Domain Maximus

Keeping in touch

2007-06-21T15:16:00.000+05:30

Hello people,

This is a short message to everyone out there who still has email and RSS subscriptions to my old blogger site. As you may know I have migrated to a standalone domain, http://www.whatay.com, and so all my subscriptions have moved as well.

Really my mistake. I should have ensured all of you got gently moved to my new location as well.

Sorry. My bad.

But what you can do now is point all your current readers and email subscriptions to the new links:

1. RSS Feed for Posts
2. RSS Feed for Comments
3. Email Subscriptions

So power up that feedreader and plug in the new details. Thanks again. God bless.

Sidin.

So much for Blogger...

2007-05-25T23:01:00.000+05:30

You have about 15 seconds to read this post before you get redirected to my warm and friendly new blog at http://www.whatay.com.

Don't worry though. You will find all my old blogs, posts and comments there safe and sound.

When you reach there, which should be anytime now, its business as usual.

Tata!
Sidin.

If nothing has happened yet can you please click here. Please?

Entre Pray Noors

2007-05-10T14:11:00.000+05:30

Howdy people!

While I am back in Mumbai after a brief London trip, and preparing notes on the trip as we speak, I also want to quickly drop in a post about two little startups that might interest you.

The first is a wonderful little coffeeshop/gaming joint type thingie that two dear friends have launched in Bangalore. Brewhaha has opened to rave reviews (google it) and Mansur and Frodo have done a cracking good job of it I hear.

They have a little website shaping up here.

Incidentally there is a little bit of a story behind the name Brewhaha. Frodo and I were both co-summer-interns at a company here in Mumbai all those years ago. In 2004 I think...

This was just after I had written that South Indian Men post. We were cabbing down Marine Drive one afternoon when Frodo and I got talking about alternate careers that we might be good at. Advertising and branding seemed interesting options and we started making names for imaginary things.

(At the time we had no great hopes of converting our internships into jobs. I really didn't see myself making a career selling Hernia meshes.

No, don't ask.)

Brewhaha was something I came up with for a stand-up comedy and beer place. Sitting in that cab.

We promptly forgot all about it and life took us separate ways.

And then years later they quit their jobs and decide to open a cafe. The rest is recent history.

So drop in at their place at Koramangala and say hi for me will you? I am sure they will drop in a little extra whipped cream in your affogato. Or something. And yes spend lots of money please.

The second website is an interesting customized T-shirt design company that does it all online. Click here for Dilsebol. Ravi Kumar will be glad for you to give it a shot and give him feedback as well.

Hmm. That is two good deeds in one day.

As for me I think I will crawl back into my cave and go back to my writing and things. It has been a pretty hectic few weeks and I am thoroughly exhausted.

See you guys over the weekend.

Ciao.

p.s. Both of the above didn't pay me to do this. I don't normally do this. And yes they are all IIMA alum. But please don't hate them for that. Now I will get back to wolfing down these wonderful cakes. After all I don't care if I gain weight. I have hundreds of tshirts in all sizes.

p.s.s. Yes I can do branding as well.

In transit... back in a bit

2007-05-09T14:19:00.000+05:30

Ho Hum

2007-04-12T14:35:00.000+05:30

Busy busy couple of days. Travelling up and down fuelled only on vada pav, kothimbir vadi and fish and cilantro clear soup. Was in Pune for a bit. (And Arpit before you go ballistic I tried asking around for your number and could not find it on dbabble either.)

Recently I spent a good day checking out wordpress and wondering if I should just migrate the whole thing there. Then I decided I would be creating maha pain for the thousands of blogs that link to the 14 blogs that link here.

So that idea got ditched.

So now I am just trying to get blogger to do unheard of fancy things with CSS, AJAX, HTML, XHTML, IUML, PMK and so on. (Though I think I will go for one of those Wordpress layouts with the tabs on top and all. Want to create multiple channels: blogs, links, news, pictures and videos of myself. Relevant stuff.)

Not ruling out a move to an exclusive domain sometime in the future though.

Book Update: Tons of people have been asking me what happened to my book. Well I had to stash that away during that small distraction of getting married. And then subsequently I got caught up in the vaccuming, laundry, roti making. gobi plucking and things like that. But I am glad to say that things are back on track. And I should be able to rake in the moolah in another six months or so.

But in the meantime I want a few of you fresh, young just-post-MBA recruit type guys to send me some of your stories from the workplace. Not the usual Dilbert type nincompoopery. I want those stories which have a typical Indian angle to them. Things involving Human Resources, Interviews, Annual Apprasials, PSUs, the Underworld etc. are particularly welcome. You will be suitably rewarded. Bhai guarantees it.

Hafta Magazine Update: Thousands of people on a daily basis read articles posted on Hafta Magazine and Rediff.com combined. But we have had our fair share of problems. Upload issues. RSS feeds went bad. Formatting. Etc. etc.

A lot of you came in with feedback. And we are now trying to implement all of them. We are working on the format a bit. Then there's the text editors and upload system. And the entire value proposition in general. In the hurry to put out articles we sort of lost our way in terms of keeping the audience interested. So give us a little time to do that. A couple of weeks at best.

We are therefore trying to now get onboard a fresh group of writers to support our existing bunch. I know a LOT of you mailed me last year. But this time it would be great if some of you could send across pieces of writing as well. Or links to your best blog posts. Mail them to sidinsv@haftamag.com. (Yes we have upgraded the email system as well. Works on Google Apps now. Lost hajaar emails on the old domain-supported one.)

Pitch in. There is a nice bunch of people on board already. And besides we need the help.

NOW QUESTION OF THE DAY:

Somewhere in Navi Mumbai. Just before a Siemens office. (Maybe in Vashi.) There is a hotel by the name of "Hotel Threestar". That's the actual name. And it looks decent too.

What would they do if, god forbid, one day they became an actual four-star hotel?

"Hello Hotel Threestar. How can I help you?"
"Hello is this Threestar?"
"No sir we are now four-star..."
"Oh. Sorry wrong number."

I was just wondering.

Interactivity thy name is commenting

2007-04-05T13:37:00.000+05:30

This blog is now officially replying to comments. Atleast as much as it can. This decision is in effect retrospectively from the last two posts or so.

Also if you see me on MEEBO do say a hi. I am feeling all interactivity-like.

Still looking for swanky blogs for design inspiration. Tell tell.

A blog by any other Cascading Style Sheet

2007-04-04T15:58:00.000+05:30

There comes a time in the life of a blog when, in the face of tyranny, opression, consumption, abject misgovernment and pathetic national representation at an international competition, it becomes time to let go of previous HTML and get some fresh code.

With all these new widget/gadget/thingummajig inventions popping up everyday my blog was beginning to feel a little out-dated.

So any bright new thingie anyone can recommend? Or a nice new teplate/layout?

Something smart yet jovial. Functional yet personal.

I am thinking polka dots.

One good print deserves another

2007-04-03T12:21:00.000+05:30

(Reprint of my column in yesterday's Businessline. Not too bad really.)

No Tax Please, We are Indian

Today we are going to talk about something rather humourless. Something that is inevitable. Yet agonizing. It is a phenomenon that rears it head once every month in a minor way and then wreaks complete havoc just before the onset of summer every year.

You are absolutely right I am talking about virulent Dhobi’s Itch!

Ha ha! I jest.

No instead we are going to talk about the cruel phenomenon that is, shudder, Income Tax.

Now most of you new managers should be making a tidy little packet every month as salary. The job market is booming. So I assume most of you are cashing into the opportunity big time.

But even if you don’t, it’s ok. Don’t worry. Keep your focus, stay dedicated, and work long and hard hours. Your reward will come. One day, late into the night, your boss will depart early leaving you in the office alone with the fax machines, servers and other expensive office automation equipment.

There is a thriving black market for these items. If you have a large enough office you can even rent the place out for marriages, book launches and such.

But whatever your source of your income the reality remains: You need to pay your taxes.

Today we will talk a little about Income Tax and demystify the phenomenon. After all, financial rationale apart, you are a responsible citizen and must pay your fair share of the tax burden as well: between 20 and 30 rupees, every two or three years.

But before we jump into the complicated machinations of tax management we must get our fundas on Income Tax in place. Where did the tradition of Income Tax begin? How did it begin? Who established the first tax system? WHY IN GOD'S NAME WOULD HE DO SUCH A THING??!!

Income Tax was first established way back in the year 10 A.D., a year renowned for its sharp winters, remarkable Chardonnay and astounding ease of representation in Roman Numerals. For the first time ever an unprecedented tax of 10% of profit was levied by the Emperor Wang Mang (real name, possibly sad childhood) on Chinese professionals and skilled labour.

(Just two days later, on a Wednesday, the concept of “Consultant”, “Expense Account” and "Section 80C" was also invented by the compulsively innovative Chinese.)

And, as a harbinger of things to come, the Chinese promptly packaged Income Tax with a manual in lousy English, wrapped it all up in bubble wrap and exported the idea all round the world at abysmally low prices.

Governments around the globe were ecstatic:

King: What the…??!! We just decide on a percentage and the citizenry coughs it up… no questions asked?
Minister of the Exchequer: Of course they can dispute it…
King: But then we could behead them or something…
Minister: I was thinking more of a stint in the dungeons. But hey whatever works for you man…
King: So be it. Declare a 30% flat rate and a 2% education cess
Minister: Yipee

Soon nations around the world rapidly caught up with the Chinese and began to tax their citizens. Of course in return they offered them services like Social Security, Armed Forces, A Vast and Inefficient Government Machinery and, most importantly, Public Sector Undertakings that gave astounding market share and ever increasing profits to private sector competition.

Independent India also realized the need to tax its citizens in order to fuel the fledgling nation’s rapid growth. So, shortly after independence (around 4 p.m.), our founding fathers sat around to decide on a taxation system. They mutually agreed to devise a fair and balanced tax system that would also ensure efficient tax utilization.

Then after a hearty laugh they quickly decided on the cruel and crippling tax regime we have today.

Now some might feel like questioning the right of our government to tax its citizens.

I would not recommend this line of thought.

The more knowledgeable among us know that the Central Board of Revenue has powers conferred by section 295 of the Income-tax Act, 1961 (43 of 1961), and rule 15 of Part A, rule 11 of Part B and rule 9 of Part C of the Fourth Schedule to that Act that allows it to tax anybody, anywhere at any time of the day including bank holidays. Any dissent is punishable by a fine equivalent to three time your net worth AND/OR forced reading of the ENTIRE Income Tax Act of 1961 including ALL annexures, maps, diagrams and companion multimedia DVDs.

So really you have no option but to pay your taxes. If you know what’s good for you.

However the government does allow you to plan out your income and use of money in such a way that your tax liability is brought down to an absolute minimum. Let us see how we can plan our Income Tax in the most optimal format.

Now by income the government means any money you make from anywhere: salary, house property, business, capital gains, other sources, selling of employer’s assets, supari projects undertaken on alternate weekends for friends in Mumbai underworld to make ends what with all this rising cost of living and all... etc.

Now you don’t need to pay any tax as long as your income is below a certain minimum amount. But subsequent to this Rs. 75 you have to pay tax on a slab-wise system.

Then of course there is the deduction up to Rs. One Lakh. This can be in a variety of savings instruments, insurance policies, loan repayments etc.

You also get rebates on housing loans and a little extra benefit if you are female or an elderly citizen.

So the first strategy is to prove to the government that even though you are a management trainee fresh out of business school you are, in reality, a 70 year old woman who is simultaneously buying several homes in Nariman Point and Chanakyapuri.

That should take care of most of your problems. The next step is to have an open and frank tete-a-tete with the finance/payroll guys in your company. With some persuasion they will understand that while you may be receiving your salary every month in the bank there is NO reason why you should be receiving YOUR EXACT payslip. Nor must they use your exact PAN number.

The finance/payroll guys normally see your side of the argument but get them to do all the paperwork before they have had one too many Margheritas.

So there. That was a nice little overview of the Income Tax system was it not? I hope you put it to good use and quickly become a master of your own tax liability.

Or move to Dubai.

Fighting the Establishment

2007-03-26T15:14:00.000+05:30

Today morning I got a frantic call from Pastrami. Last I heard our investment banker friend was in Delhi on some personal work. Frantic is not like Pastrami at all.

He is always composed and calm, is Pastrami.

Sidin: "Hello... cough cough... hello?"

Pastrami: "Hey man... hows the tonsils?"

"Terrible. You tell..."

"Dude help me. Is there a flight from Delhi to Cochin?"

"Sure. There is that evening Air Sahara flight."

"Can't fly that. Anything else? Right now I have bookings for a Delhi-Mumbai-Bangalore-Chennai-Cochin flight..."

"What the... Why dont you just take the Sahara flight man..."

"Can't. Won't"

"Eh???!!"

"Yeah. Well... Um... I am sort of boycotting all brands that support Indian cricket."

"WHAT??!! Just like that? One moment your in Delhi visiting the parents and the next you are a viral anti-endorser type person? Dude..."

"We have silently suffered too much, Our team has really disgraced our nation at an international stage man. It is a national tragedy."

"You are taking this really badly aren't you?"

"Obviously. It is such a HUMONGOUS dissapointment man. Our team has really let us down."

"And that too continously since 1983 eh?"

"What? No man. You don't get cricket. It is a funny game. Not winning anything does not necessarily mean that we are not the best team in the world. We are one of the world's best teams man..."

"How much did we lose to Bangaldesh by? I can't put my finger on it..."

"Shut it. My principles man. So I guess I will have to fly all those hops to Cochin. But better than been taken for a ride by those crass money-grubbing cricket-bastards... I'm hungry man..."

"Buy something from the restuarant in the airport..."

"Nope. They sell Pepsi too. I am not falling for that one..."

"Hmm... But wait... you always carry a packet of biscuits right?"

"Threw them away a moment ago... Sunfeast. That too FitKit..."

"Grab a bite on the flight then..."

"Can't man. All low cost airline types."

"Pastrami stop acting like a child..."

"Dude does anyone in our cricket team endorse Itch Guard??!!..."

"Sachin maybe... hehe... no not that I know of..."

"I haven't changed in three days man. I've been wearing the same suit and shirt since I landed here..."

"Eh? No backup shirts?"

"All Westside..."

"Suits?"

"Mayur"

"Dammit... wear one of your t-shirts then man... wait... Reebok?"

"Hmm... sigh... Couldn't bathe well at home either. Mom has loaded up on Mysore Sandal and won't let me buy another one..."

"Tough being a principled man eh Pastrami..."

"But its all for a good cause man. You won't understand. This will force change in our cricket establishment. Slowly when thousands of us true cricket fans band together the brands will begin to see the point. Down with commercialism and crass profiteering in world cricket!"

"Conserve your energy man. You can't eat for another seventeen hours."

"No no I was asking around. And apparently there is a small tea shop in Chennai airport that is completely endorsement free."

"The sacrfices a cricket fan must make..."

"A TRUE cricket fan Sid..."

(Ominous beeping sounds)

"One second Sid..."

(Noise of pocket being rifled for coins)

"We're back online Sid."

"Pastrami... are you calling from a payphone?"

"Dude. I can't use my Hutch connection anymore. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"I am hungry, itchy, thirsty, dirty and miserable. But I feel great man. I feel like I am already setting the stage for a better World Cup in 2011. I am making a difference Sid. I feel so powerful. This is real public uproar."

"Good for you man... You are a complete idiot but anyways..."

"Hey you won't believe this but I think I see Yuvraj Singh. The blackguard! He must be on his way back home..."

"Does he look upset?"

"Oh terrible. He maybe wearing Gucci, D&G and Abercrombie. But boy does he look dissapointed... Though he is trying to hide it with a huge smile..."

"Relishing this aren't you..."

"Totally. And look Kim Sharma is here to receive him. She looks ravishing the little hottie..."

"She looks equally depressed I am sure."

"Absolutely. She is crestfallen in her tight t-shirt and hip-hugging jeans. It will not be a happy reunion for them. And all this hugging and kissing in the airport is just a ruse. I know they are burning inside."

"One cannot but feel terrible for Yuvraj. Does he have his limo waiting for him?"

"Looks like it. Is that a Lexus? I think so..."

"So I guess your plan is working already. So what if you're hungry and a fetid breeding ground for flesh-borne bacteria? Yuvraj must be feeling terrible in his designer clothes and in his limo cuddled up next to Kim Sharma no?..."

Awkward silence.

"Ok bye Sid."

"Tata Pastrami."

Behind the silence lurks...

2007-03-26T10:08:00.000+05:30

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonsilitis

Man about Towns

2007-02-07T10:22:00.000+05:30

February 4th - 10:30 AM

Four cities. Four airlines. Two days. One laptop. One blogger with a net enabled mobile phone trying his hand at on-the-move mobile blogging!

This is a first for me on Indigo Airlines. They do not have an inflight magazine. Things, otherwise, are not so bad at all. The flight is spanking new. (And so is the cabin crew!) The flight is on time.

I like.

I am safely seat-belted in. Nice and snug. Have gained weight since marriage. Dammit!

Jaipur here I come.

p.s. Wife says do not snack between meals.

11:00 AM

Reading Hesse's Siddhartha. Very profound. Not lost though. Yet.

Bought bag of cashewnuts and a Diet Pepsi. Big bag of nuts proves to be mostly nitrogen or whatever other inert gas they use. Nuts are tasty but hardly last me three pages. Drown disappointment in Aspartame.

Burp.

12:00 PM

Looks like, wonder of wonders, I am going to land a full twenty minutes ahead of time! Go Indigo Go!

Man sitting next to me suddenly turns to me and asks me if I know who owns Indigo. (Mentally make note not to look so intelligent in public. But what to do...) I think it is the Wadias before I quickly correct myself. He owns Go of course.

Suddenly thinking of Preity Zinta.

They push around a cart and ask people to throw up all the garbage they would otherwise stuff into the unbearably elasticated pouch in front. Smart way to turn around plane quickly. But will they last in this severe loss-making civil aviation environment, my MBA mind wonders. Stewardess walks by. Are those real, my engineer mind wonders.

12:05 PM

Hello Jaipur!

Jaipur has one of those miniature 3BHK airports that dot the Indian map. Trichy, Coimbatore, Kozhikode... they are all the same. Ten steps from plane to airport. Ten steps from airport to large Bank of Baroda ball hanging outside. (Do they have them at all airports now?)

12:25 PM

My liaison at Jaipur is late. I stand looking around. Usual mix of small-town airport crowd. Disproportional number of firangs though.

Athithi Devo Bhava.

1:00 PM

In an Ambassador after ages. Ok, off to work now. Top secret. Hush hush. Talk to you during lunch.

1:25 PM

Pssst. Awesome roads. Oh yes and a two bedroom apartment rents out for 5000 bucks a month here.

I hate Mumbai. For now.

2:30 PM

The local economy revolves around tourism and day care centers. Nurseries are everywhere. Tiny Tots, Butterflies, Little Flowers, Pesky Pipsqueaks, Cute Champions, Miniature Marwaris. (I made two of them up.)

3:45 PM

I hear good things about Mrs. Scindia. Things are booming under her they say, in a manner of speaking.

I catch a glimpse of the new Rajasthan secretariat. It looks like Work In Progress. Looks pretty good from here. Though I think large domes are passe Mrs. Scindia.

4:15 PM

Nothing communicates Rajasthan like a nice Aloo Mutter Gobi (yes all three) swimming in a salty, gooey, pool of well-masala'd oil. Rip a piece of tandoori roti and leap on a baby potato bobbing by.

I order raitha to soothe belly that is beginning to throb in protest. Reminded of an old trekking trip to inner Maharashtra.

Host orders a Dal Makhani.

Groan.

6:00 PM

Assignment in Jaipur nears completion. At some point I am offered a platter of food to choose from. I politely pick up a potato chip. (Wife please note: ONE chip). Harangued into picking up a piece of moist orange mithai. On a cocktail toothpick. Rajasthani host calls it something, I hear 'horse hooves'.

Yummy.

Trot.

7:30 PM

Back at the airport and mentally unwinding after a hard day's work. My Kingfisher Fun Liner awaits. I have had little time to do any shopping or touristing. Must make up for it in the airport. Is that a local specialty sweetmeat shop I see in a corner of the lounge? Off I go!

Paneer Ghewar, Mawa Kachoris and some Khas Supari. The Gewar looks a little weird. The Mawa thingie looks absolutely death-giving. Supari jars jingle and rattle as I walk.

8:00 PM

Flight delayed. I don't get it though. Why do they think that '... due to delay in arrival of incoming flight...' serve as adequate justification. The Kingfisher people keep announcing the delay for a full twenty minutes.

Bah!

8:10 PM

Phone runs out of battery. Dejectedly shuffle over to a charging point on the wall conveniently placed in a narrow space behind some waiting benches.

Feeling grumpy.

8:50 PM

Finally boarded. Captain apologizes adequately. The 'Flying Models' as Mr. Mallya calls them look understandably uncomfortable in their tight skirts.

Kingfisher does not have an in-flight magazine either. That is not like the liquor baron at all. To scrimp on such minor niceties. But let us hope the catering is good today as it is always with Kingfisher.

9:00 PM

One humus & chickpea sandwich. One. Sandwich. WTF!

9:30 PM

Delhi! Good roads! Nice weather! The efficient Metro! Rampant Corruption! Unsafe for women after dark!

Home!

10:00 PM

Sarson da Saag! Rotis! Paneer Ghewar! (That Gewar is yet another item that tastes oh so much better than it looks. It tastes crumbly and ghee-y and comforting. It looks, on the other hand, like oversized welding residue.)

11:00 PM

Tried to get in-laws to appreciate Return of the King. They like the 'lighting of beacons' bit. But they think the entire green ghost army thing is a little fraud.

