was up in the thousands, could hear the ocean in my ears. Eye sight blurring, lungs bursting and all the other scary symptoms usually associated with the end of your current incarnation on this great planet. By now was being over taken left right and sometimes center too. By all the pretty young things, who had a strange set to their features, that looked depressingly like a smirk.

Decided right there and then, that I will train. I can be fit too and win this silly run. Sat down and Googled the whole training thing. Got a schedule and got to work. Heres what I ended up with.

Rule 1. No bad habits.

I have quit smoking. The whole lot. Its easy to do, when all you do is inhale what others spew at you. So, from today onwards no more movies in which actors smoke. Any tele-serial in which a person is smoking is a strict no-no. I even do not watch the reruns of F1 because of the Marlboro on the Ferraris. I even avert my eyes when I pass the neighbourhood paan wallah. I have stopped breathing in the vicinity of traffic signals and other polluting areas of the city. I feel heady and nice. Healthier actually. There is a vague feeling of euphoria even. (My killjoy doctor of a dad says, that just must be the oxygen deprivation kicking in. Apparently there's even a term for it, asphyxiation or something).

I have quit drinking. No more ads of "Mera No.1" soda, water or any of that. No more golf accessories, music Cds or anyother such items. I turn the TV off or change the channel when these ads play. I do not watch movies in which people are drinking. No more going past bars or wineshops during the commute to work. (Mighty hard to do in Mumbai nowadays, I counted nine on my regular route and fifteen on my irregular route.) Since that was getting a little difficult, I jog past them, holding my breath to avoid imbibing even the recirculated air, rich in breathed out alcohol that floats out of these places.

No more snacks and only a healthy diet. So, no more MacD ads, no thirty minutes toh free ads or Pizza huts. I don't even watch people eat on the TV even, esp if they are having something really sinful, like chocolate or cake. No more cooking shows, no Floyd's India or Tarla Dalal or anything.
Every evening I go to the nearest Nature's basket shop and stare at all the fruits and vegetables.I quiz the poor sales teams on the nutritional values of each of the healthy colorful looking produce on sale. Being so well trained and courteous, they respond faithfully and honestly to each question, each day, even though I just buy the peanuts and move on.

Rule no 2. Work out.

Every day I go to the gym. I watch these well built muscle men exercise. They lift weights and pull on machines. I watch closely and learn to visualize. I hit on this technique quite accidentally while watching Discovery Science and Living channel, late one night. It seems that the human mind is a wonderful and complex thing. Visualizing your workout increases your burn rate by as much as two and half percentage points, rather than plain exercising. I can actually visualize my muscles getting leaner and meaner. By closing my eyes and concentrating hard, I can actually visualize my calories burning. I make faces in front of the mirrors and flex my now visualized taut muscles to measure my growth.

I watch Aastha TV. Baba Ramdev the great Indian yogic, helps me visualize the various Indian contortions to increase my flexibility, boost my immune system, make me basically invincible to the attacks of Dengue, Malaria, Aids, Cancer, Cataracts, loss of hearing, loss of appetite, gain of appetite, loss of hair, gain of hair in cosmetically unappealing places , the whole shebang. An hour of this really leaves me rejuvenated and strangely apprehensive of visualizing. (Usually, I ended up visualizing, where does all his stuff go, you know, when he knots and twists. Maybe the technique involves less imagination and more visualization. Should write to the learned American scholars on this.)

Rule 3. Improve your technique.

I decided, my technique needs a workout too. So, off again to Discovery Science and living. I surfed all night to watch Cheetahs in action. I soaked up their feline grace, watched bio-mechanical engineers create computer models of their movements, the works. Then I realized that this was a marathon and not a sprint race. So, had to rewind and unlearn all the stuff that I had spent so much time and sweat on.

Then came the hard part, who do I model myself upon? The Gazelle, the bison or the elephants? All these creatures are renowned long distance runners. The gazelle was eliminated because, all the usual videos ended it being eaten by the cheetah. The bison was a close runner up, but when I saw a croc making a lunch of it, I thought I needed something better. The winner then, was the elephant.

I was actually pretty partial to it from the start. It bears a close resemblance to one of our family deities. Its got a presence and it can outrun a man on any given Sunday. That is, if the man's fool enough to challenge an elephant to a marathon (or anything) on a Sunday. Watching closely, I realized a few tips I could use:

Tip1: Get a Mud bath. Water is passe. Mud seems to help. Protects you from the heat and the cold. Aliens intent on eating you cannot find you with their infra red sensors (Remember Arnold in the "Predator"?). Fleas and mosquitoes cannot bite ( so no dengue and malaria). Immediate benefit would be that, no one in his / her right mind, would want to run next to me when I am naked and just out of a mud bath. That should surely give me the edge I need.

Tip2: Bellow loudly. Being next to a being making strange noises, moving it's nose up and down seems to most people an extremely uncomfortable situation.

Tip3: Get a whole gang of similarly well endowed and built people to choose you as a leader and run behind you. Do I need to elaborate? The hard part is convincing them to get a mud bath too.
(How do you get a whole lot of fat people take a mud bath, singly or in batches? The logistics are getting me down.)

Well, I got the first two down pat, am working hard on the third one. Once I get that done, I am thinking, I will pretty much be unbeatable.

Mumbai Marathon, here we come. Hope all you people will join us. I even have a name for the Charity that we are going to endorse: "Save the Vibhu Fund"!

Family and Indian Women.

2006-11-19T11:34:00.000+05:30

Have you ever noticed some families that always carry their home wherever they seem to travel. In buses, trains and stations you can see them occupy spaces with complete familiarity and comfort. It seems like they own them and you feel like you are intruding in their private space.

This is an incident of one such family. It was thankfully not a very large family, actually it was the epitome of a nuclear family, make that a Hydrogen Molecule family, what with just two members, but am rambling now.

I was traveling on the Matsyagandha Express from LTT (Kurla Terminus for the uninitiated and the initiated too!) to my native place in southern Karnataka, Udupi. This train runs along one of the most scenic rail routes in India, the Konkan coast. It leaves Mumbai and then heads towards Goa, finally crossing Karnataka to enter Kerala. I am not rambling now, this has a purpose.

It was a 3AC coach, but, the train was only marginally full. We had the coupe to ourselves. By we, I mean, I and the H2 molecule family. It was an old couple. Just past their middle age and already they seemed to have celebrated their marriages' golden jubilee celebration. They were going back to their house in Kerala after visiting their children in Mumbai.

The journey went on, with small talk between me and the old guy. As with all train chats, it died out when I got out my book and pretended to read. They did not talk much amongst each other. The old guy started leafing through a mag and the lady looking out of the window and 'tsk'ing at pretty young things going to Goa, in pretty small dresses.

Evening wore on. I was just lounging about trying to get the PYT's to talk to me while suddenly I hear a great snap and feel a bustle in my coupe. I turn around to see what can only be called a symphony in motion. Zen like in its understanding of minds.

The side table was up and about. The lady then very silently reached in to her bag and got a bottle filled with amber liquid. Then she takes out a steel tumbler, exactly like the one in which my Granny feeds me (tries to, at least) milk. Then very expertly she draws a measure from the bottle. One can actually feel the great vernier caliper in her brain sliding the rule to the millimeter. With fluidity of motion, that could be envied by any barkeep in our great country she stopped pouring, without spilling a single drop, re-capped the bottle and whisked it in to her bag again. This must have taken about 30 seconds and no words.

The old guy looks at her,the glass and then takes it. Makes a face at it and puts it to his lips and gulps it down neat. Then he starts shaking his head violently from left to right all the while "blrring" with his tongue. By now, I was frankly staring. " Brandy" He said to me. "For my digestion." While the old lady was already making other arrangements.

A different bag this time. One with gleaming steel containers. One opens to reveal a whole fish, fried Kerala style, another opens to fish pieces in curry again kerala style, while the third has mounds of plain, steamed rice. With dexterity of long practice, she lays the paper plates out and they guy starts eating with gusto. She looks on to see if he needs anything.

After about a couple of mouthfuls, he looks up and there is a glass of water waiting for him in her hand. He takes a sip and hands it back. In all this while, the lady does not seem to take a single bite. Fish and rice demolished. The guy raises his hands for the plates to be picked up and a dollop of soap to be dropped in his palm. Off he goes to wash his hands.

In his absence, the lady has cleared the table. Pulled the bunks (with my gallant help, if I may add) and laid the bedclothes on them. The old guy comes back and then he sits on my bunk. The lady then hands him his medicines and another glass of water. He makes a face and shoves these down his throat.

I am waiting for the lady to have dinner, so I asked her, aren't you having anything? The old guy says, " She is a vegetarian, can't stand fish. As I can only eat fish on train journeys, she will probably eat when she gets home."

By this time they were looking very pointedly at my unmade bunk and the bed clothes that were lying untouched at the bottom. Took the hint and made my bunk. Before I had laid out my pillow and removed my shoes, the lights were off. I laid myself out in the dark, thinking, must be only in India.

My ode goes to all the ladies who can make their husband's drink, dinner, medication and bed all in the moving trains that seem to carry so many of us from one home to another. Never had I ever imagined that the journey itself could be like one long passageway that connects one wing to the other.

Raison d' Etre of Earthquakes!

2006-10-31T11:05:00.000+05:30

I have a great physicist working in my office, who dabbles in geology as a side hobby. Today he expounded a great theory that causes earthquakes in Maharashtra.

The theory goes something like this:

Due to high core temperature, water in the ground table is converted to high pressure steam. This steam then seeks an outlet to rise to the surface through the fissures present naturally and or makes the fissures in places which are susceptible to these phenomena. This outbreak then causes earthquakes in districts that are about three hundred kilometers away.

When questioned as to the reason why Mumbai, which regularly recieves about a 100 inches of rain every year escapes these great build up of steam in the earth's core, the reason given was that the core temperature below Mumbai was less than 100°C, so steam cannot be generated below Mumbai, making it safe from Earthquakes.

Any questions, please direct it to my comment board and we will surely put it to our esteemed scientist / geologist (part time) and try and answer them to his satisfaction.

Om Baba and three monkeys!

2006-10-02T13:46:00.000+05:30

We all have friends that are so sanctimonius that it really drives us crazy. I too had a friend once like this, he was an old childhood chum, lost in the sands of time and then found again. Re-discovered, this friend of mine has so much spirituality in him, that he almost always sounds like Deepak Chopra on a Reader's Digest, good living article binge. Another friend of mine asked me once, could I do something about it?

This is what I had to say, its a story about a new religion, a religion dominated by a simple molecule C2H5OH or in plain simple words, alcohol. Specifically, Old Monk alcohol or as the engineers so fondly call it, OM Baba.

OM Baba and the three monkeys.

My soul was so agitated (thirsty) that OM Baba could not see my anguish and joined me before the bottle was even half empty (or half full as my friend would say, I imagine).

Without waiting for preliminaries, I very furiously thought" Cheers! baba, my soul is troubled today." The great quaffer of worlds troubles, told me "I know, O, belter of OM. That is why I have left the great party of the skies to help you resolve your dilemma. Let me just refresh my palate and then I will strengthen your faith"

With a lot of cheering and sharing, we finished the ritual bottles of purification and started on the bottles of knowledge and learning. The great partaker of amber knowledge then told me this story of The Three Monkeys.