I do too.

12:00 PM

Zzz.

February 5th - 5:15 AM

The guard at the airport door warns me to always carry ID WITH PHOTO henceforth.

Delhi Airport is up and buzzing already. I quickly pocket my boarding pass, check in a package for the missus and walk over to grab a cup of coffee. I am weirdly awake for this time of the day.

Delhi Airport is familiar and un-surprising. Like Jet Airways.

6:15 AM

Up, up and away. I collapse into my seat and pull out the ever-dependable Jet In-flight magazine. The usual mix of large colourful photographs bordered with bare minimum text. But, as always, this too is a collector's item. Aren't all Jet mags?

I give up on Hesse and Siddhartha. It wasn't them, it was me. The guy was beginning to get a little whiny. I need something as philosophical but something happier. More... gung-ho...

Pulled out that old Dave Barry I carry in my first-aid pouch. Aah!

6:17 AM

Whatay brilliant sunrise.

7:30 AM

Step off the stairs and onto the tarmac. Ahmedabad, my friend, it has been too long.

New terminal can be seen adjacent to the old one. Standard issue modern airport building, all straight corners and hideous aluminium cladding.

Ahmedabad disgorges luggage quickly. The joy!

7:32 AM

The Jet luggage emerges on the IC belt. And vice-versa. Some raised eyebrows. One miffed frequent flyer.

A bunch of quiet, sombre looking men in suits stand in a corner. Ties in their pockets. All of them look at their cell-phones and thumb away relentlessly. They look bored/pained/indifferent.

Maybe consultants.

7:45 AM

Quick look-see at the Institute before I run off on work. The city is getting an attitude. Development. Lots of malls and billboards. But still, essentially, a nice sleepy little place.

Notice billboard for a luxury building with its own Jain Temple built in.

8:30 AM

My morning is brilliant. Why you ask? Why this sudden shot of glee? Someone else's misfortune of course. I could not take any snaps, my phone had no space left. But I saw a billboard that blew my mind away. They don't have a website. But I was able to get their address on the net. Click here and understand the source of my mirth.

9:00 AM

Few things are as depressing in life as going to a place you have hajaar memories of but where no-one remembers you any longer. Campus was not exactly a Cheers pub.

My liaison in Ahmedabad will be late. I will roam around further.

9:45 AM

After a brief conversation with some old friends in the Administrative department I walk out to the new campus to have a look.

Too much bare concrete. Brutalist. But still impressive.

When you come to think about it how DO you apply for a job at that Yuranus place? 'I was wondering if you have any openings here in Yur...'

10:15 AM

On the road.

11:00 AM

Disturbing (semantic?) trend I notice in Amdavad that was prevalent in Jaipur as well. People seem to think, and by people I mean owners of restaurants, cafes, banquets halls and such like, that the easiest way to indicate that you are a quality joint it by liberal use of the article 'the'. For instance: 'Crunchy Munchy - THE Restaurant', or 'Ghanesham - THE hangout', and even, 'Miniature Marwaris - THE Creche.'

Weddings all over the place! One wedding car passes by covered in a woven Gujarati-type shroud. Innovative che!

2:30 PM

Gordhan Thaal. THE gujju thaali place. No seriously.

An avalanche of aam ras, dahi vada, gulab jamuns, rotis, puris, aloo shak, kadhi, dal, papdi chaat, nimbu pani, chaas, moong dal sabji, besan something, pickles, chilis... Awww... aww... must... not... pass out... burp...

Outstanding customer service as well. If you are in Amdavad do drop in for a lunch. Great decor, silver crockery and cutlery. All at a hundred bucks a head.

Pin drop silence during lunch. Not one word. More aam ras? YES PLEASE.

Where DO they get mangoes from this time of the year!

3:30 PM

Have a flight to catch in two hours. My assignment in Ahmedabad looking shaky. Dammit.

Lots of CAT coaching places all over the place. Between nurseries in Jaipur and CAT coaching in Ahmedabad there is a burgeoning business.

Spotted a FIITJEE recruiting poster on campus. Those FIITJEE guys are looking at a 2000-crore topline by 2011. Good God!

4:00 PM

Success. Mission accomplished! Now rushing to the airport. No time to talk. All I can say is that another cricket blog is beginning to brew up.

4:15 PM

Rush to campus and pick up luggage. Finally a couple of people who identify their honorable alumnus. I feel nice.

Alas, cannot shop for bumper stickers, if they have any, at the gift shop.

5:15 PM

Just in the nick of time. Managed to get my fave seat as well. The row over the wing next to the emergency exit doors. Unmatched leg room. Where is the gift shop? I need to pick up something for the missus.

At the airport Le Meridien they sell water bottles at MRP.

5:30 PM

Cute babies are a sure crowd puller. And there is one right in front of me as I sit on a chair in the waiting area. A foreigner couple find much mirth in toddling with the cute little thing. And then he pukes all over them and their Lonely Planet and a nice suit jacket.

That conclusively proves that India leaves an indelible mark on all tourists. And an odour.

In my bag nestles a beautiful cell-phone pouch for the missus. Typical gujju work. Mirrors and embroidery and all. She will like it.

6:15 PM

Go Airlines. Clean, uncomplicated. Not bad at all. Corny name though. How do they motivate each other at company meetings? Go, GO, Go! ?

They stick a fragile sticker on my bag without asking. I nod in pleasure.

The legroom made me overlook the lack of magazines and the 'No sir we do not carry any magazines or newspapers at all' response to a fellow passenger.

6:20 PM

One of the crew members was clearly on her first few flights and was terribly nervous. But she did ok though.

And yes I promised to rip off the door and throw it away when the captain said 'Evacuate Evacuate Evacuate'

6:30 PM

I just had a croissant filled with the potato stuffing you normally see in samosas or bad masala dosas. But tasted ok.

Who does the ridiculous drawings on those laminated flight safety flyer in the pouch? Why would people smile serenely as the oxygen levels dropped and the masks fell down? (Perhaps Siddhartha would have...)

(The Indigo flyer actually had a turbanned rajasthani looking man with handlebar moustaches on the flyer instead of the standard woman with shoulder length hair and knee length skirt and high heels. Nice touch!)

I try to read Barry but fall asleep like a baby. I drool just a little bit.

7:20 PM

Looking out of the window over Mumbai at night is awesome. As lights go on and off its like a throbbing organism. Plane rolls this way and then that as it lines up to land. Mumbai, correspondingly, dissappears and reappears in the window.

7:30 PM

Nice neat landing.

Passenger in adjacent seat gers phone call. He speaks very loudly. Soon everyone in the plane understands completely that he is from Rajkot, and he runs a trading company, and he is upset that his order will be delayed and that the guy on the other end was the type who gets a little too close with his own mom.

Luggage came jerking around on the belt in a few minutes and I was out in a flash.

8:00 PM

Cabbie jumped two red light and then got caught. And, having paid his due, he then almost smashed into a Santro side on. Abuse hurtled at him, and a little bit at me.

Crushing traffic on Wadala Bridge. Smoke and pollution everywhere.

It is good to be back!

p.s. Wife loved the pouch!

Thundering Typhoons and Asteroid Armageddons

2007-02-02T01:17:00.000+05:30

Hello all. All good with all of you today? You Mumbaikars voted for your corporators? Very nice.

I've been piqued by a few stories in the media these last few days. One way or the other they have all grabbed my fancy. (Yes yes 'grabbing my fancy'... ha ha... I know... it occurred to me too... ha ha...)

The first one was in the revered Hindu newspaper about Roger Federer's thumping victory over Andy Roddick in the Australian Open. (I understand Federer, who is making up adequately for decades of much maligned Swiss neutrality, also subsequently went on to steamroll all over that Gonzalez fellow.) This story was remarkable not for its reportage but rather for its rather extravagant tone and voice.

At this point I must say that I am not a complete dud when it comes to tennis. Few in Abu Dhabi Indian School will forget that unforgettable (duh) match in 1993. It was a keenly contested match between Anthony D'Souza, that terrible server from 9-B, and this handsome, funny, erudite and popular South Indian kid from 9-A.

I was the ball boy.

There was a serve. There was a mis-hit return that imparted too much reverse spin on the ball. The ball bounced in front of an unsuspecting ballboy. He lunged forward. The ball bounced and rebounded backward. Ballboy's torso followed the ball but his feet had given up hope months ago. There was a 'tender just-pubert face smashing into a unrelenting asphalt surface' situation.

I was that ballboy. Sigh. Wince.

But that is beside the point. I draw your attention to this story from the pages of the Hindu dated 26th January 2007. The story title is fiendishly seductive:

'Roger Federer functions in a parallel universe, outplays Roddick'

Now, as mentioned before, I am not a tennis type of guy. I am too delicate for it. But I am sure that tennis has nothing to do with parallel universes, quantum mechanics, Einstein and that sort of thing. Perhaps it is a literary device, I console myself. The news story itself will surely not continue in this fashion. The hyperbole should be momentary no?

So I read on:

‘Trying to solve the Roger Federer puzzle on a tennis court is a bit like trying to master the String Theory in Quantum Physics. The closer you think you are to a solution, the farther you are from it. As a great scientist said, if you think you have understood string theory, you have not understood string theory.’

This guy was persistent with his physics wasn’t he? Or as a great satire blogger, both tall and handsome and a rage with the ladies, once said, ‘I struggle with a freelance writing career and you get paid to write that??!!!’ No matter. One must not take matters of the media too personally. I bit down on the welling pools of sarcasm and read on. A paragraph later:

‘Trying to get too close to the great man can be an experience ranging from anything between the mere unpleasant to the downright fatal.’

This made Roger Federer sound remarkably like an old hostel roommate of mine especially after a nice Mysore Masala Dosa breakfast in the mess on the weekends. I am sure you know people like that too. They are all over the place. Especially in elevators and packed conference rooms.

Onward ho and... bang into another parallel universe analogy:

'The man functions in a parallel universe that is somehow visible to us against all laws of physics. Only, a twisted many-worlds interpretation can help us make some sense of the man's genius and where it has left men's tennis.'

WTF? The article was increasingly beginning to sound like something Stephen Hawking or Carl Sagan would write when fortified with a little LSD.

So in many ways it was a relief when I came to this:

'Stripped of his sense of self-worth, shaking his head in disbelief in a state of near-delirium, Roddick merely went through the motions like a stone-age warrior fighting a jet age soldier.

Sport is often unfair; but it has never been quite as unfair to quite as many as in the Roger Federer era. This is cruelty. But, then, without the cruelty where would the beauty be?

Not one but two paragraphs free of any reference to physics whatsoever. And to top that was an absolutely brilliant soldier-warrior analogy. (And by brilliant I mean in the context "Jaani Dushman was absolutely brilliant".)

And indeed I ask you where WOULD cruelty be without beauty? Or, to give it an alternate perspective, beauty without cruelty? Or, one might further wonder, solidarity without elasticity? Or, coming to think of it, epistemology without viscosity?

And to close was this magnum opus:

'I would call it the Perfect Match. But that is risky. For, this man has it in him to make perfection look that much more perfect the next time around!'

And I would call it the most OTT tennis story I have ever read. But of course I could not, as just a day or two later the same author came up with a take on the final match between Fed and Gonzalez. A gem from that similarly, if less extravagantly, esteemed piece:

'But, modern sport's most celebrated journey towards immortality will resume in the poetic environs of Parisian springtime — with chirpy little birds joining the chorus of adulation from chestnut trees in full bloom — later this year. Around that time, too, Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg (11 titles) will prepare to welcome His Royal Highness to their elite company.

Barring an asteroid Armageddon, by year's end, only one man in the game's pantheon — Pete Sampras, winner of 14 major titles — will be able to look over his shoulder, rather than in front of him, to spot the Swiss summiteer.'

'Blooming Chestnut Trees! Barring Asteroid Armageddons! Spotted Swiss Summiteers!' emoted Captain Haddock desperately trying to come up with lines for a latter day Tintin Reunion Movie which is seriously beginning to sound like a really bad idea.

And to close off a colourful media review this little bit from a BBC story on Shilpa Shetty:

'The 31-year-old was first noticed in 1993 when she starred in a supporting actress role opposite super star Shah Rukh Khan in the hit film Baazigar (Player).

She then went on to play lead roles in films such as Main Khiladi Tu Anari (Me Player, You Buffoon) and Dhadkan (Heartbeat), most of which were moderate successes but never really runaway hits.'

Like most people I am a huge fan of the Beeb and all their websites and things. But seriously. Me Player, You Buffoon. Hehehehehe. I sense much bollywood mirth here. On to you greatbong!

Cheers all.

Sidin.

p.s. The wife says hi!

The Amazing Race... Burp

2007-01-20T13:05:00.000+05:30

I woke up last weekend and, as is custom, curled up on the couch with my Mid-day and the TV tuned to one of the many news channels it is now the privilege of the Indian consumer to peruse.

The first had a special report (one hour or so) on the entire racism and Shilpa Shetty thing. After a bit I got sick of it and clicked to another channel. They had an interview with Meghnad Desai about the same thing. He soon made that famous statement about Big Brother being a "third rate show being watched by third rate people". But by and large, for a person whose hair must frequently disrupt time-space continua and bend light if he is not careful, he made sense. But then there was only so much racism I could handle on a bright Saturday morning.

Lord Meghnad Desai. Thinking. Very hard.

I switched off the TV and walked away. Eggs needed scrambling and tea needed brewing.

An hour later I switched on the TV and, VOILA!, like a love scene in a Lustbader book which is so revolting it runs around in your head making the rest of the book a vague haze of prose, there was that racism thing again. Now I understand it is a serious issue and several bloggers have written about this in no uncertain terms, I am not one for that sort of debate. A combination of ignorance and adequate perspective makes me not take such controversies seriously.

So when I could no longer stand one more mention of the word race I switched off the TV and turned to my missus who had just returned from her Satruday morning beauty bath.

"So what do you think about this entire race thing?" she asked me gently unwrapping her hair from the water-sucking confines of a towel.

"How dare you ask me about the one thing that has completely riled me up? I have half a mind to pick up this heavy coffee table book about the second world war and plonk you over the head with and then run for my life as you unleash your remarkable punjabi strength and wrath upon my meagre frame!" I did not say to her with furrowed brow and quivering lip.

"Oh nothing really. Reminds me of the time I was the victim of vile racial profiling myself." I told her with an indifferent shrug of my shoulders.

"Oh my god! And you did nothing you ninny? You did not fight for your rights and dignity? Did he call you a brown-y? Was it some sheikh? Did he call you a poor Indian? Something like that?"

"No no. It was an Irani guy. But it was no big deal."

"As in you heard all his racial rants and then walked back with your tail between your legs."

"No dear. I did not. I made him buy me dinner."

"????!!!" she said with her eyebrows.

I told her what happened seven years ago in the dusty by-ways of Dubai Port.

"But he has a great sense of humour", she seems to be justifying to herself pathetically.

***

Seven years ago. I was a bright-eyed bushy-tailed engineering student. My speciality was Metallurgical Engineering, my penchant: Material Testing. I had scooted off to the UAE for a short summer training stint and found myself at a material testing lab attached to Dubai Port.

Now this lab is the sort of place that would make an ideal setting for a merry Ruskin Bond novel. If Bond was an engineer he would have loved the people there. For one there was the two Tamilian brothers who ran the place. The elder one was Saravana. He was sort of like the lab manager and everything, impact tests, corrosion experiments, all happened under his watchful eye. Then there was his younger brother who was a much more playful fellow who ran around and did all the cutting and polishing and chemical mixing. I do not remember his name but he plays no further part in this story and therefore I will not make up a fictional moniker for him just to prove a point.

There were two more people. One was a big, strapping firang (swedish? polish?) guy who was in charge of all the science. He knew all the tests and numbers and tricks of the trade. And he always came to work piss drunk. I mean 'second year B.Tech mallu night after last exam' drunk. He would walk in through the doors every morning and we could smell the vodka on his breath right across the lab hall and even out to the corrosion testing trailer in the back. Even the Hydrogen Sulphide chamber out back was no match for his Stoli-drenched breath.

But of he course he was really sweet and not racist at all. Every morning he would walk in and not know who I was. "Summer Trainee" I would tell him and he would hug me and welcome me to the lab. I would then sit by the microscope waiting for the spinning of head to pass. He always brought cake and pastries for us every few days. He was a good fellow.

But the villain of this piece was the evil Irani middle management guy. (By Irani I mean a fellow who was from Iran. Mumbaikars please note.) He was the owner's relative and had a great loathing of people from, strange this, Kerala. He hated mallus. He loved Tams. He had no issue with Saravan and (what the heck!) Thirujnanasambandham. But mallus he could not stand.

So I was a little surprised when Saravana introduced me around the place as a friend of his from Tirunelveli. Irani was more than happy to have me around. "You are from Tamil Nadu yes? Not Kerala?" Before I could answer Saravana interrupted: "Yes yes. He even wears his lungi with the ends stitched together just the way we do. Malayalis hate that."

When asked if all evil came from the US and Israel, Ahmadinejad seems to add: "And Ernakulam!"

Before long I was part of the team. I was cutting and polishing and micrographing with them every day. I was doing well. They liked me. Even the Irani.

Then one day the Irani guy offered to take me out for dinner. I was pleased. It was a great way to learn about other cultures and lifestyles. I eagerly hopped into his SUV and he drove me out to this nice Irani place in Deira.

"The first time I saw you I thought you were malayali. I hate malayalis." he said.

"Why dude?"

"They are evil blood-sucking parasites. They are everywhere in the gulf. Grovelling, begging and undercutting everyone else. I hate them. Tamilians are ok. They have more... dignity."

I was getting a little uneasy. This was blatant generalization and racial profiling.

"Well they need to make a living too you know."

"So do us Iranis. But we don't run around stealing jobs and pushing down salaries. We live well. They... they live like animals in their labour camps."

"Hmm... but still I know at least a few good malayalis. Nice respectable people."

"They must be Tamilians then!" he said laughing loudly. "I will feed you nice Irani chicken and rice. You will like it."

Off we went to this cozy little Irani restaurant run by a middle-aged woman who cooked everything herself. The chicken and rice was remarkably tasty. The poultry was cooked with little oil or spice but the flesh fell off the bones effortlessly. The rice too was light and blended with a divine green herb that looked a little like coriander.

Now at this point I may look like a ninny. Why did I not stand up for my race? Why did not I tell him that he was an ignorant idiot who had the intellect of a lion-tailed macaque? Why did I not tell him forcefully that generalization was the device of the weak and narrow-minded?

Did I fall for the chicken and rice? Did I set aside my mallu pride for a full FREE meal and some dessert?

Now that is a tough... burp... question to answer.

For one thing I didn't care what he thought. He was a stupid imbecile who worked with me. What he did or did not think did not affect me or any other proud mallu. He clearly had issues and history that he had not revealed. That sort of generalized scorn always has a reason that is never justified. Would anything I have told him changed that? I would doubt it. As long his beliefs remained in the crap-lined confines of his crummy cranium I did not give two hoots.

I let him be.

A month, and another three chicken and rice dinners later, I was done with my stint and we had a little going away party. I was gifted with a pair of light blue workmen overalls and gloves and a little cake from everyone at the lab. It was a nice touching moment. I went around thanking everyone and finally went to speak to my friend the Irani.

"Off I go sir. Good to have met you."

"You too. Maybe if I come to Tamil Nadu sometime I visit your house."

"Oh you must come home. This is my address."

I wrote my Thrissur address down on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

"Thanks for all the dinners dude. It was great fun. You take care of yourself yeah..."

As I walked out of the lab, past the polishing machines and impact tester, I could hear my friend the Irani screaming out what sounded like prose his mom would have got miffed and sent him to bed without chicken and rice for.

I confess I gloated just a little bit.

***

"Man. That is some story. Was the chicken and rice good at the restaurant?" the missus asked me, perched on the arm of the sofa.

"Oh it was excellent. We must get that recipe from somewhere."

"Is it better than my rajma chawal?"

"What are you saying? Of course not. Your rajma chawal is better than stupid Irani food any day."

She relaxed her forearms, smiled and picked up the newspaper.

Punjabis are scary.

And that is NOT racial profiling.

Revenge! - Not bad eh?

P.S. The wife says hi!

Two weddings, milk cake, mustard fields and pallo latke... Part 1

2007-01-14T18:09:00.000+05:30

(Disclaimer: Long. As in very long. But not bad reading actually.)

I am sitting in a comfy Optra just outside one of the gates that open up into the sprawling Pragati Maidan grounds in Delhi. It is a little after seven in the evening. Or maybe eight. (My memory fails me but I have no regrets about that really.) The car has its heater cranked up almost to full and my dad is getting a little toasty in his leather jacket.

"Why are we waiting here?" he asks watching the bus full of people enter the gates while the Optra sits still, humming softly but not without a hint of impatience in the growl. "The bus has gone in already. Won't we be late? It will not look nice if we are late son..."

I reach around the back of his seat and pat him on one shiny, leather-clad shoulder. "This is supposed to be like this. The groom makes a dashing late entrance amidst much fanfare. It is the punju way dad."

"Oh! I see" says my dad his forehead furrowed, his eyebrows raised and his head thrown back a little. He does that when he hears about interesting new things. And this must be the millionth time he has done that that week.

It has been quite a remarkable journey for everyone involved. On both sides. For while there are several similarities in the Punju and Mallu designs for the world and its beings: abundant laughter, loud and heated deliberation, generous back-slapping and fun-poking, unrestrained joy and agony... and of course the utter inability to say to no to a good time, there are also differences so numerous that an open mind has no option but to furrow, raise and throw back all day for weeks.

Back to the Optra outside Pragati Maidan. Someone comes running to the car screaming. We can't hear him of course. But largish puffs of white vapour emanating from the man's mouth as he runs towards us indicates frantic communication. The driver thumbs down his power window.

Messenger gasps.

Wait for a minute. Bus is stuck inside. Some security problem. Also someone is sick on the bus. Dad is a little concerned that it might be one of the elderly relatives who have come all the way from my little village in Kerala. (The mallus among us will know the futility of a crisp white dhoti in a Delhi winter.) Ah but no, it is one of my brother's friends. The friend is however getting better. Wait for a few seconds more sir, he orders through clouds of white mouth-fog. My sister wraps her shawl even tightly around her.

It is a cold winter in Delhi this year. I don't feel anything though. Adrenalin and sensory overload are both remarkable insulators.

***

Two days before that cold wintry night in Delhi things were a mite different. I was in a spiffy suit and not a sherwani and we were not waiting patiently. Rather the groom's party was raring to go. My grandfather was going ballistic while all around everyone and an impossibly bright cameraman's light waited for some intimation of the wedding car having reached. I called up Fungus on my phone for the nth time.

"Somewhere in SantaCruz. I think."
"Dude the sugar-giving will be done in ten minutes and then we have to leave for the church. How long does it take to decorate the car..."
"I had to pick up the wedding cake too remember?"
"Err... I don't... but hurry. Grandpa is going hyper..."
"Is this the one who drove the policeman outside the airport crazy..."
"Yes yes yes... hurry..." Beep.

According to an age-old catholic mallu tradition the groom (and bride actually, but at her place) undergo a little ceremony just before they leave home for the church. They are seated in front of the assembled crowd of dozens of relatives and a hooded light that looks like it runs on controlled fusion, and are made to drink a stiff drink of fresh, drawn-at-dawn palm liquour with crisply fried mackerel on the side.

Sigh. No not really.

Though most of you would agree that the concept is most becoming of a nice mallu catholic boy. (Mone oru small adichu palli poovan nokkeda!) No actually what happens is a senior male relative steps forward with a plate of sugar and asks the assembled crowd if he may feed the groom some of the grainy white stuff. This must be done three times and each time, provided the crowd shouts "aye" in mallu, the groom picks up a pinch of sugar and places it on the tip of the tongue.

In my case the male relative in question, ignorant of the way of the native mallu, ceremoniously shoved three handfuls of sweet into my mouth. It was graceless. And it is on video.

Ugh.

Wait a minute there. Why did we do that? What is with all these pre-wedding shenanigans? Now I am not complaining, the missus went through a whole host of functions and ceremonies and things before marriage while I just had to ingest sugar, but I sit and wonder what could be the magical and romantic backgrounds to these rituals we often do without thinking.

As I sat there in my suit, slowly cooking 'skin inwards' under the halogen camera lamp, I wondered. Perhaps it was to send away the groom from the home with a final sweet memory and taste in the mouth. Perhaps it was a discreet way to make sure that no member of society had objection to the impending marriage. Perhaps the nay sayer would shout out "No!" when the sugar plate was raised. Kerala was never a rich or prosperous place. Perhaps sugar was the most valuable item in the kitchen and the family was sending their child away with a small gift of their most precious commodity.

As we walked out to the gates, in slow motion so the camera could get enough footage, I nudged a maternal uncle in the ribs gently with my Reid & Taylor elbow. "Why this sugar thing uncle?" I outlined my theories to him. No, he said, it is not one final delicious farewell. And no, it was not so that there was a final opportunity for opposing voices. And sugar was not the most precious thing at home.

"Then why pray tell why do I consume of this sickly sweet substance?" I said in chaste malayalam.

" I dunno. I guess its because lots of guys get piss drunk the night before and the sugar revives them a bit to stay awake during the wedding service. It happens you know."

I nodded solemnly, praising the wisdom of my forefathers.

***

I gingerly got out of my car taking care not to step on my shimmering stole. My turban was in my hand and as soon as I was out of the door I placed in on top of my head. Immediately I was engulfed in light that blinded me in one eye and salvos of yellow flowers that took out the other. When I regained my sight I was already at the brilliantly decorated stage, sitting in a high backed chair lined with red velvet looking out over a rather smashing venue. Lights on the trees, fresh flowers in brass pots and shivering mallus perched on cast iron coal braziers fighting hypothermia and ruing the onset of copious paneer later in the evening.

It was perfect.

***

Church weddings the way we nice conservative mallu families do it have a few things common with the way it is done in the decadent, oil-grabbing, nefarious, capitalist West. This came as a disappointment for some of my friend who expected me to prepare long, humorous vows and polish it off with a spectacular, bride bent-over, gob smacking kiss that would have set the church rafters on fire.

The above is, mildly put, frowned upon in Kerala. You are expected to mouth standard issue vows prepared by the wise men at the Vatican who are as romantic as old men in white cassocks who need to be celibate in Italy can be. And kissing in public is out of the question. Kerala has one of those typical Indian societies that refuse to publicly acknowledge the existence of heterosexual urges and educate their children that babies are indeed gifts from god or, alternately, from Roy uncle in Muscat. (A cousin continues to believe to this day that he was bought from Doha Duty Free. He has some self esteem issues.)

Anti-climactically, for some who were present, in fifteen minutes flat we exchanged (boring) vows and (awesome) rings and were man and wife in the blink of an eye. I reached towards my wife for a long and romantic kiss only to note an elderly uncle frowning. I don't mess with this particular uncle. One Christmas, back home, we had to kill one of our fattest roosters for the feast. After much running around and bumping head first into coconut palms we were about to give up when uncle came home.

They stood there. The both of them. Uncle at one end of the vegetable garden and at the other end, next to the bougainvillea, stood our rooster, Diju. Uncle frowned for two minutes and, I swear this happened, the rooster fell down dead. By the time grandma took it to the kitchen it was already begin to smoke a bit.

We don't take uncle's frowns lightly. I eased back and a few minutes later we paraded out of the Church one big happy and well photographed family.

***

I am going to tell you an anecdote I heard a few weeks ago. Now it is not the habit of this blog to make wild stories and high-brow claims. (Diju the rooster actually met his end that way. No seriously.) But apparently a friend's friend once went for a wedding in Delhi that, as is custom, had the pheras at some wee hour of the morning. The pundit began his vedic chanting and it was soon clear to the assembled crowd that the holy man was having trouble staying awake. Suddenly somebody in the crowd around the fire jumped up looking very alarmed.

"Pundit stop that chanting right now!" the intruder screamed in a guttural way that some would later recall indicated distant Jat roots. The pundit woke up and looked alarmed. "What is that you were chanting right now?" the intruder demanded of the holy man. A hush fell upon the crowd. (Well I am assuming it did. It must have right?) The pundit suddenly sat up with his eyes the size of saucers and his mouth fell open. He was dumbstruck. After a few moments of silence he admitted the shocking error he had committed. In his soporific state, at some point during the ritual, he had switched from the chants of the wedding rite to those of the funeral rites. So our Jat friend was, after all, not the "jump up in the middle of the shaadi to make a fool of himself and make viewing of the wedding tape a universally squirmy event for everyone concerned" type of guy. Which should teach you to jump to conclusions even on a blog...

Thankfully the Pandit at... er... my wedding (You don't get used to saying 'my wedding' for a long time.) was not that sort at all. He was wide awake and actually quite a sport. He had this naughty glint in his eyes when he explained the chants and mantras and had one of those unique laughs you never forget. It is as if his laugh originates, not from his voicebox, but from the bottom of his stomach (Kundalini spot?). It then rumbles up his torso, rushes in an orderly but sombre fashion up his throat and then erupts in a jovial thundering boom out of his mouth enlivening everyone around. Every time he laughed even the mallus present for a moment forgot the fact each passing moment one of their regular bodily functions was shutting down in the cold.

I studiously repeated the chants and mantras and went around the fire seven times in a slow and watchful fashion so as not to trip my burdened bride over the edges of her divine orange saree and over the little fire and all over the fruits and sweets and other pooja saamagri. I was desperately trying to make sure my ever loosening pyjamas did not give way thus leading to wedding stories of unmatched and enduring embarrassment.

"You must be Sidin bhaiya..." the kids would say, "the one with the snowflakes on blue background boxers..."
"I got them shipped from a GAP in London!" I would respond pointlessly.

When the pooja was finally over I was doubly pleased. For one I had been married completely, not once but twice. And two I had pronounced every sanskrit syllable with a rare eloquence that left the circling North Indian hordes, hungry for a gentle jab at a southie gaffe, content with watching the rapidly petrifying malayalis hardly protected by the shawls and jackets meant for a Kodai or Ooty but not for a Delhi. (Or Alwar as we will soon learn in part two of this longish tome.)

She was sent off in the typical punjabi way. Three handfulls of rice were thrown into the air over her head. It was a genuinely sombre moment. Thankfully not too many people cried. There was some sobbing and dabbing of eyes. I cried a little bit overcome by the emotion of the moment, I had just bought back my shoes for an amount I cannot reveal right now for fear of them Income Tax people. However before sniggering yourself I invite you to try negotiating with a bevy of Punjabi belles from the age of 7 to eighty four. (One bhabhi, a forceful negotiator, bargained well with an innocent twinkle in her eyes, fruity smile on her face and what looked like a rolling pin deftly wrapped in her dupatta. I was brave but did not want to stand in the way of tradition.)

***

But soon we were checked in into our luxurious hotel room. And then both of us sat together on the bed, looked into each other's eyes, and held our respective breaths. She, smouldering in her heavy saree and voluminous accoutrements, whispered "It is time." I nodded and, with a little hesitation due to total lack of first-hand experience, began to pull out what looked like three or four million hairpins from her severely plaited hair. After two hours of this I fell asleep like a log on the couch while hairpins, some the size of Viennese Gondola oars, clattered about my prone form.

Oh so lay me... oh!

It was only at some three in the morning that we finally woke up and...

WAIT A DOGGONE MINUTE! GOOD GOD! YOU READERS ARE INCORRIGIBLE! DOES A BLOGGER HAVE NO PRIVACY? IS HIS LIFE AN OPEN BOOK FOR RANDOM PERUSAL?

Tut tut. Ayyo ayyayyo. I am disappointed in you lot. So for details on how we ended up in the middle of Alwar in Rajasthan, saw the world's most bizarre example of traffic island statuary, how I won over several Punju hearts with my astonishing performance at the Sangeeth, and how we had the most becalming honeymoon ever, tune in later this week to this blog. Till then you must wait you naught naughty naughty reader.

P.S. The wife says hi!

The Mallu-Punju Exposé!

2007-01-10T13:27:00.000+05:30

Expect more details soon!

P.S. The wife says hi!

Afteryouth Update - Essential Product!

2006-11-30T12:28:00.000+05:30

Dearest Fellow Afteryouths,

I know how it is. I understand. You step out of the shower, dry yourself down in front of the mirror, (maybe flex those pecs a little?) and then slip into the bedroom in your towel to surprise the missus.

She looks at you endearingly perched on the edge of the bed. You throw her some manly poses and she coos. "You the man" she whispers huskily. Then you turn around to show off those chiseled back muscles when she screams and bolts out of the room.

Happens dudes.

So waste no time and do what a man needs to do. See pic. Buy product. Right away. Run along now.

Hip Hip Hurrah

2006-11-24T15:33:00.000+05:30

There comes a time in the life of a blog when the author sits back and thinks "If seven people can do a piece of work in five days then in how many days can three mallus do the same amount of work but this time if the factory is shifted from Gurgaon to Cochin?"

Can the answer be half a million? Perhaps.

This author can also not be faulted if he sits back and often wonders why God (Knopfler) would give him so many organs in pairs. He (the author) is often philosophical, sometimes whimsical but always well intentioned. He would be open to selling one of his kidneys if push came to credit card default shove. For how much?

Can the answer be half a million Gandhis? Perhaps. (Throw in a PS3 will you?)

So here I am rambling away. You the reader thinking "What the...?"

Well there is a purpose dear friend. For if you leisurely scroll down this page till the hit counter emerges on the right you will see a number. What number could it be? (Hints galore...)

Half a million? OH YEAH BABY...

WOO HOO. Balle Balle Shaava Shaava. Throws your arms in the air like you jusht dont care...

For this blog has finally, after what... three years?... logged up half a million hits. HALF A MILLION! Not bad eh?

And all thanks to you and the hundreds of people out there who linked through to me and clicked on Domain Maximus every once in a while even when I was AWOL, flamed me, left vile but amusing comments and were jolly good in general.

I love you all. Mwaah Mwaah. So from my side to all of you here:

THANK YOU!

Afteryouth. For Men.

2006-11-23T10:25:00.000+05:30

The other day, on my way back home from the gym in a cab, I stopped at a store to buy a bottle of water and some bread. I whipped out my wallet, settled the bill and then walked out. A few nanoseconds later I heard someone call out from behind me. Well he actually puckered his lips and sucked air at me. It was that precise 'kissing the air' noise they make in Mumbai which works like accurate telepathy. In a crowd of a hundred people you know when someone is calling out to you via the tight 'o' formation and air intake through his mid-face orifice. I have tried it myself but it makes me feel like there is electricity passing my lips. (And not in a nice Mills&Boon sort of way.)

Anyways I pivoted around deflty on the balls of my foot (all that gymming) and saw the shop keeper striding over with my wallet, change, bottle of water and bread in his hands. And his lips were recoiling back to their normal state of rest. I smiled at him sheepishly and gladly took back my possessions. And then I walked back to the kerb and took a cab home. A cab, which on later reflection I noted, was not the one I had embarked from the gym in the first place.

As I stood under the shower soaking away the pains from bench-pressing a hundred pounds (by which I mean twenty) it suddenly occured to me that I might be, gasp, GETTING OLD.

I was forgetting things. I sometimes forget what I forgot and sit at home thinking about nothing in particular but feeling very perturbed. After an hour I get up thinking 'What the heck! If I dont remember it probably does not matter!' and decide to go home after one more coffee.

Or something like that.

When does one know when one is getting long in the tooth? When the old cranium is beginning to age a mite? When the youthful period of one's life has, prepare for simile, slowly drawn its way into the slog overs and is beginning to reach for balls clearly way outside off stump only to potter it away to point and not get even a single thus garnering the spectator's hatred?

The realization was all too sudden I tell you. And the realization mightily hit me when my little brother was in town last weekend. He is a full four years younger than me and is still gloating away in his early twenties. Just yesterday he was this little kid running around the house playfully spraying window cleaner into my eyes while I was trying to read a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica with a Letters to Penthouse hidden inside. (Did I tell you that he once got carried away during a wrestling broadcast on TV, bounced around the living room and finally leapt onto me? It ended with the doctors removing an inch long piece of toothpick from my head. This actually happened.) And suddenly today he is urging me to go out and get some fresh air with my friends so he can sit at home and read my copy of Don Quixote but actually polish off my bottle of Smirnoff Green Apple which I keep hidden away in the cupbooard for emergencies.

It is a scary thought you know. That suddenly you are no longer what older people call, with contempt, 'youth'. Thats just completely horrible. For the last ten years or so I have thoroughly enjoyed being 'youth'. I could get away with so much stupidity and people would think nothing of it. They blamed it on my young blood, hot temper and stray pheromones. But today I go to a Vijay Sales and click-twirl away on the Xbox360 for a bit and suddenly they look at me like some out of work middle-aged vagabond who is a singer or writer or something. They walk over and ask: "Gift for someone sir?"

I hate it.

Of course how does it matter to all of you? You all are 'youth'. This is a 'youth hangout' remember. You guys can still wear your ripped jeans and captioned t-shirts and dance to loud music and noone would say a thing. (At worst they would blame your parents. 'Kids today are raised so badly...' the society ladies at the next table would mutter behind their Daiquiris.)

So when does one know when one has finally crossed the merry but perilous chasm of youth and stepped beyond? It is when the drinks don't hit you as much and wine seems like a serious drink? Is it when you look at Sania Mirza and think 'She could be hot when she gets older...' (She will. Trust me on this.) Or is it when you visit a relatives house and the little kids run around you shouting "Sidin uncle Sidin uncle we want chocolate we want chocolate...!" and then leap onto you making you wish you carried window cleaner with you always.

I don't know. All this burden of complete adulthood is too much you know. I don't know if I am ready for it.

You know what? I think I will call this feeling of mine 'Afteryouth'. Yes indeed. Afteryouth. For Men. Between 27 and 30. Not bad eh? Afteryouth is this mellow feeling of being old enough to look at things like this and frown but young enough to still, say, appreciate Eminem or the Pussycat Dolls. (Though I will most probably appreciate them for a long long time to come.)

I like that. So what do you do in your Afteryouth? Tell me. And if you are still in your youth then leave gentle comments will you? We are very sensitive us 'afteryouth types'.

There was another important thing I wanted to talk about. You will not believe this but...

Voila!

2006-11-11T11:59:00.000+05:30

Aha!

Ahaha!

Trring-ing with Pastrami

2006-11-10T11:20:00.000+05:30

"Jhalak dikhla aaja, Jhalak dikhla aaja, ek baar aaja aaja aaja aaja aaaaaja, ek baar aaja aaja aaja aaja aaaaaja... Jhalak dikhla aaja, jhalak dikhla aaj... click"

Hello?

Dude Pastrami here.

'Sup

Sup dude.

Nuthin much bro... You know. The usual. Running around. Planning. Buying. That sort of thing.

Cool... You read the latest Businessworld?

What?

You know the Business magazine. Normally has CEOs standing back to back on the cover. Or pointing into the distance. Holding imaginary balls. That sort of thing.

Oh yeah. The five-buck mag...

Now ten-bucks.

Oh ok... Whats with it?

Your blog thing is in it.

Awesome! I had no idea really...

Oh... hmm... Well I am sorry that I have to be the one that tells you.

Eh? Matlab? As in its a good thing right? I am getting famous...

Not like this man. Some issue about Indian youth and all. Some crap like that...

Ok. Youth is good you know... They have pots of money and all. Retail boom... Cellphones... Eating out... They are SEC-A+ you know...

Screw you man. Anyways... The magazine has called you a... 'Youth Hangout'...

Whoa! Too much. I am so happy.

You know what is your problem?

Ayyo... Ok what da Pastrami...

You are an idiot. They called you a 'Youth Hangout'... That must hurt man.

No it does not! I like being a Youth Hangout... That means people like reading this blog.

You are pathetic... Dude they just made your blog sound like some dark corner of Bandstand or that stretch near Reclamation.

Where people make out?

The same.

Where you went last week to test out your new Camera Phone?

Chill dude! What the...! I am in the office on speaker phone!...

Sorry dude. By the way did you get those clips down on your laptop?

Yeah. They are totally awesome. Now shut up... They tap phones in these investment banks you know.

Oops. Sorry man... Won't talk about your weekly jaunts to Bandstand, Reclamation, Carter Road or that lane near the Matunga CCD anymore. Not a single word about that folder on your COMPANY laptop called 'Research Insights'. Not a single word... I promise.

Bastard!

Chuckle Chuckle

You will never understand the pains of a man as single as I am.

Maybe you should.. you know... hang out a bit on my blog. Meet some youth?

Don't make me regret calling you dude...

Ok ok... So you think its a bad thing that I am a youth hangout?

OBVIOUSLY! The next thing you know they'll be calling you the Himeshbhai of blogging...

Himesh is cool man...

Ok that does it. Screw you bro. All this while I thought you wanted to make this blog some meeting place for the intelligentsia... Where the educated among us could congregate in an orderly fashion... You are so proletariat man...

Come on. Chill da Pastrami... Its not so bad.

Hmm... BTW coming for the Digweed thing on Saturday? It will rock!

I dunno man... There is this other thing on the weekend... Can't make up my mind.

What? Something bigger than the Godfather of House?! No way man...

Yeah. Want to catch Vivah with me on the weekend?

WHAT?!! WHAT???!!!

Dude its awesome. Apparently Vivah depicts the journey from engagement to marriage. It's that phase of life when one glows naturally. During the courtship period, we all do things to make the other person happy whether it is going kilometres to buy a card or dress up well to bring a smile to the partners lips. But after marriage, the zing goes away as day-to-day issues crop up...

Click.

Daily Exorcise - Part 1 (The HipHop Remix)

2006-10-24T11:41:00.000+05:30

Hey hey hey. Forgotten me already have you? Thought I was gone for good? You are very, very wrong but then I won’t blame you. Its not your fault really. How were you to know that I have been terribly busy with things of a rather personal nature. Of course I will share it with you, no secrets between reader and author on this blog, but not right now. The time is not right. Patience I tell you. All in good time.

But what I CAN tell you is that I have joined a gym. A proper one with treadmills and exercycles and dumbbells and spindly things with weights and handles and steel and chrome and all. Yes I have joined a gym all over again.

Sigh.

Avid readers of this blog, yes all three of you, will know that Sidin Sunny Vadukut has always been most robust when it comes to matters of the waist. He has always enjoyed a good meal of tandoori chicken, rotis, dal makhani and custard followed by a soup and main course and has often been described, in friends circles, as 'cuddly', 'well-fed' and 'cute in a healthy sort of way'. If anyone looked at me and quipped that the pounds were gathering around me in little jiggly ripples of cheer I would merely, and coolly, shrug them off the first time and then roundhouse kick them in the face the second. (Well not as much roundhouse kick as smother them between my elbows. I can’t actually lift my leg that high.)

It was not a bad life really. With the right wardrobe of loose Fabindia kurtas and open-minded draw-string pants I was managing to maintain my self esteem nicely. (Yes there was that incident in that Air Deccan flight. But I ensure you I did not mean to get stuck like that and delay the onward sector by two hours.) Nothing to complain really. And yes pass me that Dal Makhani please. And a nan please. With BUTTER!