" A Long Long time ago, when this world was at an infancy, humans just a kink in the chromosomes of apes and monkeys, there lived three monkeys near the coast of todays Maharashtra. The planet was much cleaner then, greener with more trees. Tall, well spread out ones too, with deep roots, unlike the spindly May Flowers you see nowadays.

The three monkeys were just learning to climb. Using limb and tail, they would try and navigate the tree routes of their city, learning new things and ways. Till one day suddenly, one of the monkeys slipped and fell! He was one of the best climbers around, sure footed and grippy tailed, but still, he fell. Unable to take the mortification of this, when he saw his other friends still climbing with ease, he bounded off to a suburban forest in the north. When the two other monkeys turned around to see where their friend was, they were pretty much suprised to learn that he was nowhere around. After a few hoots and squeals, they shrugged their shoulders and went on to discover what life had in store for them.

Pretty soon, they discovered stuff, like stuff grew out of the ground. They used to plant nuts here and there to see if any nutty trees grew. One fine day, they found couple of coconuts lying around. Fascinated with such a huge nut, they buried it underground and waited to see if anything grew out of it. While they were waiting very patiently for about a week or so, they heard a sharp thud. Another coconut had fallen off the tree on to a rock and split open. So they did what all monkeys and children do, put it in their mouths. It tasted good. They remembered that they had a couple more of this divine fruit buried. So they dug it up and cracked the head off. There was a heady aroma coming off the opening in the nut. It had fermented! Fascinated by this they took a sip and then another one and another. Soon all the nuts were finished. Feeling pleasantly numbed the monkeys passed out into a dreamful sleep, full of promises.

They dreamt of life as it should be. Life on two legs, without tails. Life to be spent in the worship of God. Life with religion. Soon they got up and decided almost unanimously (not very hard when there were only two of them) to create more of the great improver of life and to spread the cheer around. For a moment their tails drooped in sorrow for their lost comrade, but with another sip they relegated his memory to the bottoms of their newly expanded consciousness.

Life moved on, they kept navigating trees, sticking close to Coconut ones to keep burying a dozen or so in strategic locations. Leaving a branch to mark the place.After a couple of years, they could almost walk straight and their tails were starting to lose their prehensile strength, when suddenly who swoops down on to their branch, but the dear monkey friend of theirs!

A flurry of squeals and grunts later, they all discover what had happened. How falling of a branch had turned the monkey towards God and religion. How now after facing that hard fact, he now could climb better, faster and higher than any of them. He was very kind and jovial, starting long lectures in the hope to enlightening his friends, whom he very dearly loved. Little did he know, his friends had already found a religion and a different god. They were equally eager to share this knowledge with him, when they lead him to one of their best locations (being a special occassion, nothing but the best for him!).

Heartbroken they were when they saw him refuse smilingly. He was very firm and insistent that their religion was not the right one. He benignly looked on as his two friends sat on the ground and slowly gained the consciousness. Being merged with the great OM. How it must have seemed to him, two of his nearest and dearest, dripping drool all over themselves, discarded coco-shells all over. A strong aroma permeating their very fur.He was pitying their situation, when it really started to pour.

Lightning and thunder rang accross the forest. The rain woke the two monkeys up. They looked groggily at the sky and thought, hey water falling on head, should find shelter. While looking around for shelter they saw their trademark branch and thought, hey coco-drink buried under there, should find GOD. So started again on their rituals, rain all forgotten.

It was getting darker and darker, with lightning flashes everywhere and the third monkey was getting worried. He kept jumping from one branch to another, while his friends lolled about on the ground. He kept squealing to them, climb up, save yourselves from this down pour. To make their friend happy and to have some peace and quiet to commune with their god, they grabbed a couple of cocos each and started for the tree. But they had forgotten. Long years of cocos had weakened their tails and they needed two hands to climb the same trees that they could have easily scaled with the tip of their tails. Now the disturbing choice was, what to let go of, the tree or the cocos. One drink was enough. Trees can come and go, but God does not wait. So back to the branch, they sat enjoying their drinks.

The other monkey was by now hysterical. He screamed and screamed, saying climb up you drunk fools, don't you know the rain could wash your fur away, leave you with a cold and cough? Give you chills and fever? This was getting a bit too loud even for the somnolent monkeys, who were thinking, when was this guy ever so gregarious? and that too without coco drink?

While they were contemplating the eruption of loud noises from the throat of their near and dear friend, there was a huge flash. An odour of ozone permeated the air (not that they could smell much) and thunder followed quickly, a great rolling boom that went on and on. There was a great crash. As sudden as the rains had started, so it departed with this grand finale. In the stunned silent aftermath, the two monkeys slowly looked up from their drinks and thought, thats better, all the goddam water was ruining my drink. And its so silent too, all the irritating squeaking is gone. It took them a moment or two to understand what the absence of squeaking meant and they looked up for the tree, where their friend was residing. Nothing but sky. Rubbing their eyes and taking another long pull to calm their consciousness, they saw that the tree had been hit by lightning, pulverised to a stump.

They stumbled and ran to the base of it to find their friend,twitching on the forest floor, with his fur singed off and the tip of his tail blackened. He was still muttering about how trees were good and safe and how they were fools to drink at a time like this.

Right then an old man with a flowing beard came up to them and said,

"Boys, its better to be drunk and twitching on the floor, than not drunk and twitching on the floor"

First saying in the Book Of OM.

"Cheers"

Mumbai Animals!

2006-08-26T16:48:00.000+05:30

Mumbai does have animals. Its a fact and its true. What with regular reports of leopards and such like encroaching on decent urban jungles and creating havoc amongst poor innocent mumbaites.

My experience with these strange inhabitants of this great city thankfully has been better. Detailed below are just a few:

Ravens:

Ravens. The messenger of death and destruction. Or as our great culture has, harbringer of more deadly news, guests. Ravens have always been an eternal visitor at our residence. When we used to live in Ghatkopar, a suburb in central mumbai, these medium sized black birds would constantly sit on the door of our garden amidst the city, the little 6 x 2 balcony we had assidously grown fragrant plants on. (Ok, so mom had done all the work, but I supported her, should count, right?). This bird would actually caw away to glory at each sight of Mum and she would respond to it in kannada, and it would caw right back. This would usually happen at unearthly morning hours like eight or nine o' clock. Then it would visit my window to wake me up and ready me for college. I always had this sneaky suspicion that ravens must have an innate ability to learn the Kannadiga's mother tongue, because the raven would usually be followed by my mom who would also try to wake me up. (with considerable less success, I might add. The raven was so much more ugly sounding.)

Then my belief was strengthened. We moved to a new flat in South Mumbai. I felt, finally freedom from ugly alarms in the morning. It lasted precisely one month. Soon, there was a familiar sounding caw each morning in my ears. How in earth did this raven come to know of its heavenly duties, I can only conjecture.I just think, he must have met his Gkopar friend at the weekly convention of the Ravens at the Parsi Tower of silence and gotten the message.

Suddenly one day, the cawing stopped. Relief and suprise were my main emotions in the morning. The reason was soon known in stark black and white. Crows in mumbai were a dying breed. This great survivor of the great Mumba's city, was being killed in murders. Due to some strange kind of bird disease.

Now I miss my feathered friend. His ungainly walk, his no nonsense flight plan. Now I rely on my mobile phone to wake me up. Can someone send me a raven tone, please?

2006-08-21T22:12:00.000+05:30

Me Casa!

Mumbai 2020

2006-08-06T00:11:00.000+05:30

The setting is a small place in a neighboring country with a belligerent general and his minions…

General: What are we doing about the K situation?

Minion 1: We are continuing with the methods laid down by the great Minion Alpha 1 in 2005, destabilising their commercial capital using all tools of modern terrorism.

G: So, how come K is still undecided? No excuses please, I want results. Report.

(M1 looks uncomfortably towards M2.)

M2: Well Sir, we planned a complete package of terror for that city, but it just refuses to be terrorized. We keep coming up with new and innovative plans, but somehow this strange breed of Indian, Mumbaikar, refuses to bow down. Here’s what went down in the last decade.

We funded a massive influx of people in the city, specifically trained people with good skills, namely littering. We funded the plastic industry and manufactured close to a trillion tons of thin plastic bags. These we used to clog up all the main rivers, drains and catchment areas, not to mention the stomachs of the sacred animal of India, Cows.

After a couple of years of intensive littering, we procured a ton of AgNO3 or silver nitrate. Using a charter flight, we seeded the clouds during the high tide days off the coast of Mumbai, using the almanac so thoughtfully provided by the Mumbai Met Department.

The unique feature of AgNO3 in the clouds is that it causes artificial rains. Unleashing the terror of rain on a historic day of July 26th, we were able to create massive flooding in areas, trying to bring businesses down and generally create havoc with the infrastructure of the megapolis.

Little did we know of the close ties Mumbaikars have with our Chinese friends. Somehow, these guys were prepared for this eventuality. (Later we learnt that this flooding is the routine part of Mumbai life.) Every mumbaikar, small and large has an inflatable raft that fits in a trendy back pack, available in 15 different shades and 20 different sizes. The beauty of this handy device is that whenever needed, it unfolds into a man sized kayak with a handy plastic sail and carbon fiber oars. Using wind and arm power, the average mumbaikar reached his destination with little or no trouble. Actually they reached faster and with less fuss.

The recesses of this raft are stocked with emergency supplies like a bottle of rum for the sailor like spirit with assorted snacks to get through the day. Truly marvelous!

Looking at the storm clouds gathering on G’s face, M2 hurriedly moved on with his status report.

We then hit on the ideas of using age old bombing tactics. We then decided to plant some bombs on the lifelines of Mumbai, the suburban train network.

It was a beautiful plan. Synchronised strikes at different locations during peak hours to maximize human damage and create a fear psychosis.

G: That’s more like it!

M2: But, here we forgot the bloody Jews. With state of the art explosive detectors on each compartment, all the bombs were detected early. Then we discovered a new innovation on trains. The bottom opens out and on an electric signal, the tracks open a deep, cement lined pit or hole.

When the bottoms opened, the bombs dropped into the pits and exploded safely. The Police did not even bother to try and track our fidayeen, who disappointed at not being caught and tortured felt that they had been cheated of a chance of going to Jannat, commited mass suicide.

Then we hit on the master plan of it all. Why not use the people against the people? We funded political parties, slum lords and massive immigration. We filled the trains to the brim, created illegal colonies and formed political parties to divide them in sections of religion, colonies and what not. It was a huge operation one that almost bankrupted our whole economy.

But, this failed too. We soon realized our colonies were being taken over by the average mumbaikar to live in. Slums were razed and buildings built in their stead, creating value where none existed.

The worst failure of it all was the political parties. The Indians have a unique voting system. Where a general does not decide who gets to the parliament, but the people do. These people, decided to use the last option on the voting booth, the one that says none of the above, seats were lying vacant, till some activist rose up and contested and won.

Our politicians could just not get in!

G: (Tearing his hair out) so, what do we do now?

M3: (The guy who was quiet all along.) Well… sir, we do have one option, why don’t we leave this K business and start a new agenda?

G: And that is..??

M3: Mumbai hamara hai! Any city that can go through all what we have put it through, truly deserves to be part of our country.