But of late, because of this personal thing I was referring to earlier, I had to wear a lot more of those stodgy inflexible formal pants. So off I went and bought myself a few pairs of regulation navy blue and dark brown formal pants that no self-respecting man’s wardrobe is complete without. (Unless you are Bappi Lahiri perhaps. But I doubt even he respects himself. Awwa awwa it seems!)

Then two weeks ago I suddenly noticed that something strange had happened to my pants. My feet went in alright and the shins and knees managed to enter without incident. Things began to get a little ‘testy’ higher up. By the time the fabric had been pulled up to my waist things were looking very very bad.

When I mean ‘tight’ I don’t mean hold your breath in and slip in the button’ tight. Oh ho ho no. I mean ‘scream in agony, get at least one hernia and pass out’ tight. I immediately did what a man had to do. Especially if he wanted to stay one. I ripped off the worsted wool, settled into a lungi and let out a sigh of relief among other things.

Except for one pair of jeans, which I could fit into by getting my roomies to hold the pair up open while I jumped feet first into the cavity from the dining table, the rest of my legwear lay crumpled around my bedroom laughing at me mockingly. Nothing irks like a deprecating length of corduroy.

(Enter hip-hop type loop here. Rap following lines...)

Things were getting out of hand.
And my waistband.
I was forced to understand.
No more room to expand.
No more the gourmand.
Between long term health and death unplanned...
this, mofo, was the final stand.

(End loop. Wait for women to get off you and applause to die. Continue.)

The very next day, after a pizza lunch, I ran to the gym next to my place here in Wadala. I stepped in with a heavy heart, a heavier wallet but with considerable determination.

If you are one of those people who like economics a lot you will note, in addition to the fact that you have very few friends, how several economic theories are based on human beings being
‘rational’. This means that they make logical decisions, are predictable and that he or she is a ratio or quotient of two integers, usually written as the vulgar fraction a/b, where b is not zero.

Well then, step into any gym, go stand next to the billing area and you will see why the above reasoning is absofreakinglutely wrong. A gym membership is to disposable income what a blackhole is to light, a Vadukut is to spicy fish curry and a Bush is to crude producing nations without democracy. These memberships grab impressionable young men and women in their evil sweaty tentacles and suck them dry till the victim is left with no personal wealth except small change and Sodexho passes in awkward denominations. (When this happens you can only either have Idlis or Murgh Mussallam and nothing in between. It sucks.)

Yet, in spite of the inevitable financial challenge, everyday thousands of young men weighing millions of kilos fork out hajjar for gym memberships. And they do this with rosy visions of high impact cardio programs, macho free weights routines, six-pack abs and, most importantly, for a decent shot at the hot dietician who comes in once a week.

But for a person like me, with the aerodynamic quality of a teakwood sofa-cum-bed, the gym, alas, is the last resort. I just had to regain the perfect posture and endless stamina that had abandoned me, after years of neglect, sometime in kindergarten.

So there I was. Melancholy yet intense. Sitting in a chair while I waited for the gym manager to initiate me into my gym routine. He was going to measure every measurable dimension of my body and then weigh me. After this I was supposed to get up, step over all the tiny pieces of my self-esteem that lay scattered across the floor, and go meet the dietician who would go over my readings and give me a review.

Her eyes ran over the tiny ballpoint pen measurements while I looked at the weighing scale sitting ominously in a corner smirking.

Is Sidin’s weight loss too big to solve? Will he ever be able to regain his self confidence and esteem? Will he ever be able to fit into his flat-fronted corduroys again? Will the dietician see the sensitive human being inside the cellulite? Is she single? Will Sidin ever write part two of a two-part blog?

All that much more in Daily Exorcise – Part 2… Coming soon…

Random Overhearings...

2006-09-11T15:26:00.000+05:30

Overheard earlier today during an interview:

Interviewer: You understand that this job involves interacting with corner shops and retailers and wholesalers and really the lowest of the low...

Woman applicant: I understand completely. It is a challenge. But as you can see in my CV it is a challenge I have faced successfully before.

Interviewer: Hmm. But I hope you are aware of the... you know... sheer dirtiness involved in this profile. Street-work is tough and can be a total turn off for a lot of people... most people...

Woman: Oh no no no. (Gesticulating with both hands for effect) I love interacting with people. In fact when I meet these types of people... I just dont get turned off at all... in fact I get really really turned on! Really turned on! (Face huffing with effort...)

Interviewer: Er... ah... yes of course... ok...

Balle Balle in Delhi

2006-09-07T15:13:00.000+05:30

This weekend I began to get a hint of why the Delhi natives in Mumbai crib so much. Delhi has big wide roads that seem to never get narrow. They just go on and on in long wide loops of pothole-free cement and tar. And there seem to be no slums anywhere. And I dont mean just in Lutyens Delhi. But anywhere. Where do all the poor live in Delhi?

And every once in a while you drive under one of those Delhi Metro bridges. The Delhi types are poud of their Metro. They speak of it like we Mumbai types speak of our 'resilience'. "It is always clean" they say, "always on time. Very good indeed. It not like your local trains".

Anyways. Why the sudden Delhi-centric banter? Isn't this an exclusively Mumbai blog? Of course not. No such thing. Tut tut. This blog is omnipresent. Universal. All inclusive. Family pack. One blog fits all. So since I spent most of my weekend at the 'Rajdhani' partaking of a simple, quiet and calm North Indian wedding I must share my wondrous experiences with all of you. This blog hides nothing.

Simple, quiet and calm? Hehehe. I jest.

Our brethren up north have an approach to weddings which is entirely alien to the average Mallu. Regular readers will be aware of the mechanics of a mallu wedding. The steps are, on average, as follows:

1. Wake up
2. Marry
3. Lunch
4. Dinner
5. Sleep / pass out
6. Bathe
7. Go to airport
8. Land in Muscat

It is plainly evident that the average mallu is extremely focused when it comes to marriages. No hanging around wasting time for him. No singing and gifting and dancing for our dear Velayudhan or Tommy-mon. He is on leave you see and his arab boss will fire his ass if he comes even fifteen minutes late. "Do honeymoon of yours in Dubai shopping mall meester velayudhahn. Okay? You no like?... then you no job, no visa, no nothing! No tell me Ooty, Mysore OKAY!" is what his arab proprietor-cum-manager will say.

Things are a little different in the cooler climes of Delhi. This was my second non-mallu wedding though. The first was an all-UP affair, Khares and Maheshwaris, that was elaborate but restrained. Also it was in the midst of a Delhi winter and I barely managed to keep vital body functions going by imbibing several bloody marys while staying put next to one of those "fire in a barrel" type things. They leave them around at the venue so that the southies have somewhere to congregate and so that little aggro children can keep themselves occupied by throwing food, furniture and each other into the crackling flames.

This time one of the two concerned parties, the bride, was Punjabi. And we all know what happens when you mix the concept of 'wedding' with the philosophy of 'being punjabi'. It is akin to what happens when in engineerin college suddenly, out of the blue, with little warning, with nary a word of caution, a moderately hot woman signs up for mechanical engineering. All engineers surely remember the wholesale churn that follows.

Last weekend I was hopping around swanky hotels for both the Sangeet and subsequently the Shaadi. If there is anything the punjabis could give to the rest of the world as a cultural concept, and a concept that one everyone should embrace wholeheartedly, it is that of the 'Sangeet'. It deserves place right up there with the other great punjabi contributions: Paneer Tikka, Sweet Lassi in 4-litre steel glasses, Stuffed Naans, Sardar jokes, Baba Sehgal and Malaika Arora. What can one possibly say about a setup where one's family actively encourages you to get sloshed and dance till the wee hours of the morning? Not to mention the abundance of pretty young things.

See it works like this. The night before the Shaadi (wedding) a few key relatives and several bottles of assorted alcoholic beverages are assembled together in a single hotel room. The bride and groom are then brought into the room, a wanton distraction, and they then proceed to exchange rings (this was one was a Sagai cum Sangeet), smile, sweat profusely, receive gifts, smile, sweat, smile etc. A stream of relatives parade up and down the stage continuously making short snappy conversations and posing for photographs. Since there are hundreds of people who wish to talk to the couple but only limited imported liquor there is normally a rush to climb on stage and be done with things as soon as possible.

There are several challenges for the parties involved: the couple on stage and the casual observer, like your author, off it.

For the bride and groom it is agony to be wished, hugged and blessed and feet-touched by several hundred relatives who are all trying to say something polite and get their photo taken all the while keeping their eyes on the one solitary waiter who is going around with the white wine. (Terrible I tell you. Terrible. On the other hand there are whisky guys everywhere.)

But things are not too much better for the casual observer either. Everyone knows that weddings, apart from being a celebration of the union of two minds and an occassion for people to renew their social bonds, is also an opportunity to eat a lot of fish for free. But as with all good things there is a catch here too. The author observed that there was a subtle but comprehensible pattern to the order in which he was approached by smart looking waiters with platters laden with food. I was able to work out that for each time I was able to corner one of the fried fish waiters I had to wade through two paneer tikka fellows, one cashewnut wallah and 14 million cocktail samosa specialists. Those samosa fellows were everywhere. Standing between me and my crumb fried fish. Rascals.

I am sure those waiters have some sort of a caste system among themselves. The fish and prawns ones are right at the top and they walk around with their chins in the air. Below them, by a fair distance, are the chicken tikka and mutton kebab types. They are good solid middle-order fellows who are always dependable but have none of the airs of the fish and prawn braggards. Then there are the smooth lower middle class paneer types (Though I would suggest you don’t tell a true-blue Punjabi that paneer is anything less than absolute numero uno.) A little proletariat but still a cut above the bottom. If paneer waiters were a suburb of Mumbai they would be Wadala or maybe Khar. But not as hep as Bandra or as 'ahem ahem' as, say, Koliwada. And then right at the bottom you have the cocktail samosa and assorted rolls and deep fried vegetable bearers. It is a sad life they live. The author did not see a single guest as much as cast a kind glance upon the cocktail samosas. I could spy many a cocktail samosa waiter throwing venomous glances at the fish and prawn man flitting by. ("One day you bastard" he seem to say, "I too will carry the calamari." They have simple ambitions those waiters.)

Anyways. Back to the ceremony at hand. Back to the crux of the matter. The pith of the story. The booze.

As young malayali kids who go on to do graduations in engineering some of us have always wondered what life would be like after death. (Note: That is an extremely weird sentence.) If indeed we were to reach heaven what wondrous joys would we partake of? Surely we would want unlimited food, 24-hour mohanlal movies and waiters running around with free booze? And that too booze of all types: beer, rum, whisky, wine, toddy, palm liquor, fermented battery water... any one of the many beverages we have affectionately grown up with. Well a punjabi Sangeet is almost that. Yes my dear friends. Waiters just walk around with glasses of booze. I swear. I saw it with my own two eyes. Hic!

Me and Pastrami, an old dear friend, swooped down on the 'white wine' fellow. Thankfully we were both MBAs, great at math and linear programming and did some quick calculations. Soon we were able to conclude with 98.76% confidence that the 'white wine' fellow walked by a certain freestanding flower pot in the ballroom every ten to twelve minutes. And, lo behold, conveniently intersecting the same spot every fifteen minutes was a shammi kebab fellow . The next hour and a half was supreme bliss. Till they made us dance.

After the food and wine something very essential to the complete punjabi wedding is song and dance. And boy did this one have some. Now if you are one of those people who saw Hum Saath Saath Hai (English Translation: 'We are all seventy-seven') and thought the marriage ceremonies were too fake to be true, you are totally misunderstimating the truth. I actually saw a few dance items that had been choreographed and rehearsed thoroughly by the members of the family. The performances on the dance-floor were energetic, tight and utterly applause worthy. Pastrami, who had had way too much drink by then, was taken aback. He leaned over and whispered in my ear: "These gurlsh are vehry vehry naishe no. Amashing how pfhht grsh jheyzu?"

I agreed completely.

So it was only a matter of time before we were being asked to join the crowd on the dance floor. Pastrami, even with the better part of two bottles of wine and something which he said was a stiff-ish cashewnut roll but could have been a small plastictooth pick holder inside him, was the first to step up to the slightly raised platform. And by 'step up' I mean trip over the edge and almost body slam someone called 'Badi Bua' into the ground. 'Badi Bua' was one of your quintessential punjabi aunties and Pastrami bounced off at a tangent. Buaji continued dancing to 'Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui' as if nothing had happened to her. I stepped in to help Pastrami at which point they began to play Bin Tere Sanam. I was powerless to stop my feet. I did a mean jig to that one. And to every song after that.

I woke up at the guest house fresh the next morning with a horrible 'white wine' hang over in my head and a cashewnut roll in my pocket. I was promptly told to freshen up quickly for the haldi ceremony. This is where the groom is stripped down and then coated from head to toe in a layer of haldi or turmeric paste. He is then deep fried in virgin groundnut oil. Ha ha. I jest! In our case the haldi paste was merely patted onto the groom's face and then he washes it off. Apparently the haldi paste has a cleansing effect on your body and soul. It drives away all dirt and impurity from your skin and constitution leaving behind hygiene, purity and yellow stains on your clothes that last for most of your post-married life.

I quickly took a car home to wash up and change for the wedding ceremony in the evening.

By evening we were all back at another hotel for the 'pheras' or wedding ceremony. As my dear friends sat besides the ceremonial fire moments away from forging an eternal bond of togetherness my heart filled with a certain emotional and melancholic feeling as Pastrami had just found out that there was no non-veg for dinner. But all was not lost. There was white wine and lots of it. Om Swaha!

Which reminds me of a joke. I am sure you are aware that pundits normally make several jokes in Sanskrit as the marriage goes on. Sometimes they translate the jokes into Hindi and speak it out for the benefit of all the people assembled. And my joke is this: how should one laugh at these wedding mantra type jokes? Swahahahahahaha...

Anyways. Compared to the Sangeet the wedding is a much more serious and sober affair. Except for the stealing of the shoes bit. Apparently custom has it that after the wedding the bride's family members steal the groom's shoes. The shoes are only returned on the payment of a token amount of money. And by token I mean something in the range of twenty-one thousand rupees. Yes enough money to buy a small 100cc bike, a decently big flat screen TV and 3 questions in parliament. I kid not dear friends. Apparently, one oldish uncle told me later, the idea is to prevent the groom from running away after the wedding. Apparently that sort of thing was prevalent in ancient days.

By this point you must be wondering two very important things: one, why did not grooms in ancient days run away bare foot, and two, why hadn't we started drinking yet? Valid questions both of them. Patience my friend, patience. The shoe issue had built up into a little play-acted controversy till a jolly aunty intervened and the groom got his shoes back at the nominal price of fifteen thousand rupees. I joked to one of the punjabi aunties there: "At my wedding I am just going to paint shoes onto my feet." She thought for a moment and said: "We will cut off your feet then." She did not look like she was joking at all. I promptly retired to the alcohol kiosk glumly.

The rest of the wedding was as you would have at any post-wedding reception of any religion, society and culture. There was a huge hall full of people wining and dining merilly while soft sensuous music played in the background including 'Jhalak Dhikla Aaja' seven memorable times. The lucky couple were perched on a stage where they kept smiling for the cameras and kept getting gifts in small thick envelopes. Wonder what they could be in them envelopes? Hmm...

The food was delicious, drink was good and the night was slowly sinking into unremarkability when Pastrami decided we had to do something to inject a little life into the night. Something easy to do yet involving. Quick yet satisfying.

Tequila shots. (What did you think?)

Three shots each later the night was getting much better. We ran back from the hotel bar just in time to see the 'Vidayi'. This is the ritual where the couple is sent off by the bride's family amidst a pall of gloom and tears. After all their daughter was leaving them forever. Their little girl was stepping out from the safe haven of her parents' wing into the mad and fearsome world of family and responsibility. She was now a woman. A married one. As they stepped into the car that lay outside bedecked in flowers several of the women broke out into sobs. They dabbed their eyes with the tips of their sarees. Pastrami, a person who is easily driven into emotion, looked grimly as the car started and sped away.

Of course as the groom lived in Calcutta and it would have been imprudent for them to ride in a Honda City covered in flowers all the way to Budhadeb-land they merely went out of the gate, drove around the hotel and then drove back in through a gate in the back. Which makes the entire melodrama in the previous paragraph look stupid. The couple soon settled into room 1428. (Factual correctness has always been this blog's motto.)

Anyone who has seen mallu movies across the ages will agree that the first night sequence, also known in mallu land as 'the best part of a family movie and the part just before the stove blows up', involves much heavy breathing, electric touches, bodies gently moving towards each other followed by a sweeping camera shot ending in a close-up of the jasmine flowers on the bed. Here much of that were applicable except that instead of jasmine flowers you had two dozen cousins and several other assorted relatives spread out on the bed. Apparently this is a tradition the bengali's call 'kaalratri' where the couple is prevented from sleeping all night by a continous stream of visitors and relatives. But that is only for the first night. The nights after that they only have one of the more senior women aunts or grandmothers who stay in each time.

No no no no. I jest again!

Due to an early flight early the next morning I had to leave my friends after a decent hour and quickly speed back home happy and satisfied. I had just seen a rather complete north indian wedding. It was indeed much more louder and much more fun than the typical mallu christian weddings I have been to. I loved the dancing, the eating, the good cheer and the white wine. The spirit is really quite infectious.

But our Chicken 65 is much better.

Happy Ganesh Chaturthi!

2006-08-27T09:02:00.000+05:30

Steal Resolve

2006-08-23T13:23:00.000+05:30

Good afternoon everyone.

Being the multifaceted personality that I am, I am often approached by readers for all sorts of assistance. Several of you have requested help with losing weight, speaking Hindi without an accent and starting businesses in South Africa.

Well not really. But a relative recently was asked to go to SA on work and had a merry adventure trying to get a visa done. After months of effort and several phone calls and faxes the South African Visa Gods finally smiled down upon on him (or 'up upon him' geographically speaking.) He was jumping for joy when he received an email from the 'Visa-fixer type people' in Johannesburg.

He immediately clicked forward and zipped it out to everyone in his personal address book. We were all happy for him and promptly deleted the email.

Then suddenly he mailed us another copy with a request to read till the very end of the correspondence. You should do too. I have pasted it below. "Oh my god that is so hilarious, it makes me laugh so much" is the first word that popped into my mind when I read it:

(P.S. Ah those days when you can blog with so little effort.)
(P.P.S. More accounts from people in SA are welcome!)
(P.P.P.S. I know. Hehehe. Funny.)

Dear *****,
We are pleased to advise that the Consulate General in Mumbai has indicated that your Work Permit application has been approved and you can collect your passport from them tomorrow morning.

Please remember to scan and e-mail us a copy of your permit, prior to your departure to South Africa.

Thank you & best regards,

**** *****
* ******* * ********
Registered Immigration Practitioner: ****/****/****
Telephone: 0861 IMMIGRATION (0861 *** ****)(NATIONAL)Telephone: +27 (11) ***-**** (Switchboard)
Fax: +27 (11) ***-***
Cell Phone: +27 (83) ***-****
www.*******.co.za

Office Address:
******* House
Ballywoods Office Park
29 – 33 Ballyclare Drive
Bryanston
Johannesburg

Please note that our telephone systems are down at the moment due to the theft of the Copper Wire Cables in our area over the weekend. Telkom (the phone company) has assured us they are working on replacing
the cables as soon as possible. Should you need to contact us, please contact ******** ***** on ***********.

For our international clients, please understand that the theft of Copper Wire Cables happens frequently in South Africa and causes great inconvenience to businesses.

Slice of Life

2006-08-14T08:09:00.000+05:30

The time is a little after 10 pm on a weekday. I am standing behind Lilvathi Hospital near Bandra Reclamation. The sky is hidden behind a cover of thick, dark clouds. Blackest black. No stars shine through. Not one little pinprick of interstellar cheer. I look to my right and see the red lights of the car fade, thin and then dissappear as the car turns around the corner and zips past the Barista outlet. My friend was going back home after an exhausting day at work and he had graciously agreed to drop me behind the hospital. I stepped out of the car near the HDFC ATM. We bid farewell and he pulled away his shoulders slumped and eyes drooping. He works too much, I thought. But then he has an Accent.

I withdrew some money and grimly waited for the machine to spit out the piece of waxy paper with my account balance printed on it. I read, frowned, crumpled, binned and stepped out. Next move: Catch an auto to Santa Cruz. My grandparents were expecting me for dinner. I looked at my watch. It was getting very late and I would definitely end up waking them up from bed. The society locked their gate up at night instead of hiring a watchman and my grandfather would have to stumble his way down to unlock the wrought iron gates. Sigh.

There was an auto parked outside the ATM. The driver slumped in his seat, his head resting on the back rest. A thin little man with a permanent sneer on his face rolled up in crumpled khakhi. The uniform was several sizes too large for him, the shirt bunched up in large folds around him. His feet stuck out of the auto pointing up at the sombre sky.