My two minutes.

2006-07-23T11:50:00.000+05:30

Right at the time when we needed to show support the most, my dear GOI stopped me from doing it..

So here go my two minutes ..

One Salaam Mumbai
Two Salaam Mumbai
Three Salaam Mumbai
Four Salaam Mumbai
Five Salaam Mumbai
Six Salaam Mumbai
Seven Salaam Mumbai
Eight Salaam Mumbai
Nine Salaam Mumbai
Ten Salaam Mumbai
Eleven Salaam Mumbai
Twelve Salaam Mumbai
Thirteen Salaam Mumbai
Fourteen Salaam Mumbai
Fifteen Salaam Mumbai
Sixteen Salaam Mumbai
Seventeen Salaam Mumbai
Eighteen Salaam Mumbai
Nineteen Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Salaam Mumbai
Twenty One Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Two Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Three Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Four Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Five Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Six Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Twenty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Salaam Mumbai
Thirty One Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Two Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Three Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Four Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Five Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Six Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Thirty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Forty Salaam Mumbai
Forty One Salaam Mumbai
Forty Two Salaam Mumbai
Forty Three Salaam Mumbai
Forty Four Salaam Mumbai
Forty Five Salaam Mumbai
Forty Six Salaam Mumbai
Forty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Forty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Forty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Salaam Mumbai
Fifty One Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Two Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Three Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Four Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Five Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Six Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Fifty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Salaam Mumbai
Sixty One Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Two Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Three Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Four Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Five Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Six Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Sixty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Salaam Mumbai
Seventy One Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Two Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Three Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Four Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Five Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Six Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Seven Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Eight Salaam Mumbai
Seventy Nine Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Salaam Mumbai
Eighty One Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Two Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Three Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Four Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Five Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Six Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Seven Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Eight Salaam Mumbai
Eighty Nine Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Salaam Mumbai
Ninety One Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Two Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Three Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Four Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Five Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Six Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Seven Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Eight Salaam Mumbai
Ninety Nine Salam Mumbai
One Hundred Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred One Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Two Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Three Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Four Salaam Mumbai
Oen Hundred Five Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Six Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Seven Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Eight Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Nine Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Ten Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Eleven Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Twelve Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Thirteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Fourteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Fifteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Sixteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Seventeen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Eighteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Nineteen Salaam Mumbai
One Hundred Twenty Salaam Mumbai

Amen. May you always be in peace dear lady of the Seas.

VibhuDaBrahman.

My Phone!

2006-07-06T00:11:00.001+05:30

The first phone that I bought from my own money was this beautiful li’l piece of silver. Called the Moonlight phone by some snazzy marketing guy, it was a part of Dhirubhai’s dream. Mera sapna, tera paisa bhi ho apna!

The phone and I have been through a lot. Through friends, girlfriends, beaches, seas and floods. The story of its long illness starts with me in Goa.

June in Goa, had this phone for about a half year. Was there on business, so the final Sunday I got, headed for the beaches. The only issue was that there was no one to mind my stuff when I went in the water. So did what every smart electronic engineer does, water proofed my phone. Put it in a re-sealable bag and zipped it shut and also wrapped it in my hand kerchief to catch any stray moisture that could creep in. Thinking that I had all my bases covered I plunged in to the blue seas of Goa.

Was that ever fun. Splashed around in the surf, playing disc with a firang who was all alone, coz her boy friend had gone for a beer or something. Then I suddenly remembered that somebody was going to call me and I needed to attend that call. By this time, I could actually feel my phone vibrating in my hip pocket where I had stowed it for safety.

I swam out and then opened the packet to find, horror of horrors! The kerchief was all wet! My phone, my lifeline to civilization and (future) matrimonial bliss was all drenched. It went all crazy on me, trying in turn to dial all the numbers in my phone book all the while vibrating like a drill on steroids and receiving a call simultaneously. I tried shutting it off, which did not work too well, so removed the battery pack. That shut it down for a while and I got to work, drying it. Wiped it out, baked it in the sun, but to no avail, whenever I switched it on, it went back to its crazy self. Prozac being the only option for the terminally insane, I put it to sleep by divorcing it from its power source.

Used the phone booth to tell everybody that my phone was dead and that I would call them as soon as I get back to Bombay, I boarded my bus. The moment I got back to my own sweet city, I reunited the lost parts and voila, it was working. My phone was a mumbaikar! One whiff of the home network, congested though it may be, it started receiving and dialing calls with ease. Even texting was possible again.

Thinking that my troubles were over, I kissed my phone in gratitude and got back to work. A couple of days later, what do I see? A pimple on my beauty. The silver finish was flaking away to reveal plastic below. My poor moonlight phone was now becoming a moon like phone. But hey, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, so we soldiered on. Soon, I came to fall in love with the distinctive features of my dear friend. But worse was in store. I had to deliver some notes to a dear friend of mine at a distant suburb, to help her in her misguided attempt at belling the CAT; I boarded a suburban local, my trusty medium of communication residing snugly in my hip pocket. While I was disembarking, another gent was embarking with a hard attaché case. This he very obligingly banged in to my hip. Thanking stars that he missed my family jewels, I went on merrily to my meeting.

When my friend called to ask my status at arriving (usually am always late), what do I see? There’s a crack on my darling’s face. It looked positively injured. Met my friend, berated her suburbs and the train system and Gods in general for putting my beautiful connector to souls through so much, I came back home heavy hearted. Went to the shop and asked him if he could fix it up, he said, “Prolly, but will take at least a fortnight” Unable to even contemplate such a long separation, I grit my teeth and talked to my phone. I said to it, “It is not that bad looking, gives you certain character.” It just winked at me and showed that I had a text message.

Pretty soon, my phone was completely speckled due to the ravages of sundry pocket items, like keys, change and not to mention its holy dip in the Arabian Sea. The crack looked ever widening and nothing could arrest its growth, when a ray of radio wave loomed over the horizon. My Aunt, who was using the same model, junked her phone and gave it to me to cannibalize.

Crunch time. Could I do it? Could I transplant my old phone in to a new body? Break the barriers of medical technology and give my trusty companion a new lease of life? Only way to do it, open it up.

I went down to my house gods and prayed for guidance. Went to the phone and said to it,” Moon dear, we have to do it. Can you trust me on this?” It rang its sweet melody, announcing the call of a very near and dear one. Taking it as a sign, I got my old rusty set of screw drivers out of the drawer.

Opened it up and what do I see? Water stains on the key pad and sand under the circuit board. No wonder it was acting so funny. Very gingerly I unscrewed the whole innards of it and placed it in the receptacle already ready for it in the new one. Done! Operation successful. Shut the red light off and called a couple of my friends. The phone was working; it looked better and sounded better too!

All my friends were amazed by this new looking beast in my pocket. She could not help but trill happily whenever some one admired her looks.

July in Mumbai; just came back from a trip to Uttaranchal and places up north. The gods were trying to tell me something, every where I went; I missed a flood, either by distance or by timing. Finally, it caught up with me. July 26 was one of the rainiest days in the history of Mumbai, upwards of 900 mm of rainfall was recorded on this day.

Once again, my lifeline worked full time, keeping my family and friends updated about my status in my quest for continued sustenance of life in this water logged city. I packed up and prepared for a trip down stream to my home. Halfway done the seven odd kilometers I had to wade, what do I feel? A familiar tingling sensation on my hip. Uh-oh! Water on the phone again.
With grim foreboding in my heart I trudged back home and opened the packet. My poor friend was shuddering again, like an angry bee in a small jar.

With old experience, I separated it from its battery and left it to dry. Now its health just went downhill. It could not sustain its charge throughout the day and would go to sleep in about five or six hours itself. If I talked at all in to it, it would stay awake for lesser periods of time. I was down to using two batteries on a single day, keeping them both charged for emergencies.

Still I did not let it go. Finally one day, I was asleep, when I felt a haunting beauty intrude my dreams. She said to me,” Till when, oh dear one, are you going to keep me alive? I’ve lost my original body, you have given me a new heart and you keep me on juice for hours on end. Let me be. I want to rest now. Three years I gave you my last bit. I strained each sinew in my antenna to get you the network coverage you needed. I let you make cheap calls to her when you needed it the most. I never let anyone else hear what you had to say. Let me go.”

Saddened by this plea, I agreed. Got myself a new phone and updated my phone book. Late at night yesterday, I completed entering the last number of my phone book and then shut it off. Climbed in to bed, mind awhirl with memories of all those friends, whom I had not called in ages, I finally drifted off to sleep.

I dreamt a final goodbye, my dear mistress of communication in her silvery gown floating up to meet Dhirubhai.

Zen and Dentistry.

2006-05-21T22:07:00.000+05:30

A few days back, I had the misfortune to chip my tooth. Suddenly a whole new vista opened in front of me. A vista of pain. Not a very welcome one, but educating nonetheless. The next few lines deal with how Vibhu da brahman found pain and then dealt with it.

It was dinner time and I was eating the South Indian staple meal ender, Curd Rice or as we like to call it Majge Anna. It is nothing special, just simple steamed rice with lots of cool curds or yoghurt, salt to taste and a dash of the house pickle. As you can imagine, weak teeth should be safe with this soft, gooey combo right? Wrong. One bite into this gruel and a sudden flare of pain.
Now, I have heard people describe pain in colors, so here goes.. It was white hot one moment and then receded to a dull mauve (sounds really sophisticated, Mauve, roll the sound off your tongue) and when I was brushing my teeth, a giant fireball right in front of my face.

Every guy has this macho image of himself being able to stand pain with a grin. Right now my grin was looking very disturbingly like a cross between a whimper and a grimace. So told myself, Vibhu da Brahman, shame on you, a tooth-ache getting you down? All 180 cm, 80 Kilos of you?
So decided to set my jaw and grit my teeth and show my mouth who is the boss.

Well.... bad move. All this setting the jaw and gritting the teeth is good enough if you have got Dabur or Colgate teeth, but with teeth that chip with Curd rice, bad mojo. Another white flare, mauve and great fireball later, I was swooning on my bed. Wondering how I will survive the night, before I can get to the dentist.

So, lying on one side was thinking of ways to get my mind of my teeth. I discovered that my brain actually loves my teeth and it is disgustingly hard to get it thinking of anything else. (No wonder I am fat! My brain keeps feeding the mouth so my teeth do not get bored.) I recalled all the ching pong movies I had seen as a child. Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee never felt pain. They conquered it as only the ching pongs can. So, I started ticking of the various chinkie methods of alleviating pain.

Acupuncture was out. No way was I sticking needles on myself. So tried acupressure. I jabbed, pressed, massaged all my toes, extremities and various other reachable parts of my body, but nothing helped. Went and burnt paper messages hoping the ching Gods will take away my Indian pain. Sadly no go and no show. Though my mom did come out and was happy to see me burning incense and prostrating before the house gods. Little did she know!

Then I hit on Zen and the art of pain control. Doused the fires and stuck the Incense on a holder and rushed to my room. Assumed a warrior stance, feet at shoulder width, hips bent, fists out at waist level. Evenly poised to spring like a dragon and crush ten enemies. All for one chipped tooth. Then I started intoning, pain is good, pain is your friend, find the pain and pull it in. Pain makes you a better fighter. Pain is good, pain is your friend, find the pain and pull it in. Pain makes you a better fighter. Pain is good..... Well all I got from that was achy hips. It is actually hard to bend your hips when you are this, how can I put it, X axially expansive.

Disgusted with Zen, I got back in bed and started thinking. The pain was driving me nuts and glimpses of my life were flashing by me. All those candy and the ice creams, the sugar treats, stuff my dreams were made of, suddenly got horns and turned in to nightmares. Then out of nowhere a snippet of information flew out of the recesses of my mind. I had read somewhere that Sexual thoughts usually drives any other thought from your mind. It was supposed to be a biological thing. No wonder Biologists are so thoughtful and distracted.

Latching on to this thought as a god send, I started intoning Beautiful, Blonde Bombshell on your Bedside or BBBOYB. My mind started a ten speed preview of all the BBBs I had ever seen or dreamt of. Found one and then concentrated hard. Suddenly BBBOYB was happening. The fireball was turning in to tendrils of beautiful blonde hair. Then just when I thought I had it licked, (the pain, that is) I smiled at my BBB and wham! mauve again. All of a sudden, the blonde and the fireball merged and my pain was worse off now.

Tossing and turning I somehow managed to fall asleep. Woke up in the morning with a funny feeling in my mouth. Sent my tongue to explore it, bad move.. The world turned hazy and I started whimpering, again. Managed to brush my teeth, have my coffee and started calling friends up for dental references.

Located one near my residence and got an appointment that very evening. The rest of the day was spent looking like a gorrila with piles during berry season. Then came the acid test. Got to the dentist and sat on his chair. Opened wide and guess what happened. I saw him smile. Not a very pleasant smile. A, Now I can send my son abroad for further studies or finally Seychelles here I come! smile. The dentist was wearing his mask, so caught the smile slightly muffled, but it was there nevertheless.

The dentist asked me how I felt and I gave him the look. He saw it and immediately started working. He started dictating to his assistant and giving me a running commentary. No.5 is chipped and needs a RC (root canal), left molar gone. I said no, then he gave me a look and poked with his metal thingie. A flare and then I said ok, left molar gone. By now I could actually see/feel my pretty little green C notes flying away on pigeon wings.

He worked his magic, snapped a couple of X rays and scheduled ten visits for me on his dairy. I gasped, Ten!! I asked. Then he made me lie down again on the chair, handed me a hand mirror and showed me. With his metal thingie. There are some things a man should never have to see too often, I believe that sight may have put me off dentition for life. He patted my shoulder and said, son, you do not worry. In the end, it will all look natural. That will be Rs.500, please.

I paid up and left. Ten visits later, I was actually feeling good. The RCs were not so bad, He worked hard and fast. My pretty little C notes did complete their migration from one bank account to another, but in the end I could chew on both sides of my mouth and actually feel all my teeth healthier. My brain was happy, I was happy.

One side effect though. Now for some strange reason, whenever I see a beautiful blonde on the telly, my teeth are set on edge and I have to change channels.. Whatever can the reason be??

Jalgaon - Self Realisation.

2006-05-17T23:32:00.000+05:30

Just went on a trip with my Area Manager to Jalgaon. It is a town about two fifty kilometers away from Nashik, a town that is about 300 kilometers from Mumbai, that is about three thousand kilometers from Delhi and so on and so forth.

There were no train tickets available, so booked a couple of seats in a "luxury" bus. Non Air Conditioned and seats from hell. Started off at night hoping to reach by early morning. Grab couple of hours of sleep and then attack the seminar like the very devils. By the prerogative of being my boss, he cornered the window seat. The bus was late and then we started at around 10 p.m. We still had a window of a couple of hours before the seminar.

Then we embarked on a trip of self realization. I really discovered what a great conversationalist I am that day. One moment he is awake and the next, bang asleep. I spent the whole of next day trying to discover the magic sentence that turned him out like a candle in the wind!

When I realized that my comments and intellectual treatises were falling on deaf ears, I decided to make myself comfortable and go to sleep. But, darn it, when can you ever sleep when you really need it? Suddenly this guy wakes up sneezing and everything and I discover that he has a dust allergy and can't take the window anymore, so we exchange seats and miracle or miracles, I fall asleep.

The next thing I know is that our great Sol is shining on my face and my boss is greatly worried. I ask him where we are and what we are doing there and he replies that we were stuck in a traffic jam outside Nashik for about five hours in the night and yes the strange clicking sound I was hearing in my dreams was him biting his nails to the quick.

Now this guy is really wrought up because the seminar cannot start without him and we are already about three hours late. The driver on guessing our predicament, then starts stopping for everything from breakfast, to fuel, to admiring the morning scenery and cool breeze.

Before my boss could start gnawing on his fingers, with my great presence of mind, I remind him to call our colleague and ask him to hold fort. Then I suggest getting coffee and breakfast at the pit stop. We place the order and start talking shop, when our neighbor in the bus orders breakfast. He gets it and we are still waiting. So call the owner of the restaurant and guess what? No more breakfast. Being too polite to bash him up, we just utter a few choice multi lingual and multi racial swear words and drink our coffee and leave.

Then our colleague calls up and tells us that only five people have turned up for the seminar. Cannot back out now so we put our best grins and rush to the hotel. We greet our colleague and ask him to distract the people, saying we will join him in about 15 minutes. Rush to the shower and get ready. Thank fully no surprises there.

We hurry to the seminar and start it. I really do not have much work out there, so am relegated to collecting information about the people who have attended so we can follow up later. I do that and get to meet the people really up close. There is this girl whose father is in the Government or something and she is really ogling my boss! He is saying to me, I am married and why is she looking at me so? That too with her Pops sitting next to her!

I move on and there is this cute little family. The mother and father have come with their deaf child. Now the child is as smart as can be, but severely deaf so cannot vocalize clearly at all. Making sounds like Atta, Atta with a huge grin. They have another toddler in the mother's arms.

Now as we all know, children relate quickly to people their equal in mental ages. I discovered that I have much in common with three year olds. Naturally the harassed mother, when she found that I am having so much fun with her kid, turned her completely over to me and gave her full attention to what my colleague was saying on the dais.

Now I have a child roughly my equal in intelligence and who is having a blast on finding a playmate larger than her father. So we end up playing hide and seek, peek a boo, catch my hand, tickle my arm pits and other interesting games of our childhood. Then I discover another trait in me. I cause Micturition Vidyabhusanis.. that for the uninitiated is the urge to pee whenever you are close to me! Thrice in an hour and growing at the rate of two more in the succeeding hours. The mom is so hassled, that she just takes off the child's pants and lets her "go" free. I catch myself just in time wishing that I could be so "free". Such thoughts are dangerously corrupting.

Finally we wrap up the seminar and its actually a better success than we had hoped. Now I think is the time for lunch. But my boss is already missing his wife, (I think the girl gave him the heeby jeebies) so off I am sent to book a cab for us to Nashik, air conditioned, thank you. So after making him poorer by about two grand, we leave for Nashik.

So when I am trying to weave my spell of words, the car starts swaying, swerving and braking hard. Then we go over a bump and I look back and there is a pig twitching on the road and a driver twitching behind the wheel. So I calm him down and when he is slowing down to inspect the damage, my boss is leaning out of the window, telling him that there is no damage and to move on.

We reach Nashik by about seven thirty p.m. Definitely time for lunch, as you can guess he had not allowed the driver to stop anywhere in between. My boss was rushing to the cab stand so we could move on to Mumbai, but I put my foot down and dragged him to the nearest hotel so we could eat. While I was ordering, he disappeared out of sight and arrived huffing just when food was being brought to the table. I cocked an eyebrow and he said that there are cabs available and we need to rush to beat the jam back. I told him that it was Saturday night and all the people of the world were sitting down to their beers and tandooris, but he would not listen. A Brahman finding food after twenty hours and was still forced to force it down his throat. I think his karma is really going to suffer because of that for reincarnations to come.

Finished dinner and then rushed to the stand. Booked the whole cab to discover that we are Rs.300 short. Before any one can say anything, he hares off to the nearest rickshaw stand and goes to an ATM. Finds one, withdraws money and comes right back.

Have loaded the cab already and when he pays and gets in, tell him that we could have paid in Mumbai or got the cab to go to the ATM and paid him there. When he hears that, all he does is ask the driver to make the trip without any pit stops whatever. Hey Ram! I do not know about the rest of you people, but AC cars always make me want to pee at least once in every couple of hours and its a five hour journey!

Somehow I get him to agree to a stop and go lighten myself. Then using the magic of my conversation, I manage to put him to sleep. I nod off myself and before we know it, we are in Chembur, Mumbai, which is about fifteen kilometers from my home, which is about seven kilometers from Downtown and all that.

Therefore, I conclude at the end of the whole shebang that,

1. I can put grown men to sleep with the power of my words.
2. I can make small kids pee with the power of my presence!

All hail VibhuDaBrahman!
Alark Niranjan!

Satisfied customer!

2006-05-11T22:27:00.000+05:30

I joined a new company last month. A company that markets a medical device that helps profoundly deaf people hear again. It is a cochlear implant, which to put it very roughly, replaces a non working part of our inner ear. This device gives very good results esp for little kids between the age of one to ten.

One day I had to attend the switch-on of one such kid. The switch-on is a process in which the external and internal parts of the device are connected (usually three weeks after the surgery) and it is 'switched on'. This means that the person will start hearing, again, from the implanted ear.

So, there I was, delivering all the accessories that come with the package. And here is this cute round faced kid, with bright shiny eyes, looking at all the goodies and trying to muster enough courage to handle them. So, naturally I handed them to him to keep on his desk.He turned bashful and ran to his mom, peeping from behind her at all the packages.

Soon all the packages were checked against the delivery note. We moved on to the programming room. Since this is the first time the child was going to hear from his damaged ear, we have to map the speech processor of the device to prevent scaring him with too much sensory input.

Usually its done by connecting the processor to a computer and different sounds are passed to the implant. The subject is then asked to mention which sound he / she hears. This way we are able to measure the personal lower and upper level of audible sound.

Everytime he heard a sound, he would raise his hand and it would be like an inner light would turn his face on. He seemed so happy on hearing, that he would keep raising hands for every sound we made, like a laugh or a word to some one else standing in the room.

When we had mapped and had our fun with the kid. I had to explain the function of each and every accessory. The audiologist, who was working on the case, did the explaining and everytime she spoke, this kid kept saying..." Mom, pay the uncle, I can hear!!"

First time in my sales career ever has a customer said to me, this works, please take the money. Have begged, grovelled, threatened even for payment, but this spontainiety in such a small kid, never.

Furkaan, May your life be long and may you always hear. I did not know you and had never met you before.. but you have made me happy in ways you cannot imagine.

Peace be to your family and may Allah always be merciful to you.

Vibhu

Indian Democratic Policy!

2006-05-10T08:55:00.000+05:30

Well a new day and a new morning. Woke up with sleep in my eyes and coffee in my thoughts. Remembered, mom is out so made my cuppa myself. Got it nice, hot and strong and settled to glance through the newspaper headlines before moving on to the important parts of life, the funnies and movies list.

On the first page itself, there was this huge SC order stating that "Poverty is no excuse for encroaching on Government Land" Our learned justices even made a pithy comment, " They will squat on the SC itself, move in to the counsel's home" This seemed interesting.