"Bhaisaab?"
"Hmm..." The noise came from somewhere deep within him. From his belly perhaps. It rolled and rumbled up his throat. He tilted his head a mere one-thousandth of a degree to the left. He looked at me through the corner of one single eye. I perked up.
"Kalina jhaaoge?"
"Hmm...?" Same deep rumble. But his left eyebrow moved up a picometer. He sought clarification.
"Kalina. C.S.T Road..." He had to be interested, I pondered. It was a healthy thirty or forty buck trip. Down the road, around Lilavathi and back up the flyover to the highway. Surely not too close.
"C.S.T. Road? Hmm... Kahaan?"
I readjusted the strap of my laptop on my shoulder uncomfortably.
I see. One of those intellectual auto drivers. The type who seemed to be stuck driving autos while they really wanted to be poets or artists and the like. The ones who were choosy about their trips. I had met the type before. Outside my old office building in BKC. Nothing short of a Mira Road or Bhayander would make them even budge from their slump.
(Henceforth the conversation will be transcribed in English. In public interest only.)
"C.S.T. Road jee. Near the signal when you come down the road from Hyatt."
"Hyatt? The one near the airport?"
"No. The one near Kalina. The big one. Off the highway."
"There are two Hyatts?"
"Yes. I want to go to the one near Kalina."
"Any landmark near there?"
I thought. Of course. I have been an idiot.
"Elder brother my destination is bang opposite the gate to the University."
He sat up a fraction of an inch.
"University? That is in South..."
"No brother. The one in Kalina. Near Hyatt. On C.S.T. Road. I know the way."
He looked into the distance.
"I have been there many times. Never seen this University gate. This hotel is big?"
By now I was sure I would have to guide him every twist and turn of the way to my grandparents' place.

Grandparents!

The minutes ticked away. They would be most displeased! I looked up and down the road. Not a person in site. Not one auto. There was a taxi. But not with that bank account. Unaffordable.
"Brother. I know the way from here. Perfectly."
"Oh. Ok. How do you go normally?"
"From here back to the highway over the flyover. Then turn off at Hyatt and down to the signal. It is just near the signal."
"You can go through BKC also no?"
"Yes that is also equally far away. Not much difference."
"Hmm..."
"So let us go then?"
"No."
"Why?"
(Back to Hindi)
"Nahi saab. Passenger hai. Main waiting kar raha hoon..." He pointed at the meter. It was down.

I seethed. I could have head-butted him in the chest just then. But then being the resilient mumbaikar that I am, the one with the indomitable spirit and the limitless ability to bounce back from adversity I stepped back, smiled to myself and walked away.

I got another auto after twenty minutes. I was still smiling when I reached Kalina.

Bachao!

2006-08-11T01:13:00.000+05:30

Dear Peoples

Drop in a line if any of you can help me with a good book agent. I think my book might be ready to be picked up for several millions of dollars. Or rupees.

Many thanks

Me

Clandestine Lurve

2006-08-01T17:27:00.000+05:30

(This post is very context specific. You might not get it. But Lover Boy most definitely does. Guahahaha.)

Don't tell anyone. Not a soul. Nope not even your girlfriend. Parents are completely out of the question. Social networks are too strong to take lightly you know. (Orkut! Egads!) I dont trust any of you. So shush! Listen up. This is between us.

I am not sure. Well I AM 99.99% sure. But not completely. You know how it is. You are really sure but you must see it with your own eyes and spy camera before you can be sure. But anyways. Back to crux of the issue. The filling in the puff: I really really think a very close friend of mine is seeing someone. We are very close. Almost like roommates. But not quite. He lives in his office at Prabhadevi most of the time. Otherwise you can find him in the gym near his office. Or so he wants us to believe. By us I mean our friends circle.

In fact that is where this story of deception, subterfuge, perfumery, personal health advancement and clandestine lurve begins. The gym. Ah yes. Gyms. Wonderful places that suck out all your money and in return gives you torn cruciate ligaments in the right knee. But I guess I was an exception. In our friend's case (after all my friend is your friend) it all began all too suddenly sometime last November. It was another muggy evening in Mumbai and the author felt like a quick trip down to the local Cafe. Not one for solitary socializing the author reached out to Pastrami and Lover Boy. Pastrami was too busy in the office. There was a new secretary and Pastrami wanted to show her some spread sheets. (He he.) That left only Lover Boy. Ring ring click.

You want to do coffee?
No.
What? But you always do coffee...
Not today...
Why not?
Err... I need to... you know
No
Oh I didnt tell you?
Tell me what?
That I am going to the gym now. Everyday. After work.
What? Why? You are a pipsqueek. (He is. Thin. Scrawny. Completely insubstantial. A shrimp.)
I need to put on some weight man. Get those muscles working.
Hmm. Good for you. Just tell them to keep their protein-shakey fingers off your cruciate ligaments.
Will do Sid.
Tata.

At the time it seemed like a reasonable thing. He really could use a little muscle all over. He was really very very thin. Not that he didnt eat or anything. Oh no, he worked through a stack of rotis and a bucket of Palak Paneer like a lumberjack. (The ones who like Indian food.) But he doesnt gain an inch. I know him from business school and he hasnt put on a bloody nanogram. In sharp contrast I merely need to walk by a the jalebi maker who stands outside my building and my buttons start to pop. Zippers screaming and all. Lover boy must have astronomic metabolism rates, we all assumed.

That night he came back home at midnight. Worked late and then the gym, he said. I nodded. The next day I nodded again. And again. And again. After a week I began to smell something fishy. He was gymming on the weekends too. For several hours. Finally I came to know that he had come back home one Monday at three in the morning. A rough back of the envelope calculation revelaed that he must have gymmed between three and five hours that day. "What crap?!" I told myself. Next day I dropped in after dinner at his place. Lover Boy warranted some careful observation. He came back at four. And not with his shirt ruffled, eyes dropping, hair tousled and pants crumpled as most overnight MBAs return. No siree. He had a twinkle in his eye, a spring in his step and a song on his lips. (Saat Samundar from Vishwaatma. The remix version. Beats and all.) Only his hair was tousled. And was that a rather too conspiratory crumpling of the collars? My spider sense began tingling.

The weeks that followed threw up even more clues. A most casual user of deodorant till then he suddenly began using Tommy Hilfiger and such premium fragrances. And lots of it. Once, in the course of a chance meeting at Phoenix Mills, he hugged me and I passed out after having run into a block of solid Fahrenheit.

He then began to buy new clothes. Till then he was a conservative dresser with a particular penchant for downmarket t-shirts made in assorted South East Asian nations. The types that had lines like: 'Fashion Star 2003. Total Impact Garment" or "Looking Good. Emergency Style Attack." emblazoned on the back. Overnight he became a high-priority customer at Charagh Din. Everyday he was in a new shirt. In a mist of premium scent.

All the while his dedication to the gym hit Limca Book of Records levels. By my back of the enevlope calculations he should have by now at least begun to look much fitter like, say, Brock Lesnar or The Rock. But he still looked the same. Shrimp. My spider sense tingled like a dab of Itchguard after an all-day football game in the Mumbai summers.

At this point you might ask why I was so curious. Why should I be bothered? Why should I poke my mallu nose into his personal affairs? What was my problem? Did I not respect his privacy? Would I have enjoyed this scrutiny myself had I been in the same position? But then considering you have read this post till this point you have no right to ask me such questions. At all. Nosey you.

But due to the same joys that one gets when someone leaves their email open in a netcafe and saunters off, or gives you there cellphone wrongly assuming you will not read their SMSes, I kept persisting in my quest to uncover the "Mystery of the Gym" as the affair was being called by a select group of friends by then.

Then one day Lover Boy made a slip up. He asked me to join him with "some of my office friends" for an evening out in town. We left in his car and picked her up from near his office. Did his eyes just shoot her a quiet message through the rear view mirror? I may have been mistaken but I swear I saw him say: "Hey Baby! I am really sorry about the water buffalo who is with us today. I had no idea he would agree to come. I was just being polite. You look so beautiful." Hmm. Tingle. Tingle.

However the rest of the trip was uneventful. They shared no private jokes, did not stroll away into private corners and he did not seem to mind me talking to her with my natural charm and animal mallu magnetism. After a movie and dinner we were on our way back and we were back outside her house to drop her. In a moment of weakness, perhaps one of subtle indication, my friend spoke up: "Let me drop her at her place. Be right back." They walked away. TINGLE TINGLE.

So that brings us to last week. By this time several close friends have heard about the Gym Affair. The circles are rife with rumours and conspiracy. And our friend is pumping iron like never before. And then last week several things happened together. Lover Boy bought a new cellphone and I was inspecting it when I came across several well-taken portrait shots of the fair maiden. Later while out driving around he refused to play the usual CD, a combination of the best Govinda and Manna Dey hits. "Too crass this music. Lets play this Kenny G CD." I looked at him in shock, my eyes smouldering. His eyes, on the other hand, seemed to be focussing away into the distance. Dreamy. Romantic. TINGLE. Ah... Songbird...

And now, the final straw, I come to know that he has gone to a certain city in India to attend a certain friend's certain wedding. And who has accompanied him? Yup fair maiden herself. And how long is he there? Six days. But what is clincher? Drum Roll... Fair maiden is from the same city herself!!!

What are the odds? What are the chances that something romantic is afoot? Do you think Lover Boy is actually in love? Yeh sach hai ya sapna? Is it all just a misunderstanding? Are they just friends? Platonic ones? When he said "I am going to the Gym" did he actually mean "I am going to meet Jim"? Does that make the whole thing more disturbing? Who is this fair maiden? What does she see in him? Can anyone else hit on her? Will he get angry? (Remember he has now accumulated seven thousand manhours in the gym).

I am puzzled. But please dont tell him I told you. That was just between the both of us. Completely secret. Shush.

Hope all is well with everyone...

2006-07-11T20:25:00.000+05:30

I am ok. Hope all of you are too.

I feel terrible for the city.

Certain moral, ethical and natural-gas related dilemmas...

2006-06-21T16:20:00.000+05:30

Dearest Readers and other people who often flame this blog,

Yesterday I was travelling between Parel and Andheri, running from one prospective employer appointment to the other in a cab. The traffic was average to bad and I sat back and began to ponder many thoughts. Amidst the trip the cab-wallah stopped at a CNG pump to top up his car. The rain, which arrived briefly and then departed not unlike Mohammad Kaif, remained merely an intermittent dark streak on the smoking roads.

So here are some moral dilemmas (dilemmae?) that river-danced in my head for several intriguing moments.

Dilemma Number One: Is there, at a very basic level, any difference between a religious zealot who is prepared to kill and die for his religion and a member of the armed forces? Both have picked up causes they were born into with little choice. (You normally don't choose your country and also accept the religion you were born into. Both with little question.)

Both possibly consider their respective causes essential to their safe existence. (And in several places in this country people of a religion stay together because the law simply cannot protect them.) They follow orders blindly even if they know they are protecting or fighting for a country/religion which may be committing moral/humanitarian evils. (Nazi soldiers for instance. But one must still obey if one is a soldier.)

So then why is one portrayed so heroically while the other is a heinous criminal?

Dilemma Number Two: Why are there so many anonymous commenters who leave single-line terse messages that are invariably critical. For example: "You are a stupid blogger". "This blog sucks." "Why don' t you put your d!@# in a mad dog's mouth and hope he does a favour to you." and of course the all too common comment: "You are a North Indian bigot who is trying to slander South Indians and get away with it."

These are actual examples of correspondence I have shared with diligent feedback-givers out there. Why would they do something like that? What actually runs through their minds when they do this?

Is this online graffiti? If you are an anonymous "mad dog sex life advocate" please enlighten me.

Dilemma Number Three: Why do they make passengers step out of the cab when they are filling it with CNG at one of those pumps? Is it because the car might, in a sudden fit of gassy emotion, blow up? This makes little sense as, after getting out, I am still standing very very near the bloody death machine. I would be indistinguishable from the upholstery, Pierre Balmain brass fittings and electric blue tube light shards if something were to happen.

Or is it because a load in the back could tilt the taxi ever so slightly so that it does not fill up properly? But then this means our taxi cabs are perfectly suspended on springs otherwise. To which I would say: HAHAHAHA.

So then why? I need to know this.

Dilemma Number Four: Does that guy called Pirlo who plays for Italy looks surprisingly like that Razak Khan fellow? He is the actor from Kya Kool Hai Hum. Yes the tailor fellow. (Admit it. You laughed.) I once saw Razak Khan at that Mocha on Hill Road. He was wearing a pair of woollen pyjamas and dragging on a hookah. This was sometime in May.

This dilemma, you will admit, was much shallower than the other ones. But it did intrigue me.

Four dilemmas will do for now.

In other news this blog is undergoing a little bit of housekeeping. You will notice three new categories of links on the right side. The first one called "Links" (duh) leads you off to interesting places with many nice things to read. The second called "Must Reads" are interesting articles of lasting significance you might want to peruse. The third one is "Recently Noted". This is a dynamic list of things I have been reading recently and found worth a reco.

And finally there is "Miscellaneous FatCat". A collection of non-blog yet online writing from yours truly. Me.

Also I have ported all my 'Bloglet' email subscribers to 'Feedblitz'. Excuse the hassles of confirmation emails. But FB is muchos better and more stable. There is also a slightly more comprehensive means to get the XML feed for this blog right at the bottom of the sidebar. Subscribe with glee I always say.

And to close proceedings a little exercise for all of you who have read my dilemmas and are fascinated by them and want to do something more dilemma-related. Say the words "D'mello's Dilemmas" very fast repeatedly for several minutes. Do this in your office loudly while standing up. Spread the joy.

Adios people. And yes I need enlightenment on all those issues. Comment away!

Come rhyme our nation to progress...

2006-06-15T21:00:00.000+05:30

The rhyme now has a reason!!!

I was thoroughly overjoyed to read recently that we have liberated our little little (nanhe munhe) children from the tyranny of western influence. Or at least the Madhya Pradesh government has. I hope this is just the beginning of a long series of reforms in our education system. The time is undoubtedly right; for too long we have stuck to the age old norms of reading writing and arithmetic. Today we know that this alone is insufficient to guarantee success in our society. In fact this is not even important in the larger scheme of things.

I encourage each and every reader of this blog to applaud this move. But this alone is not enough. We Indians tend to give our MORAL support to each and every cause but actually do little to further the cause or even help the champions of the cause to make any money. This is abominable.

I have decided to openly support this noble (Nobel?) initiative of the MP government by kick-starting the process of scripting nice, ek dum desi, and patriotic nursery rhymes. I encourage all readers of this blog to add to this short list with their own educative yet home-grown examples of nursery-ready lyric.

Rhyme Number 1: (Baa baa black sheep)
Aaa Aaa Arjun
Have you any a seat?
First you tell me
Your community!

22.5% for SC/ST
27% for OBC
And the rest for the forwards
Who will soon live on the street.

Rhyme Number 2: (Johnny Johnny)
Mika Mika
Yes papa
Hosting party?
No papa
Kissing item girl?
No papa!
I saw it on TOI cover
Ha ha ha

Rhyme Number 3: (Rain rain)
Rain, rain go away
Come again another day
Johnny Josesph wants to play

Rhyme Number 4: (Mary had a little lamb)
Rahul had a little coke
A little speed, a little hash
Rahul had a little coke, the stuff was white as snow
And everywhere that Rahul went
Rahul went, Rahul went
And everywhere that Rahul went, Sahil was sure to blow

Rhyme Number 5: (Row row row)
Sing, sing, sing through your nose
And wear a stupid cap
All the autos play your stuff
But you mostly sound like crap

Rhyme Number 6: (Jack and Jill)
My Chennai aunty always stood in line
To fetch a pail of water
She hoped things would change post-election
Instead of water she got free television

As you can see there is infinite potential to make nice bharateeya poetry for our young ones to learn in school. I encourage all of you readers to generously contribute to this just cause and help in the betterment of our education system. Please leave your nation-changing poetry in the comments... this is your chance to make a difference...

The best contributions will be published in Hafta to much… er… fanfare…

Imagine...

2006-06-14T11:16:00.000+05:30

10th July. 02:33 A.M. IST

Brazil 2 – England 2

You are sitting cross legged on the mat in front of the television. You started the match on the sofa set. But as the match progressed, and first Rooney and then Beckham rattled the Brazilian crossbar, you slowly crawled towards the TV.

The air conditioning is roaring on full... has been for the last two and a half hours. Outside the Bombay monsoon is raging. Your windows rattle and shudder every few minutes when a gust of rain-laden wind crash into your building.

You, however, are still cooking. Your palms are cold and pale. You can actually feel your chest pounding. Your eyes the size of saucers, your lips crushed together into thin lines. Your jaws bite and relax every few minutes. The rest of your body is perfectly still. Next to you Fungus lays stomach down corpse-like on the floor, his chin on the cold mosaic flooring.

Fungus has his palms across his face. He looks at the TV screen through the gaps between his fingers. He too is still and silent.

The video signal is perfect. There is too much ambient stadium noise in the audio. Whistling, chants, drums. Heart beat. The commentators try to maintain a semblance of sanity in their modulation. But it is getting a bit too much for everyone. Especially you.

Both teams have been overly cautious since extra-time began. But still England have the slight upper hand. That amazing burst of offensive football in the last ten minutes of regular time to come back from two goals down seems to have given new life to all eleven players.

The Brazilians still seem to be reeling under the shock of seeing sure victory being stolen from them at the death. But it takes more than mere intimidation to beat the gold and blue.

The doorbell rings. And rings again when there is no reponse. Your room mate walks in from the bed room.

“Bastards open the door no? Do you have to watch the match without missing a moment?”
Fungus replies without looking away from the TV screen. “Shut up cricket bitch.”

Your roommate opens the door and pays for the food. The delivery boy asks if he can step in and watch the TV for a couple of minutes. Roommate shrugs his shoulders. “Ok”.

Robinson kicks the ball down the pitch. Lampard jumps up into the air and wins the ball. It falls to the Beckham’s feet. He picks up the ball races down the wing. Head bent down in determination. Fungus sits up. Out of the corner of your eye you see the clock on the TV.

God! One more minute. God please please please…

The Beckham sprint runs into a wall of gold and yellow near the corner flag. The Brazilians are throwing everything into defence. Samba flair is useless if you came second. Beckham looks around desperately for support. Every moment he spends scouting for options another Brazilian runs back to lock down the penalty area.

And then suddenly he sees his opening. Beckham turns around and races down the line DOWN the pitch!

“F!@#! What is he doing?” you utter.
“Rooney” fungus says.

Beckham snaps the ball into Wayne Rooney who fell back to create an opening for himself. Wayne Rooney has some space. He uses the pace on the ball and runs back into the centre of the pitch. The Brazilians scramble back.

Wayne Rooney looks up at the Brazilian goal only for the merest fraction of a second. And in that one moment you know something is going to happen. Did his eyes just gleam?

His left arm extends as he balances himself. A shot from thirty-five yards! No! His right leg swings up. You draw in your breath, Fungus buries his face in his fingers, he can’t bare to watch. The foot rushes down towards the ball. Wayne Rooney grimaces in determination. His foot crashes into the ball.

Time stands still.

It was an accident really. That time when you saw your first football match. You were browsing between channels looking for cartoons when you caught a broadcast of the old English first division on TV. This was in the late eighties maybe. You barely remember who played in it. Queens Park Rangers and Crystal Palace. Maybe it was West Ham. You are not sure. But you remember there were only a few minutes left to win the match and someone was taking a corner. Why was everyone in such a hurry, your child’s mind wondered. Did they get prizes or something?

Later that day during dinner you sat with dad and told him about the match. He sat and told you all the rules. He was an old club player himself. He was pleased his son was beginning to take to the sport as well.

Time, in your mind, begins to move in small excruciating slices. The shot was good. On target you think. But was it too hard? Rooney is in mid air when the ball launches itself from his foot. It has power. But will it go in? A corner of your mind begins to wonder where Dida, the Brazilian goalkeeper is. If he is in line… no…

You were not particularly good in it at school. But you played your heart out. By class seven you were running through a dozen pairs of uniforms every year. Being a committed defender who dived on your asphalt covered school ground was not easy. Rips and cuts and bruises every day.

Dad shouted at you in front of mom but later called you from your homework to watch Diego Maradona on TV. He is very good you know, dad said, but not as great as Pele. Pele became your god. Maradona the impostor.

Fraction of a second after fraction of a second. The ball sails past an outstretched Brazilian foot. Your eyes register a million tiny details. Dida begins to move to one side. Will he dive? Does he have to? The clock! This could be the last chance… please please…

Then they made you the goal-keeper of the class team. You were ecstatic and, against the wishes of your mother, forced your dad to buy you a pair of Chinese football boots. Canvas uppers and stupid rubber studs that broke off; one stud a week. You saved a penalty in your second match against Section C and became a celebrity for a month.

The ball swerves outwards. Is there too much spin on it? Oh no. These new Teamgeists are simply too responsive. But has Rooney got it right?

By junior college you were a committed football fan. You loved France and England. Anyone but Brazil. They won everything. But you still loved Pele. And you adored Arsenal. And the Premier League.

In 1990 you rooted for the UAE. After all you lived there. Germany thrashed them in the first match but they still managed to get a goal in. Yippee!!!

The ball hurtled through the air. Fatalist thoughts began ricocheting around your head. It could hit the cross bar. It could spin away altogether. Dida could reach it just in time. Maybe there was a Brazilian defender out of eye shot who would lunge in with his feet. Or his head. If he intercepted the ball please let him die of a concussion you pray. The ball… it was almost there…

You were portly in engineering college but they still took you in the team as the reserve goalkeeper. Partly because the main goalie was better at scoring goals than the forwards and often got pushed up after half-time. Partly because you cracked a lot of jokes and was good timepass on tournament trips.

Then one day you went played for the B team and let in 11 goals. Or maybe twelve. You don’t remember. You remember the reception back in college. F!@#.

Dida leapt into the air. His left arm outstretched. The ball zoomed past yet another outstretched boot. Almost there now…

You enjoyed the world cups and always took leave from office to watch the tournaments. At heart you remained an England man. Home of Crystal Palace, Queens Park Rangers and Aston Villa and all the others. Why did England never win?