We Mumbaikars have a long long history with encroachments. Its become so, that we fail to find any legal buildings in many parts of this great city. Even the land where our society is built upon had been encroached. A long, strenuous fight for a decade, led to their magnanimously vacating 75% of land that was not theirs and keeping 25%. Our corporator acted as if this was a favor he was granting us. They also reserved the right to produce night soil right in front of our homes so that we could in essence be part of the big happy neighbourhood. People who could afford bikes, television and refrigerators, did not want to contribute Rs10 every month to build a public toilet for themselves.

So as you can imagine, how happy I was to read the SC order. Then came the catch phrase.. "Public Land". You cannot encroach on public land, but private land is a completely different issue. Then, the matter needs compassion for their poverty, their right to a decent living and need for a more convenient locality. Private landowners who sometimes have spent their lives trying to build a decent home in this exorbitantly expensive city, have to live with the fact, that someone is shitting on their millions worth of real estate. But not so the government. While all encroachments are bad and need a solution, why should the brunt of rehabilitation fall on the private landowners? Agreed some of them have excess land, but last time I checked being rich was not a crime. Trying to make profit of something that is legitimately yours to offer is called business, I think. Stronger laws should be able to prevent people from misappropriating government lands, be they Millionaires or Millionhairs, this way we can ensure that land which is ours stays ours, no matter what some politician, bureaucrat or local slum lord says.

But no, SC is not interested in applying the same laws across the board. Some or the other extenuating circumstance arise to ensure that government, which just by virtue of being elected gets more preference than the common man who is just the nation, an intangible commodity. The Govt is the payer of salaries, so obviously the master of the judges. This may not stop the judges from ruling against the Govt most of the time, but real politic would demand that they bend some of the time.

Another issue that always rankled is the oft beaten issue of affirmative action, called reservation. Envisaged by the father of our constitution as a fast track method to integrate repressed sections of our society with the mainstream, it has been flogged like a dead horse on steroids. Somehow a legislature meant to expire after 10 years, has been renewed for the last 50 years or so. Expanding in scope and damage, a shining example how even a good law can become devastating in the hands of politicians.

Case in point, Karnataka. Will be brief and concise.
Med School of two types, Aided and Unaided. Reservations of 50% in both. Aided conducts its own entrance exam, as does the unaided. If a reserve category student, fails to get a seat in the aided coll, where education is subsidised, then he is given a seat in the unaided coll. The disparity in fees which runs to hundreds of thousands of rupees will be paid direct by the government. So now the case is like, my friend who has gotten better marks in a more competitive group, will not get a seat and on top of that his tax money will actually pay for the education of someone who does not deserve the seat as much as he does. Double whammy or what?

But in a democracy, you have to live with this. You just cannot assume with great freedom comes great intelligence. Till the fact the reserved people understand that reservations are just removing the incentive to compete and make a mark for themselves, they are not going to improve either their lot or their society's lot. Our politician who actually cannot see further than the poll booth, continue to propagate the myth that reservation is the fast track to education. You do not need good primary and secondary education. It does not matter if you do not know basic biology or mathematics, we will make you doctors and engineers. But please do not treat us or build our homes, we are politicians, we have to have "phoren" treatment for our colds and coughs. International architects without affirmative action universities are going to build our illegal buildings. All you have to do is vote for me. I will take care of the rest.

Take care all, peace be to my backward friends
Vibhu

Friends, Colleagues and Ex-Bosses

2006-05-02T22:33:00.000+05:30

Meaning to write in for a long time. Its been a time of flux in my life, changed jobs and all the other things that go with it.

This piece is dedicated to all the great people and the not so great people I worked with in my last job. It was a great place, peopled with a young group of hard workers, who made my stay with them memorable if not happy.

Let me start with my immediate cabin members, the list included NJ, DM, Shashi Pujari (he never had an acronym to his name, too bad), Lintu (if he had the time, inclination and the energy to commute from way beyond mumbai to arrive at the office, on time).

I got along famously with DM and Shashi, Lintu was like a great friend. Lint and I got along so well, that when together, the cabin was always so noisy that DM had a head ache. Shashi, was low on the totem pole so his problems do not get a mention over here. Never was a day when Lint and I did not have fun at the expense of DM, parodying his favorite songs, clicking funny photos on his mobile phone, even recording risque songs for his entertainment and embarassment. His love life (or lack thereof) always got adequate coverage in these sessions.
Dabbas and lunches were a grand affair, with we two cornering the lions share.

Then there were the others, Sanjay Testroom in-charge, pravin, vishal and our resident 'special' narender (ya the guy with the bald head down below). These were my friends in the service department. Hung out a lot with Vish and Narru. Pravin was the punctual guy leaving at dot 6 pm so never got much out of him. It always used to be me, vish and Narru at any get together.. with me and vish palnning to start Narrus family for him!

One of the very important person was our resident god father! Tall claims of making a temple at his home town, gypped fifty bucks out of me. Have not seen a brick of it yet! Been almost a year.

Then there was this sweet girl, Ms Pratibha Borade or PB, who always used to say that I remind her of her brother. Well shes getting married and all the best to her and her PAN, may they always be happy.

Arun, a great guy in the back office, always hassled by my demands of PLs, leaflets and what not. May you find peace and happiness bro. God speed.

There were others too, Abdul Bhai, Babu bhai, Guruji in the factory. Too bad could not say good bye, may you all forgive me.

Rakesh, Dheeraj and Santosh Ghadi, their lunch at 12.30 always saved my eternally hungry soul. Food for a brahman, may their karma be always very bright. They even had the courtesy to inform me in advance when they got non veg food.

Mamta, the receptionist, My village person, zeroxes, faxes and a smile with a booming voice.. hope you are doing good!

Raju the peon, owes me fifty bucks, have let it go. Got me water and coffee whenever I used to need it. Peace with you man.

Then there was our Sir, Mr Hemant Shah. A lot have I learnt from him. Ethics, hard work, openness to new ideas. Criticisms, jokes and all. He is the person who gave me the job in the first place. Gave me a lot of songs too. Discussed issues with me, when he could have relegated them to others in the office. I have always respected and admired him. May you always be happy and your dreams for Medica be ever bright and successful.

Sachin Shetye, hmm.. our technical manager. Hard working, smart and intelligent. Never spoke much, was kind of reserved. Believes Tendulkar should be rested or (horrors) resign on his own!

Santosh Chauhan.. well the accounts guy.. hopes he pays me my dues!!! Will write after the cheque's in. ;-)

NJ, never got along well with him. Dont know what went wrong, but then never cared enough, I guess. Is arrogant sometimes and does not always do what is best for the team. Has the smarts to make it, but needs to remember that other people are important too. My fault was that I could also not give it my best whenever I had him over me. Maybe I Need to work on my people skills. Believes Tendulkar is god of Indian Cricket.

To all at medica, had fun, have moved on. Will remember some of you, some will be lost in the sands of time.

Take care all, peace to you.

India, My dream.

2006-04-18T20:55:00.000+05:30

This is with reference to a forward I got, from a guy I did not know, complaining about the people of my country. This is what I have to say to all of those out there. If they can educate me, my comments section is on, but I reserve the right to judje and judje I will.

How does it feel? Living in a cushy apartment in a town or city (in India or outside) to read about the problems that are there. Dire statements of corrupt politicians, policemen, doctors and what not? A new breed of politicians coming up to lift us out of this quagmire. Any PR person worth his salt will tell us that the first thing a product or a brand needs is a major disaster or apocalypse, from cosmetics to cars, this stands true. Show them the worst and tell them how they can improve the situation. Make it sound plausible and then results invariably follow. The deed may be done in the best interests, but still it is a very clever piece of crowd control. I dont need any politician to tell me whats wrong with the country and how he can cure us with my money. I see nothing wrong in my country. It has great people, a nation full of billion people, i see nothing wrong in a few lakh rotten apples. Its the same everywhere.

Pols.. Laloo revolutionises Indian Railways. First time in 50 odd years, making a profit. Trains are on time, fares reduced, more goods, more connectivity. Sure he's biased towards Bihar etc, but he's done good work. Did you expect that?

Police.. pay them a few hundred bucks per day. Yes about 150 odd for 18 hrs duty. No free stores that they can shop for, no place to live, no scholarships for their children, no treatment for their psychological ills. Hounded by people they serve, harrassed by their masters, where do they go? How do you survive in Mumbai city with just a few thousand bucks? And branded corrupt by some idealistic IIT prick all at one go? If I was one of them, I would definitely know a few cells that needed populating.

Traffic, how many times have I doubled parked, cut lanes, parked in a no parking zone, I don't even know. How many times do you think they have been transferred because the pol on the road did not get to his meeting in time, they do have genuine needs, the pols, they are actually running the country. How many times have I been let go, because I was contrite and promised never to do so again, how many times has my car not been towed because it had puja stuff and the puja was going to start in about fifteen minutes, how many times have I not been fined, because I was driving my girl to a meeting and was in a rush, I really do not know or care to count, and branded corrupt in one go.. man I would tow away his bike/cycle/hand cart and make him appear at court.

My country does not need a quick fix or even a slow fix. It is working, times are changing, I did not have to bribe anybody to get my pass port, DL or Pan card. They were not courteous, but neither were they rude. They did their jobs, that's more than what I need, do I need a smile? I need a smile like I need a drunk next to me in the train. If I need a smile, I turn on the TV or look up at the Close-Up hoarding.

India works guys. People do get rich the legit way, if they do not, too bad they didn't try hard enough. There are people who need help. There are people who dont. Dont curse a system for its few ills, democracy is like that, perfect in its imperfections. Only the people in the system know how difficult it is to Jugad the country into the 7% growth that we have. I now know enough bureaucrats to have an inkling.

Politicians are just the face of the people. If you want to change the system, work in the government instead. Join the IAS/IPS or whatever acronym you want. Work hard, be clever, use politics become a director or a secretary or whatever, then change the world. Don't even have to join the government, shit, start a company, make enough money and there are people out there who will give you a city to rule, case in point Narayan Moorthy, he was for a short while the CEO of Blore, can you beat that? Too bad he quit, but hell, he was given the chance was he not? Did we need to elect him? Nope. Aziz Premji says, roads are bad, the next pol that gets elected, promises to spend whatever it takes to fix them, good intentions, bad people. If in about 15 roads at least 10 get fixed this time round, the law of averages would say that in the next five years the next five will get fixed too.

One person/ party can never be able to relate to a country as diverse as ours. I will vote for the IIT guy, because I am selfish enough to realise that educated people know what are the problems that I face. How in the blue blazes is the scion of a premier Indian Technological institute understand, what superstitions, religions and the intangibles mean to the average Indian? Education is a dream to most of us, work is the reality. Grow food, eat, make love and babies. Go to any village, does the tractor help? Why, because god wanted it to. Can an educated guy understand, really understand? Status quo is cherished by many of us, because good intentions do change a bad life for worse many a times. Case in point, Narmada dam, we need the water, the electricity, they need their homes of about a million years. What do we do? What is right? Nothing is right or wrong, but life moves on. Whether or not the dam is built, life will move on. It will be good, because I want it to be good. Not because some guy is going to tell me that now I can be happy.

Archimedes was right, give me a lever and I will move the world, but find the right lever, sending money is not going to change a thing neither is joining a party. In a democracy if you cannot relate to all the billion people, nothing is going to happen. Our country runs on compromises, it can be perfect for me, but do not tell me ever that it's going to be perfect for all. Human suffering is written for us, utopia is not what we need, we need a life, and do we have it, hell yeah!

Oh, but can't I change my constituency for the better? One constituency in lakhs, open your eyes they are already there.Perfect constituencies, there are enough good pols in this country to ensure that. Its the big ones that matter, for that you need the support of more than people, you need to be strong, smart, cynical, make money out of it. Nothing motivates people more than money, its the original sin. Thou shalt not covet and all that. You need to work with corruption, use it and not throw it away. Be real, corruption is as old as the barter system, it is going to stay, you can change the face of it, but then the esse of it will still be there. Absolute power corrupts, even chosen ones.

I know of enough corrupt politicians who do everything they can for their constituents, give them jobs, make good roads, renovate temples etc, if every little bit matters, should that not be a credit to them?

Too long and to passionate, may not do anything I have written, but maybe thats my fault, I do not want people trying to make me feel guilty for being wrong, I am free thats my right.

Take care all, peace to my nation.

2006-04-14T12:48:00.000+05:30

Shes it!

Buying a bike!

2006-04-14T12:41:00.000+05:30

Hmmm, buying a bike is always a difficult decision. Being young, upwardly mobile (hopefully) and desirous of female attentions, you are pulled apart by the forces of economy and future matrimony! So, one day I decided to be the smart one and shortlist all the models that I could possibly desire and own.

The great Indian bike scene has a whole gamut of bikes for the petrol crunchers. These fall in the sub 100 CC, to the 110CC category. These are the bread and butter of the motoring companies. Staid looking cheap to own and run (in most cases) these usually have no oomph value, depending solely on their ability to stretch a buck. So this whole category was out first go.

The second segment seems to be the executive segment. The 125 - 135 CC bikes. These are slightly better looking, more equipment levels and definitely more power. Can even make it to 100Ks some times with no hustling and lots of space. Naahhh!

The third is the executive segment. This is the 150 CC segment. With names like Pulsar, Unicorn, Apache and Achiever doing the rounds. Promising mileage and power, these are slightly larger bikes, more comfortable and more powerful. These bikes touch 100Ks regularly with no issues at all. The main issue with these bikes is that they are the preferred choice of every wannabe biker on the street and one tends to get lost in the crowd. The other problem is that at my current salary levels, these are the only sensible choice! Sense and sensibility, that’s more Jane Austen than Harley Davidson I suppose.

The fourth and the last segment, is the segment where all the larger bikes fall. These range from 180 CC to anything like 1000CC and up. Depending on the Moolah. These bikes are fast, they make a statement. They are soul bikes. They make you start clubs when you purchase one. (no wonder, some of these bikes are more expensive than real estate) . They make you race, rally and be the nature spirit, all while commuting to work. These are the old bikes, the Royal Enfields, the Big Yamahas, Hondas and Suzukis.

My heart also came over a Royal Enfield. it’s a 350 CC, 18 BHP. 5 speed mammoth of a bike. Weighing in about 180Kgs, it has gas shock absorbers, a disc brake and an electric start. It sounds like heaven and seats two as if on a royal palanquin. Its smooth on the roads, heavy on the pockets. It is temperamental, moody and great looking. Lots of chrome and a red finish. The best thing about it is, that my whole family is against it. Right from my nearest ancestors to distant twigs of the ole family tree, like cousins second or third removed.

So what will I do? What every smart man does before he goes and buys a bike. Ask my girl friend!

My brother's recipe for Chocolate Fudge.

2006-04-07T15:04:00.000+05:30

Mom and I were talking one day of old times. If there is one thing mom likes, then it is any of my friends praising her cooking. She makes a mean chocolate fudge and it is an eternal favorite in our friend circle.

One fine day, mom had just finished a batch and we had just finished that batch, when my bro’s friend piped up, Aunty, how do you make this stuff any ways. While my Mom modestly was murmuring that it is nothing, just something she picked up, my Brother said, its not that tough, any one can make it.

Now his friend was of the serious kind and therefore enquired as to the secret processes that helped manufacture such precious foods. Here is what my bro had to offer:

Ingredients:

One packet Cocoa powder (dark chocolate, Cadbury make)
One tin condensed milk, my recommendation, Nestle.
One packet white butter (Not the Amul one)
Sugar to taste
Nuts and other assorted dry fruits like raisins etc
A wok to cook it all in, hopefully something that is really old and has been used for such enterprises before. (Theory being, if the tools themselves knew what to do, then the human would not have to do much.)

Method:

Take Wok out of the shelf. Dust it, if you are up to it, wash it too. Other wise a thorough dusting is enough (heat sterilizes).
Take butter out of the plastic or steel container in which it is usually stored. Rinse it once to start it melting nice and easy.
Open the tin of Nestle condensed milk.
Place wok on the stove.
Light the stove using matches or any electric lighter usually kept handy in all kitchens.
Empty tin of Nestle on to the wok.
Start stirring gently using a brass spoon, for that earthy flavor.
Using a spoon, spoon the butter in to the milk. Use the thumb rule; if you think it is too much, then it probably is. Go easy on the butter it, will be better for your cholesterol.
Add as many spoons of sugar as you feel like. Sugar never killed anyone.
Cut the packet of Cocoa powder. Use sharp scissors; they work best. Avoid personal injuries. In case of accidents, please do not forget to turn the stove off.
Empty the pack in to the wok. Start mixing vigorously. The mixture should be of a thick consistency.
Add nuts to taste.
Now the most important step. Go to the house temple and Pray.

In case your prayers are answered and you have succeeded in making the fudge, please call me.

I think this still works.

Potty Trainers!

2006-03-24T21:20:00.000+05:30

It all started in a board room in Japan. It is a big corporation with presence in almost all spheres of industry. From electronics, automobiles to music. One newly inducted member of the decision making team had finally scraped enough courage to put forward his favorite idea. With a lot of bows and respectful intonation, he convinced the samurais of the company to assign a measly budget almost equal to the annual GDP of Seychelles. For potty trainers.

Off he went scrambling to the vast glass building that housed the R and D section of the organization. There he sought out another young inductee. They sat down and designed a revolutionary new machine. A plastic potty that played music whenever you used it. Initial cost estimates put the production costs at under a dollar and about ten dollars at advertising and publicity. This was good, very good. Initial market surveys indicated that they had a good chance of selling it for not less than $300. That’s about almost a three hundred percent profit. The samurais would be pleased.

When the product was through the development stage, they encountered a small problem. What to use as music for the potty. The R and D guy was a huge fan of an obscure artist, who at one time was so popular that there was scarcely a country which had not heard or hummed his songs. Back to the main office and searched the company’s database for records of the artist’s association with the company. Not surprisingly, he was on the company’s rolls. So a song (which at its time was No.1 in U.S, U.K and other music charts.) was selected and incorporated in the system, which with usual Japanese efficiency had quite good music quality. Even for $1 they built good stuff.

So, as part of the marketing blitz, a young Japanese American was sent off to the artist’s home town to secure his approval. He was sent with a simple directive, get it. He needed no other. So the Artist’s agent was called and a meeting set up. When the idea was proposed, the artist actually exploded. But, the agent knew he wanted the money. So he got him to agree and thus the Potty trainer was actually ready for marketing. Quickly an ad was made with the artist promoting. The rationale being that the fans who had listened to him would now be old enough to have young children needing potty training.

The product was a huge success. Millions and millions of potty trainers were sold in the US. Pretty soon if your child was not potty trained on this potty trainer, he could not be admitted to a school, the neighbor’s child’s birthday party or in to any restaurant, airplane or public place. Soon, there was an ancillary business of nannies who certified the presence of potty trainers in homes and vouched for the habits of their young charges.

It became so huge that soon there was a backlash against it. The people oppressed by the frequent price revisions and legislations denying the pottily underprivileged access to schools and library rioted on the streets. The government finding it cheaper to pass legislation to restrict potty trainers than fighting its own public, soon passed a bill. The samurai, shrugged and went back to counting his trillions in peace.

Pretty soon the product passed out of the minds of the people and normal ways of teaching toilet habits to children resumed. In the mean time, with the money accrued by endorsing the trainer, the artist hired a great new song writer and PR company. His fame rocketed. For another fifteen years he went on making music, before retiring and counting his millions in peace. With a little PR and money, he soon got MTV to give him a life time achievement award.

The day arrived, the award ceremony was the largest yet. About a 100,000 teens were there in the stadium, chanting and dancing and generally enjoying the show. At the end of it all, when it was announced that the Life Time award went to the artist, they all started wildly calling, “Song, Song, Song”

The artist, pleased as punch, decided to sing his most popular song ever. He signaled to his team, (kept ready for just this contingency) and the opening bars of the song started. There was a stunned silence, the artist pleased at the reception he was getting, launched into the song with full gusto. Soon, the stadium was filled with sounds of zippers and rustling cloth, when the artist opened his eyes, he saw a 100,000 teens showing their training right then and there.

Shoes -1

2006-03-20T20:21:00.000+05:30

What is it with shoe shopping that makes it so hard? Being part of a country with two billion and more feet, should make it easy. The law of averages would say so, wouldn’t they?
Not when the great Mumba devi has her way. This is what happened when I last went shoe shopping….

Fresh from the Bangalore trip, I was flush with funds. My dear Aunt had given me some money specifically to buy shoes. She knew Blore did not have much to offer in terms of shoe fashion, so she left it to my devices on how to utilise the funds.

The day finally arrived. With a match in progress in our great city, I was sure of empty roads and lots of parking. Taking mom along, I went out to buy trousers. Not shoes, but trousers. The destination was a big bargain place, The Loot, where you get good stuff for about 30-40% of the price. After shopping, (successfully) when I was being billed, my eyes fell on the shoe display. Immediately, I felt like buying a pair. So browsed around and selected a design. It was one I had never before considered and usually never bought. But was feeling, what the heck, it looks good so might as well. So asked the friendly shop assistant to get me my size. The shoe on display was my size and I tried it on. It felt good too. So while I was waiting for him to get the other pair, I was looking at other shoes too. One foot in floaters and the other in one of pair of formals. So hopping oddly around, I had come to the conclusion that no other shoe looked as good.

Back to the bench, seated and patiently waiting for the guy to come with the missing shoe. Then he comes. At last I think, well was thinking wrong. I look at his expression, an admixture of sheepishness, chagrin and embarrassment. Hoping against hope, I ask him what’s wrong. He says “Sir, it seems there has been a mix-up, one of the shoes was wrongly kept in another sized box and that box is missing, presumably sold.”

As it was getting for lunch and mom though sweet, did not really like me missing lunches on holidays at least, was waiting. So I asked him to look more thoroughly, maybe it was here, but misplaced. He agreed to do so. I told him I would be dropping by in the evening.

Came home, had lunch and a discussion on the merits and demerits of my trousers with me dad and left again. This time, I went to Colaba to look over there. I did not mind paying more as long as I had what I wanted. But, the great Mumba is nothing if not thorough. The shoes were unavailable anywhere. Desultorily I tried shopping, but my heart was not in it. Returned to the Loot and looked for the assistant. He saw me and immediately started looking chagrined, disappointed and all that. So I assumed no go again. He volunteered to look for it once again. I said ok and busied myself in picking out the best of the rest. The display was poorer by that one shoe though. Picked up three different styles, that were acceptable, hoping to ward off earlier type of luck.