It clips the very tip of Dida’s outstretched glove. The deflection… it is large enough…

But every four years you waited for the men in white and black to lift the cup. But nothing ever went right for them.

It hits the post…

Maybe this year would be England’s year the media had said. This year England might finally pick up the cup after 1966. But everyone said it boiled down to two things. Will Rooney play? And can England beat Brazil? You prayed day and night, slept on your left side, wore your lucky watch even if it had a crack in the glass. Please please…

Please please… Fungus and you sit like statues in front of TV. Your mouths open in a silent scream…

If England won it would be the ultimate ending to the world cup. They came so close to losing it all so many times this year: last gasper against Sweden, penalties against France, nine men against the Netherlands. It all adds up to this one final match... this moment...

The ball ricochets off the bar and flies…

But Brazil! They have been impeccable in the competition. Strong, fast and cocky. Unbeatable in any pundit’s book. But what did Motson say the other day? Wayne Rooney might mean the difference…

… and smashes into the back netting. The Pizza boy screamed first. He had his arms in the air. Fungus and you hug each other. Wayne Rooney sinks to his knees.

Just imagine.

p.s. Two posts in one day??!! I know...
p.p.s. To the football buffs out there with excel sheets: if Sweden win their remaining two matches and England beat Trinidad an England-Brazil final is very very possible. (Smug)
p.p.p.s. Second issue of Hafta is out too

Random Insane Mumblings

2006-06-14T09:46:00.000+05:30

And on a Wednesday morning, when I am down with a bad fever and a frustrating head cold, a few random musings, cribs and rants to keep the brain going...

What is it with the media and Brazilian football? Mohanlal and Mamooty may be infallible, but do the media think Brazil too can do no wrong? Here are a smattering of utterances from media include web and TV. Note the double standards:

On tapping it around in mid-field with no idea what do next:
U.S.A.: The team clearly lacks ideas and a sense of adventure
Brazil: See how they were patient and waited for the right opportunity?

On losing possession every once in a while:
Togo: Need to learn to keep the ball and push forward. Lack of big match experience.
Brazil: The thing about Brazil is that they let you play (duh)

On being really lucky to hold on to that one goal lead in second half:
England: The aggression and hunger to score just fizzled out.
Brazil: They were clearly playing a couple of gears below regular. They will pick it up as they go along.

On losing the 2006 World Cup to the Czech Republic:
Czech: They must see that this in no way proves they are the best. Football is a funny game. On the day...
Brazil: See how they conserved energy and talent for South Africa 2010?

My money on the Czech Republic to whip Samba posterior.

Now sports media peoples let us comment and write on what happens on the pitch and not on what could potentially happen and all that jazz. Hmph!

Which sets the stage nicely for a couple of Eastern European jokes.

1. How would you tell an eastern european fellow who works in a bank to check his paperwork thoroughly?
Ans: "Check cheque Czech"

2. But if he is a flirt and spends all his time chatting up the cute girl in HR?
Ans: "Chuck chick, check cheque Czech"

3. And if at that exact moment a car load of sardars from Delhi passed by the bank?
Ans: Dhik Chak "Chuck chick, check cheque Czech" dhik chak

Feel free to add more in the comments please. Right now, SNIFF, I can use all the humour you can give...

And finally I am fascinated about the wide variety of things you are not allowed to carry into many of our excellent commercial establishments and commercial aircraft here in India.

I found this old Inox movie ticket that clearly states on the back that I cannot carry a weapon into the theatre. I did some research into this and, apparently, this particular restriction appeared around the same time as Uday Chopra and whoever is Jeetendra's son started acting. Hmm... (I'm the Neal, I'm the man, rockstar, super... BLAM! Your own brains spatter across… you get it…)

All along my distinguished career entering and exiting commercial establishments I have been prevented from carrying many things into many places. Food into restaurants, umbrellas into a water park, bananas into a tennis tournament, chess into a wild ass sanctuary and last but not least a butter knife into an airplane. (I use the butterknife to wax my... I mean... hehehe... you know how you might get butter suddenly without warning and need to cut it no? hehehe... Dammit...) Of course when the airline served breakfast they made sure to give each person on board a very sharp little butter knife...

But a few days ago I was at gate 2C at the international airport here in Mumbai and I saw this long blue notice on the wall with a list of things forbidden on board. Now I won't talk about me but I sincerely hope you are not looking at flying abroad with bull-whips, dynamite, bows and arrows, chilli powder and, this is most intriguing, 'martial arts'.

No not 'martial arts equipments' or 'martial arts devices' or even 'martial arts videos' but just, simply, 'martial arts'. Does this mean I will need to set aside my knowledge of Tae-Kwondo gathered down the ages from sages in the lonely jungle-like hills near Kottayam through a correspondence course?

Questions and questions...

Today I will lie about aimlessly pondering on these issues waiting for my fever to subside. All of you people have fun in office. I will probably have to spend all day watching football. And see some random country kick around a ball up and down a pitch and smiling sheepishly because they really cannot do anything with it... or as they said about Brazil last night:

"They may not be scoring anything but at least they are having lots of fun on the pitch!"

Dammit.

Sniff. Wheeze. Sniffle. Cough.

Hafta Magazine Opens!

2006-06-05T11:32:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

Phew. Gasp. Sigh. YIPEE!!!

Hafta Magazine emerges today with its first issue. Check out the site, read some of the 18 articles put up already and do leave your comments.

There are some familiar names there and some new ones at HaftaMag.

We do have some issues with formatting and forgive us the clunky parts in the interface. Hafta is undergoing constant evolution as we speak.

But there is a lot of excellent, thought provoking content put up already and we aspire to be the latest addition to your list of bookmarks.

www.haftamag.com

Go NOW!

Speak up now!!!

2006-06-02T16:50:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

Tomorrow there will be a panel discussion organized by CNBC-TV18 on the reservation issue. The event, driven by a friend of the author's, is to give the issue a good balanced hearing.

It is NOT an anti-Arjun Singh rant fest
It is NOT an anti-reservation rant fest
It IS an opporunity to hear what four professors from the IIMs who know their stuff have to say about the issue. They have numbers, facts and opinions.
It IS an opporunity to ask questions, debate and disagree
It IS an opportunity to vindicate your opinions or stand corrected

It IS happening tomorrow in Mumbai and there are very very limited seats available. We would like alumni from the top government institutions, not just the IIXs, especially those of the more senior batches to participate and share ther thoughts.

If you are genuinely interested to talk and discuss then drop Rajjat a quick line at 9833360158.

We apologise for the short notice but the adventure to get this organized would make a great thriller novel.

Signed,
The committee trying to get CNBC to hold a high-level panel discussion on reservations.

Phew!

2006-05-19T10:24:00.000+05:30

One lakh eleven thousand words (Minor edits and additions expected). My book is complete! <Clenched fist pumping in the air in triumph!>

Bookstands here I come! Sneak previews after a preliminary round of proofing and re-drafting. A month behind schedule... but what the heck.

Now onward ho with the The Monday Mumbaikar! <New name and core team to be announced in a day or so!>

The Monday Mumbaikar - Now Hiring!

2006-05-16T14:37:00.000+05:30

(Update 4: Phew! Thanks a ton for the response people. We have lined up a bunch of great writers and truckloads of eager contributors. We still need more but hold your emails for the time being. If you've mailed in and not got a response so far do not fret! You will be contacted in due course. This thing is looking very very interesting...)

(Update 3: Excuse all who have mailed in/left comments and have heard nothing from me. I am plowing through the emails trying to match interests to sections. Everyone who has mailed in will get a response but just give me a little time. Currently I still need people enthu to cover business and "all sports".)

(Update 2: The response has been accumulating rapidly. We have a high-power civil servant on board who will give us the inside line. A couple of music maestros and a very keen lifestyle editor. And an agony aunt. Don't let the "Mumbai" moniker hold you back. It's open to anyone serious about doing this. Send me no resumes. Link to your blog will do well. Expedite expedite!)

(Update 1: We have a photographer, a cricket-writer, a business whiz and a couple of general writers who've buzzed me. And, lo and behold!, we also have someone who is willing to donate server space! Yey! So now all I need it more editors. Please please reply. Or pass on the word.)

Hark! Hark! Hark!

Imagine an online magazine that has Bombay blood running in its veins. Free, fair and fun. Serious about quality and credibility. But laughs at itself after a brief moment of embarrassment while it frantically looks around for an excuse. Something that eventually will be as elaborate as this but maybe with a little of this irreverence.

A magazine that brings together writers, especially bloggers, who have strong opinions, will stick by them, and will smoothly adopt new ones when proven wrong. We will be cocky, yes, but not pretentious.

It will not pay you anything. The opportunity to write and be read will be reward in itself. And anything we may make will be plowed back.

At some stage we will be bought out by a private equity firm and then we will all retire happily into homes on Nepean Sea Road. I am not joking. Maybe.

But before that we need some able-minded and fleet-fingered writer types. The author envisions the following:

An online mag which will come out every Monday morning in time for the intrepid office-goer looking for exquisite lunch-break literature. High quality content in bite-sized 800-1000 word pieces. If there is one word that must describe the content it should be: ‘Intelligent’. A tiny bit of this with a smattering of this with a distinct Mumbai tang to it.

As Winston Churchill once famously said, I can only promise you the headaches of sacrosanct deadlines, painstaking proofing and a few hours of madness on the weekends. The comments, including ones like “Go do it with a mad dog you imbecile”, will come on their own.

So if you are a Bombay-lover, or write like one, and want to be a co-conspirator check out the profiles below:

1. Lifestyle Editor: Books. Movies. Restaurants. Hotels. Porn.
2. Music Editor: Albums, shows, soundtracks, crit
3. City Editor: Local happenings, local news, , local trains, local stuff
4. Business and Economics: Sensex. WTO. Karvy. Shit like that.
5. Sports Editor: Cricket, Football, F1, Lacrosse, Darts, Competitive Eating etc.
6. Politics Editor: National, International, Inter-brother
7. People and Places Editor: Social and Environment, Andolans
8. Template Designer
9. Server Space!! – Kindly Donate Whole Heartedly

Yours truly will be the glue that holds the whole thing together and makes most when we cash out.

You will drive your mag-space and to start off with we will need one article a week.

Operations to be sorted out once a team is in place.

Target launch date: 1st Monday of June

Drop me a mail at sidinsunny at gmail dot com. Tell me what tickles your creative heebie-jeebies. As unlikely as it seems this might turn out to be great fun. Positions filling fast!!!

Ciao.

These guys want you out of here!

2006-05-12T10:24:00.000+05:30

My dear friends at oktatabybye want you to go out there and do some travel blogging. And they, being the sweet understanding types they are, will fund your trip and give you a whole set of goodies to make sure you blog everything about it. So drop in and ship out!

(P.S. Monday Mumbaikar updates expected anytime tonight. A small team is slowly falling into place.)

Oru O(pi)nion Rava Dosai! Parcel!

2006-04-28T19:59:00.000+05:30

The other day I was walking down Marine Drive with a dear friend. We will call him Pastrami, a very fictional name. This is because he wishes to keep his identity secret. Also the author has always wanted to have a mysterious friend of uknown identity he can attribute politically incorrect, gender insensitive and racially biased statements to. (The author can then swoop in with great bombast and morality and slap him about. The women love it.)

"So how is your book coming along?" asked Pastrami before biting into a tender coconut ice-cream cone with great relish.

"Pretty good actually. Another five chapters or so. If things go well and there are no unexpected twists or plot paradigm shifts... another two weeks more of work. At the most."

"And then? Back to consulting?"

"Nope. Maybe media. Some newspaper. Dunno..."

"Very nice indeed. And the blog is still doing well? Your wedding thing seems to have been received warmly."

"Yes. I have a hit a decent vein of prose I would like to think."

"Pity you are so irresponsible with your writing though. Why write of weddings and fish curry and such when there are so many burning issues out there which beg to be talked about and analyzed?"

"Eh?"

This was a surprise. Now I have always disliked this critical streak in Pastrami. But he worked for an investment bank, has oodles of disposable income and was single. One does not argue with or piss off friends like that. I retorted, "Which burning issues do you think I should cover? Not that I handle issues with great gravity. There are many other vastly more knowledgeable bloggers out there who do it." Great Bong sprang to mind immediately. (Will that then be a Great Boing??!! Ha Ha I jest!!)

"Hmm. For example don't you think Ganguly was a better captain and Dravid is merely fortunate? You know with the Dhoni phenomenon and all."

"I have no idea really. I guess as long as India wins I really don't have a problem who the captain is."

He almost choked on his tender coconut. (Wonderful line when you re-read it no?)

"Good god. You are a disgrace to the country. Everyone has an opinion on this you know. Make sure you don't speak to a bong about this. That Dravid is a lucky buffoon if you ask me. God!" Pastrami made soft crunching sounds as he bit into his cone.

"I will let that pass. Well I am sure you have something to say about this democracy in Nepal thing. Terrible if you ask me. I am sure you could have written about that."

"Honestly speaking..." I ventured, trying to avert my eyes from a couple who seemed quite keen to get on with this propagating of species business, "I really don't know much about it. I guess you shouldn't keep a king around if you want to avoid that sort of trouble. May be they should impeach him or something... right away."

"What nonchalance! I pity your morals! Your sense of social responsibility... Pshaw! I am so happy their crusade for freedom has succeeded. But what do you know of that. All you know is fish curry and chicken fry and despo southie men. Hmph!" Pastrami was now no longer looking at me in the eye when he spoke. This meant he was more than a little irritated. But we had already dined and desserted and, as a consequence, I was not too alarmed. He grunted on "Besides you do not impeach kings. You abdijucate them." I concurrated immediately.

We walked on quietly. The sun was well on its trajectory of diminshing luminiscence into the horizon, soon it would drench the sea in a dark expanse not unlike that when a xerox machine breaks down and covers an entire sheet with toner.

"Chalo theek hai" he said in his quaint anglicized way. "But I am sure you must be all incensed about this wanton demolition of property in Delhi. The government is ruthlessly flattening land leaving thousands homeless and businesses shattered. Hideous I say! Something you must, absolutely must, have a perspective on." He looked at me through slit eyes that seemed to bore through me with imminent rage.

"They are? Must be quiet inconvenient no? But why oh why must one build in such controversial locations. Justice delayed, I fear, is still justice. Not my cup of tea to stir up I am afraid."

This was just too much for Pastrami. He could not stand any more of this. His face slowly turned into a deep crimson, a stark contrast against the peacock blue short tight shirt he was wearing for our night out. Even at this late hour, with the faux radiance of a thousand electric lamps casting cavorting couples into complex writhing sillhouettes, his shirt gleamed with an unearthly glow.

"That is it FatCat. Enough is enough. No wonder you find only impact craters and useless old cricketers to write about. You have no perspective. I find this lack of vision pathetic. I will leave before you tell me you have nothing to say about this Iran nuclear issue and this incessant US bullying."

I looked at him with genuine puzzlement. "There is an Iranian nuclear problem? Well I hope nothing untoward will happen."

Pastrami turned around without a word and crossed the road, a bobbing lantern of electric crackle as his shirt reflected the street lights. I ran and caught up with him. We did not talk anything for a while.

"That is a terrible shirt you know. It reflects light like mad. Why did you buy it Pastrami?"

"Don't be an idiot. It is a brilliant shirt. It is all the rage now in the party scene. Everyone has one." He held his elbows away from his body to show me the shirt in all its luminiscent glory. Was that a dragon I spied printed under his armpit?

"I don't know man. I find all this party people too pretentious. More show than substance. Very shallow if you ask me."

Pastrami was now a livid red. "How proletariat! You cannot merely pass judgement on people like that. Some of the nicest people come to these parties. Last night at Insomnia there was that wonderful actress..." He muttered the name of she who is known for her acting talent and bosom, one of which is as vast as the other was pooh-pooh-able.

"God you partied with that woman? I believe she is much dumber than she actually looks..."

He stopped in his tracks, whipped around and looked at me in my eyes.

"You know what is the problem with you blogger types? You guys are so opinionated. Why dont you just shut up about stuff you don't know about. Uff!"

With that he got into a cab and sped away.

Wedding Ding Ding

2006-04-24T09:21:00.000+05:30

(Beware: Long and self-indulgent)

Aloha brothers and sisters and all you hot women out there! I welcome you from the lush green shores, clear blue waters and highly anti-incumbent political scenario of my wonderful home state of Kerala. It drizzles for a few hours everyday but not enough to cool the nights. I still wake up in the morning leaving a ‘portly man’-shaped sweat stain on my bed. The silence on the blog is because of a cousin’s wedding which has kept all of us here up all day and night for the last one week.

Few people know of mallu weddings. At least not remotely as well as they know of Tam Brahm, Punju, Bong or any one of the other more glamorous wedding processes from around the country. Tam Brahms have their breaking pappadums on the head, the highly comical Kashi Yatra and making the bride sit on her father’s lap thingies. (Or maybe maternal uncle’s lap.). Bongs carry the bride around the ceremonial fire. Punjus are the Texans of India. They do everything bigger, better and fluffier.

Mallu Christian weddings however are simple uncomplicated affairs. They last for half a day at most and the entire sequence of events is designed to culminate in a steaming rich and flavorful lunch served with great care and attention to detail. The meal is truly the cynosure of all eyes and opinions during the wedding.

A few months ago I had the great fortune of attending my first full blown North Indian Wedding. If I remember correctly the bride and groom were both from UP but I do not remember what communities. One may have been Bania. But it had all the elements of a big opulent ‘northie’ wedding. The baraat went from Delhi to Chandigarh, stopping every few kilometers so that the children could pee under trees while the band could play a few Bollywood essentials. Some of the boys smoked behind the buses.

The venue was covered with yards and yards of shiny cloth in reds and pinks with shiny golden tassels. I was dressed, for the occasion, in a smooth new upmarket branded suit. It was, however, woefully inadequate against reams of silk and gold threaded sherwanis and the like.

It was well into a chilly winter and there were little gas fired heaters placed all around the huge grass lawn. Around each heater were circles of plastic chairs where well-fed aunties in almost-bursting silk blouses (clichéd but true) and salwar suits sat and gossiped while their children ran around upsetting glasses of juice and flower pots. I walked around overawed by the whole spectacle for some time.

The couple was presented with gifts, mostly in thick little envelopes. One of the photographers, apparently a CNN-IBN employee specially drafted for the occasion, told me that the couple made enough with those envelopes to have a very decent honeymoon. Once in a while some of the relatives did things like lifting the groom so the bride could not garland him which I found a little bizarre at first. But then I have not yet seen Hum Aapke Hai Kaun which is supposed to be a must watch for northie wedding novices.

All the while the brother of the groom walked around with a thick wad of notes. Crisp pink thousand-rupee ones that he kept handing out every few minutes.

Waiters in rather smart jackets went around with platters of paneer, chicken and prawn. The booze was being served in trolleys. You asked the man for a drink, any drink, and he quickly made it for you and even wrapped a little paper napkin around each glass. After three hours of ‘screwdriver’ drinking I gave up. I was told he was still pushing around the trolley till 3 in the morning. The dinner had at least 30 dishes. Maybe there was more but there were too many tables all around to cover them all. The wedding finally got over at 4 in the morning in a little room which stood apart form the lawn. The pujari made cute jokes which most of the family laughed. But I was a little drunk and very sleepy and missed most of them.

On the other hand for the last one week I have been stationed almost permanently at the local parish hall here in Pavaratty. It is a whitewashed two-storey building a stone’s throw away from the parish church that was built only a few years ago. But every year the ceiling begins to sag a little and they add a few more pillars to support the weight. So much so that the main dining hall is now called the Madurai Meenakshi temple because of all the pillars that obscures your views and gets in the way of all the waiters. (Rumours abound that the then parish priest siphoned out cement from the construction to build a house for his brother. And apparently he used the ambulance from the parish hospital to carry out the deed. Such are the conspiracies my little village cherishes.) The engineer who worked on the hall also designed my uncle’s (the bride’s) house. They live in mortal fear.

My uncle, the father of the bride, and the brother of the author’s father, is not one for shows of opulence or wanton spending of riches. (Not that he has too much of both. He is a simple little man who has worked in the same bank since graduation and refused any higher promotions because he did not want to work in Calcutta or Delhi. Tanjavur was the farthest he would go.) Left to him he would just get the bride, groom and priest in a little room and be done with it. However he does believe in making sure the lunch is a blockbuster. “They will only remember the fish, chicken and pork,” he’d say, “not the bride or groom or priest or videographer.” When I was younger I used to vehemently disagree. But now I know he is right. A relative’s wedding a year or so ago is still remembered only for the fried rice which was too cold, the chilly chicken that had too much soy sauce and the ice cream that was melted in the cup.

So I was there when they counted out 95 skinned and quartered chickens, chopped up 55 kilos of the most wonderfully fresh and firm fish chunks and suddenly discovered they were short of 15 litres of curd for the consolation vegetarian dish. (Kaalan. Raw bananas cooked in a thick, tangy coconut based gravy served at room temperature.) All this of course is much more complicated than it sounds. Five cooks with ultra short tempers and always a little tipsy on Old Cask Rum are highly nerve-wracking to manage. I ran around in my Adidas tracks and oversize check ‘work shirt’ with my cellphone pasted to my ear. At 3 or 4 in the morning the cooks have a habit of asking for the most ridiculous things. Three kilos of old newspaper. Two packets of macaroni. (Only elbow please.) At one point we even had to grind our way through 5 kilos of masala. Half for the fish and half for the chicken, we had to do it with an old gulf return mixer-grinder that could do one tea cup worth at a time. It took two hours. But all this is to be expected.