The guy came back and told me no go. So I pointed these pairs instead and told him to fetch these in my size. He immediately brightened up at this chance of redemption and left for the loft where they store the shoes. After an inordinate delay, he came down with the look that seemed to have taken up permanent residency on his countenance now, chagrin, embarrassment and disappointment. What to say, Mumba is great. Has got a funny way of showing that she’s got an eye out for me, but I guess a deity with a sense of humor is better than one without. Especially if you have to live in it’s city.

So sadly I left, did not even pay attention to his explanation, till he offered to call his other stores and order the shoes for me. I already knew by now, that the gods were against me, but he seemed like a nice guy so let him try it.

Now, I have one more believer.

The Bald Head!

2006-03-15T17:12:00.000+05:30

A lot of people have asked me what the head is all about and why I am staring so at it. Well it was indeed a strange if somewhat far fetched, but nonetheless an interesting story being told. The photographer, with a penchant for taking lots of snaps and an itchy shutter finger, captured us in all our glory. It goes some what as follows, its as true as I can make it. Here is what the bald head had to say…

“ By fluke, you (Me, Vibhu) had managed to sell that stupid machine in Assam and it fell on me as the senior service engineer to go install it. So, booked the tickets and went. Did not know how long it would take to install the machine, so did not book the return tickets. Mistake 1.
Got there in one piece, made a few friends on the train, two guys and a hooker. God really wants to test whither my orientation lies, but with my normally shy disposition, I think I have disappointed him yet again.

I went to the hotel, showered changed and went to the college to install the machine. To my horror, I discovered that one very important part was broken beyond repair. What else to do, but sit on my ass and wait for a replacement. I set things up so that when the replacement came, it would take me a minimum amount of time to finish the installation and leave this place.

So back to the hotel, checked in to a smaller, less expensive room to stretch my budget. I calculated I had enough funds to last me 10-12 days without skimping on the food or the sight seeing. So off I was to places of note, in and around the city. It is a beautiful place, with green forests, brimming with spirituality and everything. It is also well provided with lakes, rivers and water bodies that make it a pleasant place to spend time in.

When I had my fill of lakes, rivers and the other water bodies, I found my mind returning to the essential problems of my life. My loss of follicular growth and my growing confusion regarding my sexual orientation. So, in a whim, I asked a local standing there, if he knew any yogi around here, who would answer questions of the soul? With a beaming smile, he nodded his head and agreed to guide me there. He said it was a long route and if I wanted, he knew a cousin/brother of his with a cart. I said why not? Mistake 2.

So we all got in the cart, the smiling guide the taciturn driver and the confused engineer from Mumbai. Pretty soon, we were inside a great deep forest. Green on all sides, north, south, east and west. With just enough light coming in, to emphasize the greenness of the whole place. I was tired by then, all the sight seeing was taking its toll, felt like taking a nap, and then I was not feeling it any more, just doing it. Mistake 3.

Suddenly I woke and found that we had stopped. The friendly guide was missing and there was just the taciturn driver there. I asked where the guide or the yogi was. He just pointed to a small path right in front. I shrugged and went down it. It led to a small clearing with a huge banyan tree at the center. At the foot of the tree, was the selfsame yogi. I could not believe my eyes. At once I prostrated myself at his feet (like I have seen done in immeasurable movies) and asked for his blessings. Before I could get in another sentence, he told me what my problems were and gave me a fruit to quench my hunger. I marveled at his intimate knowledge of my bodily state and hungrily chewed the proffered fruit. Mistake 4. A sudden increase in perception, brought to fore the similarity between the yogi and the guide, not to mention the glimpse of pants under the saffron dhoti. Soon I was drifting off, dreaming my strangely comforting dream of sleeping with Bipasha Basu and John Abraham at the same time.

When I woke, I had a strange tingly feeling all over my body. It felt as if somebody had very gently given me a scrub with a slightly rough pumice stone. When I scratched my head, I was in for a worse shock. My whole scalp felt like a rough sand paper!!! My gently growing strands of silk were no longer in their accustomed places. I was running around distractedly when I heard a noise behind me. It was the guide. I ran towards him with murder on my mind. Here was the one who took my beautiful hair away. Before I could get to two paces of him, I was surrounded by a fence of razors. Very sharp razors. I halted immediately and glared down at him. His genial face had hardened and there was a cold glint in his eyes.

He said. " You are wondering, what and why. I will tell you. We are ‘Ungrow-wadis’ ”. I interrupted,” Don’t you mean ugrowadis?” He made an impatient gesture, as if he had heard the question before and was tired of answering it. “ Ungrow as in the English, Wadis as in the Hindi wadi. We are freedom fighters.” By now I was utterly confused, what could freedom fighters have to do with ungrowing stuff? So I asked and thus he explained. “ We are fighting for our mother land to be free of all alien invaders. People who bring their diseases, corrupt morals etc etc (and so it went for a while. I think it was a speech, well prepared for, but given for the first time.) We have decided that we will shave each and every alien that we can lay our hands on. By this we will force the corrupt, hairy government to fall on its knees and give us our freedom. We have decided to hit them where it hurts the most, their vanity. We are going to target every balding man, woman and child to come in to our beautiful state and shave them all. This way we can both mark them when they are here and also send a strong signal to the government regarding our intentions. I want you to carry your mark to the government and tell them our story. Please do not try and lead them back here, next time you could lose more than all you hair.”

With this strong statement in my ears, he escorted me back to my hotel. I was actually glad that the encounter was at an end. All I wanted was, a shower, a strong drink and bed. The real horror started only when I dropped my clothes in the bathroom and discovered what the guide meant when he said all your hair.

Bangalore and I - Part 1

2006-03-05T12:35:00.000+05:30

Bangalore and I actually go a long way back. As the preferred migration port for many of my relatives who earlier lived in villages in Karnataka, it has quite a collection of my near and dear ancestors and fellow branches of the old family tree. It was and still is the only city in which I have actually gotten lost. Not that losing myself is such a rare occurrence, but till date have never again managed to do that to myself in such urban surroundings.

It’s a dim memory of my childhood, when my family and I were out visiting some of the branches mentioned above, when I took in my head to display the explorer instincts that are the bane of my co-passengers whenever I am ferrying them around, and left the house. It was in a remote suburb of the city and as of then, underdeveloped. Therefore, great empty plots of land filled with beautiful grass and flowers surrounded it. So, unknowingly and unwittingly (sadly a major part of my character build-up) I walked fast and far. Soon, I realized that I had not paid attention to any of the landmarks that ensured your safe return to the place of starting, nor had I unrolled twine to guide me back to square one. I had even forgotten to leave crumbs of bread or other baked produce to act as a guide and lead me back to the kitchen that provided me with it. Now as I had failed to use any of the three tried and tested methods of marking your way, I had to conclude that I was lost. Utterly and completely lost.

So, there I was a cute kid of ten, with twinkling eyes and an open and cheery face, lost in the great city of Bangalore. Calmly I started thinking of my life ahead without parents. How I would have to heave stones and build buildings for the rich of this city, while my parents lost and disconsolate roam around trying to find me. But the months of hard labor and low nutrition would have already transformed me in to a lean mean Amitabh Bachhan, beedi smoking and attitude spewing. Till one day the resident don of the city would take me under his wing, impressed by my English and Hindi speaking abilities, would groom me in the secret arts of war and smuggling and make me the de-facto head of his international operation. Then I would amass lots and lots of wealth, forever forsaken for my family, a sweet memory and nothing else.

It seems while debating the merits and demerits of this life as opposed to the life that was seemingly being laid out by my most proximal ancestors, I had sat myself down on a rock and started contemplating. To my utter surprise, I started hearing trampling and twigs breaking in the near vicinity. Thinking hard about the local fauna of this city, I narrowed the source down to either a buffalo or an elephant escaped from his mahout. With lightning speed, woodcraft was flashing through my brain, whether to run, hide, play dead or climb a tree. Then I heard the strange animal call. It was a strange call, almost human like, bi-syllabic too, strangely sweet sounding and soothing to the ears. It went something like “weee---boooo” repeated constantly.

Then the source of this strange oral emanation was standing in front of me. Towering actually with severe anger in his eyes. Looking up at that moment I was cursing my brain for thinking too much and not acting by climbing that stupid tree or running away. Then suddenly I looked behind and to my great surprise and pleasure, the mate of the being walked right up, eyes that were more easier to behold, with love and sincere concern.

My parents had followed me into the wilderness after discovering that I was back to my usual tricks. It was also very embarrassing to discover that all I had done was walk through the gate and get lost in circles in an empty plot, three plots down the lane. So dragged back by a belligerent father, angered at having to cut short the evening tea and gab session, followed by a smiling mom, I was presented to the great twigs of the family as a butt of jokes to come, while I was protesting that I was not lost, but just contemplating the next great novel that I was writing to change the world.

2006-02-23T20:17:00.000+05:30

Lintu, Deepak and Shashi

Hair Cuts in Mumbai!

2006-02-23T20:02:00.000+05:30

Haircuts in Mumbai. It is a special thing, where all you have to do is go in, gesticulate vaguely when asked to choose between a haircut or a shave, leaving it to the barber and his discretion to do what he will, coz it usually will be a Sunday and you will be in need of both a shave and an hair cut.

You plonk down on the chair and then he ties a nice, clean(if you are lucky) apron/bed sheet thingy around your neck. Water your hair to make it grow longer for the one final mm before he consecrates it to the clean(again fate’s intervention required) floor. Then it is the comb and sickle treatment to the proud growth. After finishing with whatever style and length is best suited to his mood of the day, he will stop tilting your head this way and that. Then will come the process that usually signifies the end of the shortening process and indicates the finishing up of your hair style for the fortnight/month. Bringing out of the Razor. He will slide the old half blade out and put in a fresh one, a swab of Dettol (need I say anything about fortune, luck, destiny etc.?), wet your nape and the side burns and scrape away. He will critically, squinting to measure the length of your hair, make a few scrapes (none too gentle, sharp blade, indelicate hands, lead to nicks all the time) and you are ready to admire your new do.

Out comes the back mirror and your gracious permission/admiration is asked for . This is the last chance for you to get something nicked and tucked, because after the mirror there is no turning back. Then with a flourish he will bring a powder puff , that lies resting on a cup full of ponds or whatever talc has the flavor of the month and vigorously starts brushing the hair off sundry facial parts. Then after all the brushing down of most of the hair cuttings off the apron/sheet, will come the best part. The massage. Surprisingly, the self same hands that give you the nicks, feel great while pounding your head all over the place. It seems like a family secret, that is passed down from barber to barber. Because, I have been to a couple or more barbers and all of their styles are different. If someone prefers the “crooked knuckle over the wet hair” then, there will always be someone from “Straight fingers, steepled over straight head, wetness of the hair notwithstanding” school of massage.

Then with a flourish he will untie the sheet and with a smile bring you back to your feet. He will give you a couple of minutes to critically admire his art. So, you pick the comb up and turn your hair this way and that, while he looks on, sagely giving advice and helpful tips.

The most important part of the hair cut is the conversation,because the barber is the notice board of the neighbourhood. He will ask about your family and how they all are doing. Then the local politics, his family and how proud he is of them. A son in college, a daughter in Med school. He would ask advice on whether he should make his son join a coaching class, because on his income it is a serious investment.

There is always something that draws you in and makes you want to come back to the self same shop time after time. Like his hospitality, when he is busy with another customer and he smiles and asks you to wait, ordering a cuppa for you. I usually do not drink tea, but am never able to refuse or pay.

My barber just left and went back to Gujarat, where his children are. Now in their twenties both are getting settled and wanted their parents with them. I would not even have come to know of it, what with me being out of town for a while and not having an haircut for about three months. I just finished a session with him, my hairs shorter and heart a little heavier, coz now I will have to go to one of those ‘modern’ saloons, where they seem to specialize in fifteen minute hair cuts for fifty bucks.

Good bye dear man, may Gujarati hair fall with the same grace to your scissors like mine did.

Vibhu.

2006-02-21T23:24:00.000+05:30

Guess?

2006-02-19T22:54:00.000+05:30

Me at Kaup!

Marathi Manus!

2006-02-18T19:16:00.000+05:30

Imagine an Industrial area..brings to mind images of factories and sheds, all spewing smoke and effluents into bleak desolate areas, set far away from urban centers. Now cut to Paithan in Aurangabad.. its set far away all right, about two hours bus journey from the main city/town (call Abad what you will, after Mumbai, almost all other cities seem like towns, except maybe for Delhi and Kolkatta).. Got off the State Transport bus, and looked around, it was spooky..green fields, groves upon groves of eucalyptus trees, crisp air, none of the odors or sounds associated with such areas. No chemical smog trying insidiously to strangle you or take a few years off your life, maybe make you impotent or infertile(wot can I say I have a 'fertile' imagination).

So, scared and disoriented by my travel into 'Swades' land, I walk up to the Paan Shop that is bang opposite the stop and standing guard over the main junction leading into the Area. The guy actually smiles looking at me, not the smirk you usually associate with Paan wallahs in Mumbai, usually a cross between a leer and a frown,bespattered with red betel juice..This guy just lit up like I was ambani or something giving him the paan wala contract for the rest of his life for one of my factories or something. Well that smile made me lose my cynicism a little and I grinned back and asked him in Marathi about some of the companies I had to visit. His grin just got wider and he gave me detailed and precise details to all of the addresses. Then he added the score, good news that 4 paki wickets had fallen in the first fifteen overs of the match (India visiting Pak, in case you are out of touch). I just had to buy something then, so got a bottle of water and when I peered in the collect my change, he was actually raising his dabba and plonking it on the counter and asking me to dig into his breakfast! That was a first in a long long time. What can I say Maharashtra is just great! I declined, thanked him and walked on.

I visited the client and all, took me about two hours, so it was about 12 noon when I came out of the building. This is where it got really spooky... not a soul in sight. No rickshaws, no bikes, no nothing. So, what to do, but get walking. The sun was at its zenith, like it is wont at 12 . I shrug off the heat, the Iron man that I am and keep walking. I counted fifteen cows at this stage and keeping in mind my last encounter, I gave a friendly moo to them, to my utter delight they walked off. To really convince that my love affair with inquisitive cows had really ended, i went close to a male calf(do we genderify young cows?) and it skittered away. Hallelujah, bovine love lost. Can mo'oo've on with my life now as a city slicker.

Then I walked some more. The heat was not so easily shruggable now. It was like Helios was really not very pleased with my disdain for his Zenithed rays, so was sending them down with increased vengeance. Then I felt that the human body is made up of 70% or so of water, because I was feeling lighter and my steps were not landing with the same force on the ground. The scientist in me rationalised that about 60% must have turned in to steam and made me in to the human airship i was feeling like. The engineer in me rationalised that the only water evaporating was from my brain, cos I was letting the scientist do the thinking! Then, I hear bells tinkling behind me. Loudly and in tandem. I turn around and what do I see? Two bulls, just like the ones in our ninth grade Geography workbooks pulling a cart. The cart driver was a beturbaned son of the soil. I looked at him and he smiled, whats with these maharashtrians and their smiles, huh? They do it all the time out here. It is great to see. Then he asked me to hop in and asked where I wanted to go. I told him and he actually went out of his way to drop me there. We got talking, and he wanted to know all about the weather in Mumbai and was it any better than here. He was actually also interested in the score, so called mom long distance and updated him. Boy was he happy! He actually invited me home to lunch with him!!!! I was getting lucky with smiles and lunches today..never usually do. But, duty called and had to respectfully decline. Then the company gate came up. I got off the cart and walked up to the security cabin and you should have seen the expression on the gaurds face!

Well then to end it, I met the client. He was heading towards the junction, so dropped me off till the bus stop and what do I see, my paan wallah friend smiling and offering me tea and biscuits! Do wonders never cease? But then my trax came; it is a multi people carrier. We were fourteen in a vehicle supposed to carry eight. Got to the city all crushed. Had a lively discussion whether India would win the match or not, since none of us really knew the score, being patriotic and all, argued that India will win. If this keeps on, my marathi is sure going to improve.

The gods must be happy with me, because pretty soon came upto the hotel and turn the telly on and what do I see, Suresh Raina pulling Imran Farhat for four and cinching the match!!

Well do wonders never cease?

I’ve been Murphied!

2006-02-18T19:01:00.000+05:30

Well every one has an off day once in a while. Its normal and without which we fool hardy ,men and women of Mumbai might start disbelieving in Karma and the Mumba Devi. But sometimes even Mumba devi can take it to extremes. Here’s what happened to me one fine January day. It started off all nice and easy going, with me in the arms of my beautiful girlfriend, when suddenly I realized that the irritating noise that was there in the background was not her talking, but my alarm clock ringing, which alarmingly had stopped. Man was I late! I woke up with a start and the cheery sun was already shining through the windows. Oh Mumba, how I distrust days that start with the cheery sun already beaming down on me, trying to set me up for the great sucker punch of life.

Muttering and cursing, I readied myself to face the vigor’s of the day ahead. Then it hit me, I have to travel at least 50 kms today to meet the client and on top of that have to travel back to office and give a demo to another client who was visiting me. I said to myself, not a serious setback, will go to Taloja (the far off place) put my foot down and ask the client to make some decisions and payments and hurry back to the office, be my normal efficient, ebullient self and sell another piece of machinery and hence end the day with the bang. Well as is usually the case with these days, little did I know. Somehow schedules are followed (at least in Mumbai) by rigorously avoiding a time table. It seems that the city and its atmosphere takes a perverse joy of not letting you stick to your programme when you have planned for it.

I had made the trip a million times before and never had any issues, but this day had to be different. I made it to Taloja in one piece, a little late but not irrevocably so. Met with the client and had the discussion and the foot putting down and all. He asked me to join him for lunch, which I had to very politely refuse even though was famished, to keep to my schedule. Then I left. Was saying to myself, so far so good, just another four hours to go and then I am home free.

Taloja being Taloja is a huge place and very irritating to walk in the noon day sun. So when I espied a gaggle of village belles carrying what seemed like a bunch of sticks on top of their heads, through an unused plot of land on the opposite end of which I could see the main road, I made an executive decision. Me, Vibhu, will also take the selfsame shortcut. So, I navigated through the weeds and crossed the plot. The belles were giving me strange looks when I crossed them, but I attributed it to my good looks and great personality(maybe they were more in tune with the Great Mumba‘s feelings). At this moment the road was looking very close and I was congratulating my self at my innate ability to reduce my walk load by being smart about opportunities. Something about the eagle eyes of Vibhu not missing the slightest detail in the environment and drawing correct work saving conclusions from it was also passing through my brain(little did I know that heightened perception coupled with sub standard intelligence is double edged sword, gifted by the great Mumba, when she’s bored and wants to have some fun).

Just before the road, I saw a ditch. Dried out one, with the characteristic cracks on the surface that have embodied drought in our nation for centuries now. I was thinking, a short cut in time, leads to stitches nine(some powerful God was trying to warn me, before being shooed away by Mumba, who did not want any one to spoil her game) So I decided to cross over. Fool, should I have not made sure that the ditch was actually dry enough to support a full 83 Kilos of Male muscle? And me in my favorite shoes, comfortable and formal. So what do you think happened? The first step I took into the ditch and sploosh my foot went right in. What with the momentum and confidence of my motion, I got imbalanced and had to move the other foot too. So, sploosh goes the other foot. Now both my feet are in the mud, that I perceive (with my heightened perception)has a distinct aroma. I try to extricate myself from this quagmire and so what happens? My foot lifts clean out of my favorite shoe! Now, I am balancing like a heron on one foot, with one stockinged feet hanging in the air. Thank fully I have watched my complement of Kung Fu movies and also, not to mention the Karate Kid, where he uses the same stance against the bigger, meaner and mightier opponent. So somehow I manage to keep my balance and then insert it gingerly back in to the shoe and work the shoe out. I get to the other side, the two shoes ruined and the bottom of my pants coated with slush (God knows what was flowing through that ditch, being an industrial estate, I could only hope that my clothes did not disintegrate after drying out or while being wet for that matter).So I plonked down on the side of the road, trying to clean my self up. Using sticks, stones and papers to remove the thick, gooey coating on my clothes and shoes, when suddenly I feel a wet muzzle on my ear. I turn around and what do I see? A pair of big horns and eyes looking at me, very fondly I believe. It was a herd of cows, who had crossed the road and were investigating me very keenly. I will admit that I like cows as much as the other person, they give us milk, keeps our villages warm during the long, cold winter nights and all, but this was the ultimate limit. I tapped on her forehead and made shooing noises, but I think my ditchy aroma must have aroused in her an acute feeling of home sickness for her stall, so she started pushing me back. Then her calves and friends joined in the fun, trying to eat the papers I was using to clean myself up. I was literally surrounded by these three four cows. When you are standing, a herd of three or four cows does not seem much, actually you do not even think of them as a herd. You just pluralize them and move on. But, when you are on your ass, trying to get goo off your self, then even a couple seem to loom over you. The only thing left to do was to raise myself on my two feet and make them believe that I was a human, a lord and master and not some strange, sickly looking cow. So I heaved to and stood up, it was remarkable what a difference it makes. A single pat and shoo was enough to send them plodding away. If I ever change careers, will definitely research the affect of posture and position on the effect of shooing of bovine animals.

Well then, to cut things short, got myself cleaned up. Got a company gardener to hose me down. Caught a train to go home, when I got a call from the client who was asking me why I was not at the office giving him the demo… And the day never ended. Went in at full trot, was only a fifteen minutes late. Gave him the full benefit of my extensive vocabulary and had convinced him to buy the damned thing. But no, the great Mumba is thorough if anything. My esteemed colleague had not loaded it properly and the contents spilled. Ruining the demo for all posterity. At least the client was understanding and gave me his card and invited me to his ice cream parlor. A small consolation after this great day. (I think the great Mumba always rewards whoever has pleased her in strange ways, but then it can also be my other patron deity who was so ignominiously shooed away)

Thank fully, The Great Mumba retires after seven o’clock and I got home in one piece.

Vibhu