What was not expected was that a couple of allegedly Muslim League supporters would hack to death the Corporation Chairman of Chavakkad (a staunch leftist) the night before the wedding. Within minutes there were cars burning and stones hurling and hartal declaring. Policemen everywhere to prevent retribution murders.

Saying there was complete panic would be a colossal understatement. The groom was still kilometers away in a little hamlet called Kottekad. It was a given that more than half of the 800 or so invitees would not be able turn up. There were rumours that there would be violent road blocking the next day and even the usual concession for wedding party convoys may not be extended by the severely upset commies. I was called for a top level huddle of male relative to decide on further action. The oldest, and alas the loudest, couple of uncles and grandfathers were allowed to speak as much as they wanted. Then, once they had left, we regrouped without them and planned. A few bottles of beer were popped open.

But the greatest worry was that the shops would be closed and the cooking would come to a complete and agonizing stop. In fact at that point in time the only part of the proceedings completely ready for action was the alcohol supplies. Three cases of KF and enough bottles of rum, brandy and whisky had been stashed away the night before. (And already partaken of but my uncle did not know this of course.)

But the famed mallu resilience (but not as much as the ‘resilience of the mumbaikar’) kicked in and all of us were up all night. The groom was shipped in overnight before dawn. Asianet News said that the hartal would kick in at 6 in the morning. I called the Manorama office to reconfirm. We secretly opened up a couple of the local provision stores and shipped out provisions from the back doors. The waiters and table setters indicated at midnight that they would not be able to come. Which meant we had to come up with a serving team of 25 as soon as possible. We did. Somehow. Distant relatives and any able bodied males were drafted in on sight.

It suddenly occurred to me that we had not checked if the priest was in station. A couple of frantic calls later we were told by a grumpy security guard that the priest would come in at 3 in the morning. Our priests are mostly nice and very eager to please the parishioners. Sort of like the ones you read about in Blyton or something. Though there are the occasional cement thieving ones.

At 11:15 the next morning, a few minutes behind schedule, the families made it to the church with a cloud of photogrgaphers and light-boys swarming around. Only half the invitees could make it in time for the Mass in church but, as expected, many more of them made it to the lunch after the service. I ran between the church and parish hall. There were photos to be taken at one end and banana leaves to be cut and cleaned at the other.

We served everything in large luxurious portions, partly because nothing spread faster than the gossip that the Vadukuts were stingy with their chicken or held back on the fish curry gravy, but mostly because we did not want to be loaded with tons and tons of leftovers.

By evening the official result was out. The lunch was a brilliant success. The chicken was cooked with great flavour, the fish was cooked to delicate, flaky perfection and the rice soaked up gravy just like it should. After sizeable dispatches of food to the local nursing college (a charitable institution for girls from poor families) and waiting for all the beggars to have their fill (and pack small packets in banana leaves for their later consumption) we carried the rest home in buckets. Not too much. Nothing we couldn’t eat through in a couple of days.

I sat in the evening and tried to sort out the few gifts and presents they received. Pressure cookers, casseroles, gold coins, some money and a few cheques. Nothing good enough for a honeymoon. Maybe enough for a trip to Thrissur, a new Mohan Lal movie and a dinner at Thrissur Towers, a swanky place where all the rich tourists stay.

So all in all I guess the wedding was a great success. There was no horse or brass band. No bespoke suits and gas heaters. No jacketed waiters and no trolleys of drinks by any means. Only a whole bunch of young men in stained white dhotis and crumpled shirts with aching backs smelling of fish. But the lunch was good and my cousin calls from Calicut every morning. She finds her in-laws wonderful but is still too bashful to talk about her husband.

I, on the other hand, need to go now because my uncle tells me some of the bills for the hall rental and the stage decoration still need to be settled. And my little nephew is watching Pokemon too loudly. That is not blogging-friendly at all you must agree.

I Pink therefore I am...

2006-03-24T14:32:00.000+05:30

As I do every few months I was cleaning out my music CDs and DVDs today. They have a habit of getting into the wrong cases and then finally disappear without a trace especially if they are very expensive or rare. While doing this I noticed something peculiar. Peculiar because I am an engineer MBA and, as everyone knows, engineer MBAs like the sort of music they can listen to while lounging on grass and breathing in fresh clean air and, especially, vice versa. But wait. I actually have albums by people like:

Enigma
Bryan Adams
Dire Straits
Boyzone
Bon Jovi
Yanni
The Bee Gees
Hootie and the Blowfish
Boney M etc. etc.

While I completely detest Metallica, Iron Maiden and all of those types and have nothing by them. Even when it comes to Pink Floyd I can hardly stand just a couple of tracks (Gasp! You say?). I find most of the songs just too weird. To me it all sounds like:

(Deep booming sound)

Completely wasted guy: Coming intooh the dahrkness…

(Twang… boom)

Anywhere-ere-ere but where you are… are…are (echo echo)

(Crash… shuffle shuffle… pouring water…)

Light is where the truth begins to gargle

(Crash… tinkle tinkle… bang…)

The smoke is green… or blue... even (very grave vocals…) magentaaaaaahhhhhh (climax then fade)

Repeat

You get the picture right. But I also find Raveena Tandon very hot, Celina Jaitley an eyesore and I positively adore Amisha Patel. Nothing makes my heebie-jeebies go hubba-hubba like Kareena Kapoor. Is this a problem? Will I become socially outcast? Am I abnormal?

I am scared… scared… scared… scared… (Twang!… CRASH)

The gasket and the hole in the ground - Part 2

2006-03-22T19:13:00.000+05:30

Aurangabad, incidentally, is known as “The Optic Fiber Capital of India”. However when we asked one of the locals why it was so i.e. “Aurangabad ko ‘The Optic Fiber Capital of India’ kyon bolti hain?” he told us, in a somewhat complicated marathi accent, that the omelette walah did not come till 6 am. We nodded and left. Later we entered the Aurangabad bus stand and, in the bus stand restaurant, resolved to order breakfast. The waiter gave us a menu and we started ordering. At the mention of each item he nodded his head. No. Not available. Poha? No. Bonda? No. Bhajiya? No. Misal Pav? No. So what do you have? Nothing. Only tea. Kitchen is closed. Thank you.

We boarded a bus for Lonar a little past 6 am and were surprised at how comfortable the bus was. The seats were well padded and the ride was very comfortable. However we were still hungry, had no food and I noted that only one of the tour party seemed to be sleeping contentedly. And then I noted that the India Today Food Special I had brought along was missing. Hmm.

As the trip progressed we noticed something peculiar about the dietary habits of the locals. Apparently the staple diet of the locals in central Maharashtra is alu bondas and various bhajiyas. And they serve this from dawn to dusk. Now I do not mean to not appreciate this diet, I am sure there are traditional reasons why this diet is preferred, but to the outsider it was a little hard to digest. Every stopover we were served nothing but tea and deep fried vegetables. It was so bad we could have easily played that schooltime game with the locals:

What’s for breakfast?

Bonda Bhajiya

Whats for lunch?

Bonda Bhajiya

Whats for dinner?

Bonda Bhajiya

What is your name?

Bonda Bhajiya

Ha! Got you!

An other alarming trend was the complete inability to use Hindi as a medium of communication as we went more and more into the rugged heartland. After a point even the marathi became very difficult to understand. However after much shaking and rattling and bonda eating we reached the village of Lonar in Buldhana district. We had reached our destination. Well almost.

I walked over to the nearest shop and asked the old man for our final target. “Bhai saab yeh hypervelocity basaltic meteoric crater aapko pata hai?” He blinked. I then spread out the palm of one hand and made a ball of the other and, drawing a graceful trajectory, slammed one into the other. He smiled and nodded, went into his shop, and handed me a nice little plate of Bondas and Bhajiyas.

But soon we saw a sign board for the MTDC hotel, where we were to stay, and began to walk. We had carried with us a Lonely Planet guide and it gave us some idea of what we were about to face. A brisk walk to the crater it said. We began to briskly walk and after some distance we saw another sign board which told us to take a right from the main road and walk for another two kilometers. So it was no surprise that as we walked we all concluded it would have been much simpler if the meteorite had landed near a major railway station or airport or in South Bombay and would have been much easier to explore. But try telling the MTDC that.

Anyways we reached in due course and checked into the hotel. Right across the road, was quite literally, the biggest hole in the ground I have ever seen. It was some 150 meters in depth and almost two kilometers across. One moment you are walking by the road tanning slowly into an apricot and then the next moment you are standing looking over one of the biggest craters in the world. Breathtaking indeed. We rejoiced and decided to do our first trek a little after lunch when the sun went down.

There was no power in the hotel. This was a minor issue however and we bathed and freshened up and dropped into the MTDC restaurant which, the board outside proclaimed, was open from 6 AM to 11 PM. And right now, at noon, it undoubtedly was. However we once again must doff our hats at the MTDC and its commitment to the exact meaning of every word it uses. In this case, ‘open’. Open, most popular linguists agree, does not mean ‘you can eat here’. Merely that the doors are open and you may enter. We entered the restaurant and asked the waiter “Boss khan ke liya kya hai?”. He thought for a moment nodded “Ok” and left. Never to be seen again.

We were facing that marathi problem again. We finally located a more helpful fellow who told us that the restaurant was closed and lunch would be served at 2:00 PM. Not a morsel before. Finally we had lunch and walked out across the road to descend into the crater. It was a most arduous journey and sapped most of our energy but by the time we reached the edge of the crater the sun had mellowed somewhat.

Finally we gathered enough courage to descend. The crater, incidentally, has twelve ancient temples inside and our guide books told us it was almost entirely untouched by the modern human hand inside. A most surreal experience it was sure to be. We trekked to the bottom through perilous slopes and over craggy merciless rocks and finally made it. The lake at the bottom is super alkaline and has a pH of 10.5 or so. Or, as they call it in Chennai, tap water. No sign of any other human beings yet. We decided to trek around the shallow lake at the bottom.

A few temples later we came across a bunch of cavorting couples. And to be honest a lot of modern human hand was touching a lot of other modern human things if you know what I mean. But onward we continued letting the couples be and merely taking a few photos for our reference. That is when we bumped into a large metal object that seemed to be making rhythmic thud noises.

A diesel generator? At the bottom of a crater! This was quite unsettling, and smacked of human presence. We happened upon a nice little agricultural setup right in the middle of the crater where they seemed to growing spinach. We sat and watched them at work for sometime and, after the initial shock had passed, sat down to enjoy the rustic pleasure of it all. But this was short-lived as one of the farmers received a phone call to the tune of something by Himesh Reshamiyya and we quickly left.

It was beginning to darken now and the sun was slowly turning in for the day. We quickly located our way back and followed the exact way up the crater as we had come down. We emerged at the top some 4 kilometers away from the hotel. Most of us were gasping for breath from the ascent and walked quite slowly. The locals seemed to think we were foreigners and a particular gentleman walked with us. He was an incessant conversationalist.

Man: Hello?

Us: Hello!

Man: Hello!

Us: Hello?

Man: Ah! Hello!

Us: Ahem… Hello!

After a couple of kilometers, like long-term love affairs that are forced to turn to issues of Cosmo and Playstation, we ran out of things to talk about and the man let us be. We returned to the hotel and decided on our next plan of action. Buy beer.

We bought much beer and the night was full of fun and frolic and we decided that we would wake up early next day morning, say around six, to do a complete trek of the bottom and all the temples. Then we would catch the bus to Aurangabad at around 11:45 AM. We decided to skip the delicacies of the MTDC restaurant and procured dinner from one of Lonar’s best eateries. We were hungry and ate in a hurry and the Dal Tadka left us in a much greater hurry the next day morning.

Back in Aurangabad our plan then was to make a quick visit to the caves at Ellora. But before that lunch beckoned. After two days of eating railway food and deepfry we used the excellent selection of the Lonely Planet guide to Aurangabad. Lunch was a success in so much that we must have wiped out prawn from most of the western Indian seaboard. Suddenly Ellora seemed to far away and we had to settle for the humbler Aurangabad Caves. Built apparently by the same dudes who built the ones at Ellora and some of the ones at Ajanta, these caves are smaller and only number some ten caves. But they offer a great view of Aurangabad city which, because we had climbed up 2.3 million stone stairs to reach to the top and were hyper ventilating, pupil dilating and so on looked magnificent in several shades of colour.

We finally reached the station in time and we quickly dispersed, each person assigned a specific commodity to purchase for the trip like food, beverages and reading material. Now let this be a warning to all, never drink a beer called Zingaro from Lonar. Some of us apparently were still buzzed and in the ensuing confusion we boarded the train with 14 litres of drinking water, two dozen five-star chocolates and 7 copies of the Mid-Day. Suffice to say that by the time we reached Bombay we were well hydrated and buzzing with sugar but we had all done the same Sudoku puzzle 7 to 8 times each.

I was more than pleased when I reached home. It had been a most wonderful trip. I had enjoyed the journey, the trekking and of course the joys of fellowship and sharing. So it was with much glee I entered my house and went into the kitchen to eat something. I opened the still warm food containers to find that my maid had made our weekend special. Bonda and Bhajiya.

Dammit.

The gasket and the hole in the ground - Part 1

2006-03-22T19:07:00.000+05:30

Yes it has been a very long time indeed. But as usual I have a set of rather good reasons. Most importantly I have been concentrating on a couple of columns and my book. FYI the book comes along very well and I am proud to say I am almost 50000 words through. (Clap Clap). And it looks like the first draft will get squeezed out end next month. And before you ask it is not a funny book. Well at least not in the Domain Maximus scheme of things. But there are a few jokes in it. But no sex. (Yet.)

As that may be, a couple of interesting things kept my fingers away from the laptop over the last few weekends. Both were journeys out of Bombay. Now by some parameters, like say reaching one’s destination, one was a success and the other a utter disaster, but by other more realistic parameters, like drinking lots of beer, both were first class. Hic.

The first began as a set of innocent instant messages. I was sitting at home on a weekday morning fretting over a particularly turbulent stretch of prose. Inspiration and content seemed to have abandoned me completely. Thankfully my roommate had left for work with his Gmail on auto login and I was deep in thought, research and photo downloading. (Man, did he have a side I did not know of. Literally.) Suddenly I noticed a close friend online and we embarked on a merry little conversation. Suddenly he popped the question. “This weekend. Let us drive to Lonavala. In my car. It will be great fun.” I accepted almost immediately.

Later I would rue the decision. Not because I had not thought it through. But because my friend had grossly misrepresented the terms “drive”, “fun” and, of course, “car”. We left fresh and spiritedly on a Saturday morning at 4:30 in the morning. After what seemed like an hour but was actually one and a half our car began to make noises that were totally out of syllabus. Thankfully, my friend, who was also driving at the time, is a professional rally driver and a car expert. He suddenly slowed the car down and stopped it by the side of the Pune Expressway. Steam was pouring out of the hood of our Honda City. (I must mention at this point that the car was a seventh hand or so and was only a broad approximation of a Honda City. Later we would discover that the only properly functioning part of the car was the dashtop deo.)

My friend, the auto genius, stepped out of the car and propped up the hood. He was immediately engulfed in thick white steam and momentarily looked majestic and heroic. But it soon passed when he walked up to the car and said, and I dont jest when I say he is an expert, “Dude there is a lot of smoke. Shit.” He called me out and decided something drastic had to be done. We rolled up our sleeves. The three other souls in the car snored in support.

Four hours later we were merrily bouncing along the Pune Expressway drinking beer and singing songs, the wind in our face and considerable dust in our eyes. Ahead of us a tow truck pulled as along as we made our way back to a workshop. We ate several vada pavs on the way and slowly even the dashtop deodorant began to fail.

Soon we reached what would prove to be the highlight of our trip. A place called Turbhe. There we handed over our car to a workshop. We described our problem in details to the proprietor. “There was a sudden eruption of steam towards the forward half of the automobile culminating in a rapid loss of forward motion. We suspect it could be a sudden steam eruption locomotion loss problem.” He nodded and smiled wryly at our complete understanding of the issue. We were engineers and were not prepared to let him take us or the car for a ride. (Not that the car would have let him.)

Car repair expenses are remarkably like courting women. The workshop charges you a steep flat fee just to pop the hood but any more exploration pushes expenses exponentially. By the evening we were told that the problem was with something called an air gasket that would cost some 15 rupees to buy. Replacing it would cost another 34000 rupees or so. Apparently the gasket is designed in such a way that you can only replace it by lifting the car on a stand, removing the engine, replacing the pistons, removing all the doors, changing the upholstery and then getting a new paint job. We were not to be fooled and told him to LEAVE THE PAINT JOB ALONE!

Two weekends after that we decided that Lonavla had proved to be too easy a challenge and we should now go to a place called Lonar. For the simpleton Lonar is the site of the world’s largest high-velocity meteorite impact crater in basalt that also had beer shops. In other words a perfect place for a two day weekend trip. The trip involved traveling overnight to Aurangabad and then catching a four hour bus to Lonar. Or so we were told.

Sidin's guide to the greatest Indian cricketers of all time especially that period between 4 and 6 pm last week

2006-02-14T14:54:00.000+05:30

After yesterday's fantastic win against Pakistan there is a new-found optimism in the Indian camp especially with our younger players coming of age and beginning to complement the senior players nicely. When asked of his feelings about the current Indian team Rahul Dravid stated that there was a new-found optimism in the Indian camp especially with our... you get the drift yeah?

So it is but natural that several young Indians of today, drunk with current glory, lose touch with the glittering past of Indian cricket. India has had a history of outstanding cricketers many of whom have been instrumental in the achievement of a large number of cricketing records by countries like Australia, Pakistan, England, Scotland, Vidharbha etc.

This negligence has to stop and the movement to relive our cricketing past starts with this blog right now. So today we celebrate some of the luminaries who have taken Indian cricket to where it is today in the cricketing record books (i.e. in the "vs." column). This list is by no means exhaustive, authoritative or even authentic, and the author strongly expresses the opinion that you do not try this at home.

List of luminaries with brief biographies, often true. (Part 1)

Ranjit Singhji: One of the first great Indian cricketing heroes. Singhji was "The cricketer formally known as "Prince"". His most famous exploits include obtaining a UK visa and work permit and inventing the Leg Glance, a move whereby when friends' sisters walks by in a short skirts you make a sweeping cricket shot action imitation thereby looking at their legs but not getting caught. Famously, Ranjit Singhji once fell ill after a mixing some bad milk in his cup of Darjeeling and could only bowl a single over. In spite of this he got 3 wickets through judicious use of line and length. This is immortalized today in the famous "Corridor of Uncertain Tea". He names lives on to this day in the form of the tournament named after him, the "Coca-Cola Cup".

Gundappa Viswanath: Widely considered the greatest left-handed batsmen from Andhra with a moustache to play in the 60s, in Indian History. Played several crucial test innings for India, many times pulling India back from the brink of complete disaster, taking them to mere comprehensive defeats. He was a daring, brave batsman who stood fearless in the face of the quickest bowlers, primarily because he was blinded by his moustache. Renowned for his deft footwork, he once, after being bowled for duck, moonwalked all the way back to the pavilion. His first name means "Fat Papa" in Tamil and this ensured constant victory for India against the Sri Lankans who could not bowl at him with a straight face.

Sunil Gavaskar: The first big international Indian cricket star. Scored thousands upon thousands of runs in a career that spanned several millions of balls left outside off-stump. He was affectionately known as Sunny, the Little Master and that little Prick though the first two were rarely used. He was a tireless team player and inspiring captain who often shouldered a lot of the batting burden and most of the match fees single-handedly. Gavaskar was a cricketer who patiently waited for the loose ball and once did so for three whole days in a limited overs match before stadium security politely asked him to leave. Gavaskar became the captain of India in 1982 taking on the mantle from Srinivasaraghavan Venkataraghavan, an accomplished cricketer himself, who retired from cricket in protest after it became mandatory to wear kits with one’s full name on the back.

Ravi Shashtri: Holds the record for maximum sixes hit in one over with 6 against Tilak Raj in Bombay. Shastri would have hit more but little Tilak had maths homework and a Social Studies test the next day and we all know how bad 7th standard CBSE is. Shastri was one of our first great all-rounders and once, in a remarkable game in the 1987 tour of Ooty and Coimbatore, Shastri bowled himself around the legs. Ravi Shastri was the heartthrob of millions of women in the late 80s and early 90s and was considered a great looker. This has now been found to be an error due to primitive TV broadcasting technology. He is now a well-known and respected cricket commentator. Fiercely patriotic, he recently pegged India to win all the one-days in the South African tour of Sri Lanka.

Kapil Dev: Explosive with the ball, dynamic with the bat and ridiculous with the English language, Kapil Dev was the life of many humorous post-match press conferences. Dev often stood alone in the face of adversity and dragged India out of tight spots. His 175 run innings in Tunbridge Wells is a classic and some of his shots continue to orbit the Earth to this day bouncing off space stations and interfering with TV broadcasts (see Ravi Shastri above.) Kapil Dev was also one of the first few cricketers to make it big in the world of advertising and synonymous with the caption: "Boost is the secret of my enema. Our enema. (Smile)" Nowadays he is a successful entrepreneur and often appears on TV when he roots for India from his heart saying: "India needs to play the games with the heart and the tactics is nice if then the whole together comes... err... boost is the secret of my enema..."

Krishnamachari Srikkanth: A dynamic one-day player who pioneered the technique of repeated letters in one's name for good luck. Srikkanth was an explosive opening batsman who often stepped out of his crease and swung his bat with great gusto only to be stumped down leg side. He holds the record for maximum consecutives world cups without a haircut (4). Kris Srikkanth was the quintessential South Indian in the team who rapidly learned Hindi while playing for India, leading to an average of well over 4 run outs per match in the process. Today Kris is a passionate cricket commentator who can say “Oh shit, sorry” in over 14 north Indian languages.

Venkatesh Prasad: If Akthar is the "Rawalpindi Express" then for many years Venkatesh Prasad, a key part of the bowling attack, was affectionately called "The Slow Bangalore Passenger That Is Currently Broken Down At Palakkad Station. Passengers approach ticket counter for refund please." Despite several key wickets, Prasad was not a pacey bowler but instead used a bewildering array of slow, slower and slowest balls to vex batsmen. In the 1992 World Cup he bowled a slow one to Wasim Akram that has not reached the batsman to this day. He was a pioneer of the "Intimidation" school of fielding whereby you do not run for the ball but merely try to stop it by looking at it gravely.

Anil Kumble: Named after the Anil Kumble Circle in Bangalore, where he grew up learning to bowl, Kumble continues to be one of the spinning maestros in the country. However he is not a big mover of the ball but instead unleashes a repertoire of balls so complicated even he does not know what he is doing. He holds the record for having captured 10 wickets in a single test innings but honestly cannot explain how. The author has a particular grouse with Mr. Kumble for having released a shitty cricket video game that the author's brother forced him to buy. The game has graphics reminiscent of a Rohrschach Test and game play marginally more engaging than digging one's nose. Kumble is frequently a useful all-rounder and was the first Indian to achieve the “supreme” double of 400 wickets taken and 4000 misfields.

Sachin Tendulkar: No one makes fun of Sachin. Not even me.

Sanjay Manrekar: Manjrekar is an exciting top order batsman with an amazing repertoire of shots. If you play him in that stupid Anil Kumble game that is. In real life he was often called a text-book cricketer, in the sense that watching him bat was like reading a macro-economics text book. Sanjay Manjrekar was full of technique and single-handedly developed 2567 ways of padding upto an off-spinner. His moment of glory was during the Ashes Test of 1994 when Imran Khan approached him and accepted defeat as several of the Pakistani players were collapsing from brain inactivity. Manjrekar valiantly declined and went on to score an astounding century in just under a fortnight.

Venkatpathy Raju: With tremendous movement off the pitch especially in windy gusty weather, Venkatpathy Raju is one of the lightest players to have ever played the game. His bowling, on the other hand, was tricky especially because of a complete lack of speed. Raju bowled with such little pace and his ball took so long to come that batsmen often practiced facing him by getting friends and relatives to courier cricket balls overnight to them through local courier companies.

That was the first edition of this special blog series on Indian cricket greats. Hope you enjoyed these brief character profiles and you often burst out, like Azhar, with the words: “Wow!! This I will do for free…” More exciting profiles of Indian cricketing heroes coming soon. Stay tuned.

(p.s. Before anyone gets worked up I know they were all brilliant cricketers and all this is just a joke. Except of course in case of Venkatesh Prasad. So please relax. And dont send hate mail please...)

Getting the house in order...

2006-02-08T15:48:00.000+05:30

Time for some interesting updates on this blog and on life in general...

1. Adsense is up and running. Now that I am writing for a living no point in NOT milking every source yes? If anyone has a serious issue with the adsense boxes on top please feel free to drop me a mail. That will be 10 bucks each please.

2. Keen eyes will note the new blogroll on the right side. It is in its infancy and I am slowly adding tons of blog I visit occassionally. So no hard feelings if I have missed out on some. In time it should be sizeable.

3. I HAVE MY FIRST QUIZ!!! I will doing a couple of quizzes at DAIICT in Ahmedabad in the last week of this month. Click here to know more! If anyone is there around that time do say hi...

4. And... drumroll... my first newspaper column is in the finishing stages and should start any week now. But oath of silence prevents me from revealing anything.

Been busy like mad closing out accounts, paying bills, changing mailing addresses and of course getting computing facilities set up at home. Finally I have broadband but my roomie's laptop is too contemplative for my liking. But things should turnaround in another week when i get my old laptop back.

Slowly settling down to the idea of writing all day. Easier said (and planned) than done let me tell you.

So keep dropping in and watch out for a new set of links to fave online columns in sometime.

Ciao.

p.s. Can anyone tell me how to make some posts sticky in blogger?

Work in Progress

2006-02-08T14:20:00.000+05:30

Mon Amis,

You will bear with me as I ramble on.

Since Friday I have been sitting at home working on a book and a couple of blog posts. After some final tweaking and rewriting I can confidently say that both posts will never see the light of day. They are so outrageously unfunny that I was more than glad when my antivirus, shocked by the sheer lack of humour in them, deleted them voluntarily. Hell, every time I tried saving it my computer asked me "Do you want to save this file? Really?"

After looking for comedic inspiration in all matter of dvds, stitcoms and even a few infomercials the only decent joke I had was one involving gulab jamuns, club sandwiches and a Korean couple. Stop shuddering. So I packed my rucksack with a Bryson, a notebook and a book about the Daimler-Chrysler merger and off I set for South Bombay and the old colonial ambience of heritage buildings, narrow roads and a Reliance Webworld.

Nothing kicks off a day better than a nice traditional breakfast of McAloo Tikki and a Soft Serve Cone at the McD opposite VT. Now apparently all the restaurants in the world have signed a pact whereby they are disallowed to play the TV over the audio system. So while the audio streams Britney Spears, the TV is invariably tuned to assorted news channels. The less discerning might think that this is not so bad. But today morning the combined effect was one of Harkishen Singh Surjeet vigorously serenading a press conference with "Dont'cha wish your girlfirend was hot like me." (If you thought this was bad think again. At a Subway I once saw Sheila Dixit earnestly telling Rajdeep Sardesai, during a debate on the Criminal-Politician nexus, that infact, she liked big butts and she did not lie. Mr. Sardesai was not amused.)

It was all too much and I quickly ate my breakfast, washed it all down with a coke and a happy meal and stepped out. Right outside an oldish looking man was critically analyzing his grandson's report card. Grandson stood by his side looking a little worried. Without being too nosey I peered over the man's shoulder and tried to see how the little fella had done. Hmm.

I guess it is one of the great paradoxes of our education system that a student, whose grades clearly showed he could not speak any language, knew nothing of history, and probably thought a hypotenuse was an occupied airplane toilet, could have scored 97% in General Knowledge. Man. The kid needed help and fast. When I left the pair, grandad was just about to McGrill his McAss. (Report Card. Excellent topic for a blog. Jotted down in notebook.)

Deciding Flora Fountain was my next stop, I then whipped out my cool shades, pulled up my jeans, geared up for the long walk and hailed a cab.

By now it was lunch time and so I went into a Reliance Webworld where I could combine broadband with a snack bar and soon was logged in and browsing away. Around me were several online traders, many online gamers, and atleast ten people doing both. In a corner was a TV blaring out CNBC. There was a dignified old foreign man in impeccable shirt, jeans and standard issue Fabindia jacket browsing what looks like teenbuttslap.com. Classy.

The TV pours out a report about Bombay airport. Apparently half the employees are missing, THE conveyor belt is not working, flights are delayed by days and passengers are stranded. And now this strike too. Tut tut. The High Court asked strikers to stay away from the airports to which, in a press conference, they replied: "Blech". A quick flip of all the channels revelaed that there was a sting operation or an expose on all the news channels. (Aha news channels. I noted it down.)

Around me was a swirling mass of school kids and daytraders spewing some of the most colourful Hindi I have ever heard. Some of the best included "Hero Honda (expletive) saala (expletive) ek lakh gaya (expletive) ke (expletive) mein (expletive) diya" and of course "Take the (expletive) submachine gun you (expletive) (expletive) (expletive) little (expletive)" to which little (expletive) replied "And didnt your (expletive) ever tell you to (expletive) turn off the (first time ever word) friendly fire you ugly srawny little (expletive) (expletiving) idiot!" (In between I noticed that one of the guys on Counterstrike had the nick Lucy...)

All in all the environs were overwhelmingly inspirational. After five minutes I knew 17 different new things I could gently place in one's (expletive). But just two bits of inspiration for a blog. So I packed up and decided to see if a little walk might help. Walking down the roads in the fort area are a pleasure. Everyone tries to sell you something. And there were a lot of weird things on sale. I saw rusted horseshoes (no house should be without one), a hawker who specialised in shaving brushes and that essential footpath impulse purchase, a set of steel dongles for navel piercings. (Notice how I deftly avoided sailor jokes.)

But the real mirth lies in the ridiculously labelled pirate DVDs. They had that great british countryside sci-fi epic "The Revenge of Smith", not to mention the timeless "Highglander" a scottish man saves the world from killer hormones, and the family favourite "Jur Assic Park". (I was noting down all this feverishly.) All this in the shadows of heritage buildings with smart little steel plates outside that described the impressive history of these protected buildings. (Wait this reminds me of an old blog idea. Corrupt signage. As in stupid signboards. I have seen many including one which said "Do not chess with wild ass".)

I walked all the way back to VT and decided it was time to go home to work on some of these brilliant ideas. The life of a writer was indeed proving to be more challenging than I expected. But then with such wonderful sources of inspiration all around us why should I worry? Or as that wonderful sign in a restaurant in Wadala says: "Service our pleasure, after eating leave."

Sensible blogs in progress. Please to wait.

Sidin

Thank You...

2006-01-24T17:46:00.000+05:30

Dear all,

The decision to pursue writing for a living is not an easy one. In fact such a career move, in our society atleast, is one fraught with familial opposition but public appreciation. And sometimes that balance is not always pleasant.

But the response from the blog-reading public has been overwhelming. Even after I went public with it there have been moments of weakness and each time there has been a word of comfort and encouragement from people I have never spoken or met before. Not to mention the numerous leads and contacts. I am indebted.

Many people have written to me saying they want to go out and do their own thing as well. Which is awesome but that also means you have to do some homework before you set out. Take the risk but take the educated risk. While doing your own thing is all about heart, a little bit of head is not out of place.

So there. I wont sermonise and if you want sermons drop me a mail. I will oblige :)

And as you can see below its back to usual business on Domain Maximus.

Hang around. This place is going to get fun!

Trunk Call

2006-01-24T17:37:00.000+05:30

The other day I got a call from a long-lost friend of mine from college. And, as I always do when old college friends call me, I quickly asked him if he had seen a pair of burgundy and orange swimming trunks. I had lost them in 3rd year and have never seen them since except for a chance encounter in Bombay airport. Alas he had not and all he wanted was to check if I knew someone called Boris (not actual name) from Kanpur (not actual place) who may have studied with me in business school (not an actual school). He was apparently carrying out a secret background check on Boris for matrimonial purposes.

Let me assure you these are some of the most awkward phone calls you can ever receive. Even the most fun-loving (meaning mildly criminal) of people turn into massively self-rightesous zombies when they need to verify a person's marriageability. Now my friend, who we will call Friend, had miraculously turned into this malicious Jesuit from the Inquisitions. Every aspect of Boris's personality was ripped apart for the merest trace of moral weakness. The conversation was terse and highly unpleasant.

"So does Boris drink?"

"A little bit..."

"Good god..." said Friend. (Flashback to college when Friend routinely downed 7 bottles of beer and a couple of bottles of a whisky at a sitting. He even opened them sometimes.)

"But not too much, he was just a social drinker..."

"Thats how they all start. A few drinks in college, then a couple on the weekends at work. And before you know he is a wife-beating criminal..." (Friend conveniently forgot the time when he had one too many screwdrivers, picked up a cricket bat and beat the living daylights out of a goalpost. They later settled out of court.)

"And does he smoke? Tobacco? any of those other unspeakable plants?..." (To this day in Trichy they talk of the Great Smog of 1999, which was traced to Friend's room. He had smoked his way through a whole 4-kilo sack of premium fresh, run out, and was imbibing, out of desperation, the vapours of unwashed bed linen when we found him.)

"Nope nothing I knew of..."

'Hmm... I will need better sources. Sources who have more concern than you do for a poor girl's future..." (Friend holds the record for maximum arrests for eve-teasing in Thuvakudi police station history. A women's college was out on a "March for Literacy" and he was arrested for 43 violations in the space of 37 minutes. A plaque in the station commemorates the event and is a popular tourist attraction)

"But Boris is a nice guy. You have nothing to worry..."

"I will be the judge of that. And finally for 25 points did he have any affairs, romances and intimate interludes in college I should be aware of?"

"No da just the usual fooling around with the juniors..."

"Good god!! Sidin how can you speak of this so lightly??!! Wake up man!! Boris is a blackguard and a vagabond!!"

"No no he is a wonderful guy. Absolutely brilliant guy. If I could I would have married him!!!"

"What? Now you say he goes the other way?"

"No what I meant was any woman would want to marry him. He is a highly eligible bachelor..."

"Are you saying my little petunia is ANY woman for you?..." (Petunia was Friend's nickname for his sister. In turn she called him Tinku)

"No no sorry sorry..."

"Hmm... fine... and please dont tell me he is one of those porn junkies..." (Sometime in second year the college was moving to bring down an illegal construction adjacent to my hostel. Only to discover that it was Friend's bound collection of debs and playboys.)

"Well..."

"ENOOUGH!! No I think calling you was a big mistake... I know other people from your business school too you know..."

"But..."

"No I have heard enough..."

"Ok I am sorry yaar.."

"And just so that you know... I DO HAVE YOUR BURGUNDY SWIMMING TRUNKS..."

"Noooooo... sob"

Rambler for hire..

2006-01-18T13:39:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

Finally after weeks of contemplation and thought and watching Friends reruns I have decided to finally do it. A few days from now I will cease to be a consultant. Instead I will be a writer.

As we speak an email is hurtling its way across the nation to my HR and MD indicating my imminent departure from AT Kearney. From next Friday I will be a free bird and will immediately embark on a book, freelancing, columning and anything else I can force people to hire my writing skills for.

The reasons are numerous. But in the end I decided I needed to do what I was happiest doing. So if you know anyone who needs freelence writing, columning, both serious and the "Domain Maximus" type, drop me a line on sidinsv at gmail dot com. And do pass the word around.

My portfolio of services include:
1. Travel writing
2. Food and movie reviews
3. Random thought pieces and fillers
4. Captions, blurbs and marketing material
5. Professional party attendee and conversation provoker
6. Anything else that needs a creative mind and a cheeky pen

Also, and this is for all those corporates, business schools and colleges out there, I do pretty snazzy quizzes and quiz shows. So I can do anything from an India History quiz to a Cement Industry quiz. Quality and timepass guaranteed.

On a serious note drop me an email if anything interests you.

Sidin Sunny Vadukut.

p.s. The updates will be now be more frequent...

Beep.. whirr... to you too...

2006-01-17T19:56:00.000+05:30

Pardon me for the delay. I swear I have been trying to write all day. If only my computer would not shut down every fifteen minutes. But I am sure it has a very good reason. Just a few minutes ago, for instance, it shut down a few nanoseconds after a sad, sober announcement. A pop-up window mentioned solemnly that "Machi there is a romba serious error in location E12333:34. Very sorry da." (After a brief sojourn in a Chennai netcafe my laptop has never been the same again.) My CD drive made a little whirring sound. And then there was complete silence. This is, of course, is not a common occurrence. Most days when I power up it makes 7 beeps on working days, 9 beeps on weekends (except second saturday which, everyone knows, is holiday) and 11 beeps on bank holidays and shuts down instantly. But this silent demise was not a good sign.

So the other day my laptop, in a fit of entrepreneurial alacrity, decided to start up and shut down all by itself. While initially I found this rather proactive of it, it got tedious after 45 minutes. I was infuriated and gingerly hurled the machine against a particularly roguish part of the wall, from whence it bounced off, landed on my beanbag, slalomed down rapidly, elegantly bounced on the marble floor and landed squarely on the little toe of my right foot. The CD drive gave one last whirr of triumph before falling silent.

I have a history with computers. The first time I saw one in my father's office I was fascinated. I was particularly impressed by the CAPS LOCK function and the floppy drive. My father sat next to me and taught me to how to use the mouse, type small letters and even how to use a wonderful little program to draw pictures. After a few minutes of incessant clicking and draggin I unveiled a rough, but imaginative profile of a double-humped camel to everyone in Mr. Vadukut's office. They all nodded their heads in approval and there was wide consensus that, for my age, I had drawn an excellent picture of a sunflower.

Boom! one-nothing to the computer.

My first own computing device was an Atari TV game. I must have spend weeks in front of the TV with my trusty Atari console by my side. Then after two months I finally got the video to work and played a lusty game of basketball against the computer losing by a respectable margin of 240 - 12. I never recovered from that entirely. This relentless inferiority to computing devices often went public with disastrous consequences. Video game arcades were the absolute worst self-esteeming usurping exercise. My friends were all whiz-kids who completed Super Mario and Space Invaders several times between lunch and tea. I was however pathetic at all of them. So much so once, amidst a particularly hideous game of "World Cup Footbal 1990" my team walked off the pitch and refused to come back till I let someone else take over.

Thankfully I was exposed to little by way of computing in school except for the stray class in BASIC or MSDOS. I was not too bad at that honestly and except once, when I overclocked the computer so much it burst into flames and took down the computer lab and an adjoining indoor stadium, nothing of note hppened. But this meant I was not even remotely prepared for what awaited me in engineering college. Engineering college was the absolute nadir of my stormy relations with computers, scientific calculators, and zippers, though here I wil talk only of the first one.

Now I was one who had deliberately decided to stay away from any degree courses that might remotely be related to computing, electronics or mathematics. Which left only courses like Metallurgy, Civil or Chemical engineering. Now besides UDCT, which I lost by a single mark, there were few chemical engineering seats of high quality. And, as anyone who has been around a large construction site may have noticed, civil engineering isn't. So metallurgy it was. I loved chemistry and was told by a learned uncle that metallurgy had a lot of chemistry. That turned out to be completely false and taught me to never ask my uncle, a bakery owner and part-time landscaping designer, for educational advice. The only chemistry in four years of engineering was the little bit I had with a buxom little assistant in Basic Chemistry Lab. Boy, she was quite an item and was absolutely wicked when engorossed in titration. (For the non-scientific titration is a chemical process and not, as you might think, wife telling husband "No darling, one today and the other tomorrow...")

But I digress. The point was in third year, to my considerable chagrin, I notice that we had something tucked away in our syllabus waiting to pounce out unawares. Computer Programming in Fortran and C. The effect this had on my morale was devestating. Metallurgy is otherwise a remarkably simple course to pass. You only had to turn up for class and the degree was yours. But Fortran and C changed everything. This meant we had to learn, remember and even be able to program. And suddenly all the Computer Science guys were looking at us and smirking.

I hated the Computer Science guys. They called themselves the CompScis (pronounced Komskees) and were often seen using computers and engaged in incomprehensible conversation. And within this group was an even more bewildering group called the Coimbscis. They were not just Compscis, but also were all from Coimbatore. I was frendly with many of them, but often they fell into long tirades I could never comprehend. For example a joke would go like this:

"So there is this guy... blah blah blah... Silicon Graphics... Device drivers... blah blah... and... (pause for punchline)

"...he finds that his RAM had actually overflowed 4.3 million schnitzelblimps!!!"

Everyone would burst out laughing with cries of "sooper" "ayyo" and "too much da machi..." I would laugh along whole heartedly as well but mostly at my own ignorance. So when JKR walked into class for our first Fortran lecture I was fairly tense.

But JKR was even more tense. JKR is the sort of prof who really knows his stuff well but cant speak to an audience if his life depended on it. Which meant JKR would completely go to bits in front of a classroom. First his palms would shiver, then his whole arm and before long his torso and limbs would have decided that it was better for everyone if they went their separate ways and saw other people. Once JKR walked into class and began a session on nested fruity loops when suddenly he stopped mid-sentence and started to slowly, yet with steady determination, topple to one side. Thankfully for him LKT was seated at the front bench that eventful day.
LKT was a monument of a man. He was huge and built like a tank. And he was scary. For example:

LKT: Hey guys lets go for lunch da
Me: Yup. I am damn hungry. I could eat a horse.
LKT: Ah then you must have it cooked in a cashew gravy with a roomali rotis. You don't get good horse nowadays though.
Me: Gulp. Correct.

LKT jumped from his seat, walked through his table and swept the wilting JKR in his arms and off his feet. JKR was out of service for a week or so. LKT was teased a bit for a few days till he picked up a classmate and flung him over the compound wall to Dindigul, a place near Pondicherry.

I still cannot fathom why we were asked to do some of he things we did. For example we were asked to write a program that made prime numbers appear in the form of a symmetrical triangle. (Man even now I can never find out why we did that...) In another instant I sat in the computer facility for 47 hours straight, 3 of which awake, trying to write a program that took 2 numbers as input and gave the lowest prime number between them as a result. When JKT walked over to my terminal I was absolutely sure my code was excellent. He entered 4, 28. The code replied with surprising confidence: “glix@”. There was a minute of silence after which JKT confirmed that glix@ was not a prime number and I had to redo the exercise.

Business school was much better though. The extent of computational complexity was limited to making Excel spreadsheets do insane things. Now let me tell you something about spreadsheets. Spreadsheets, with some practice, can do some pretty amazing things. Besides a host of mathematical and statistical functions, spreadsheets can also graph, approximate, manage data, and in one memorable incident, finished a game of solitaire in a mere 34 seconds.

I used spreadsheets for a variety of uses and, in Marketing 2, with a lot of graphs in upto 3 colours, proved that the national demand for motorcars in India in 2008 would be 4.82 cars. (This does not include imports and, you must admit, is much more accurate than glix@)

After two years of using a little excel and a lot of “Web History Sweeper” I came out with a diploma and destiny full of powerpoint. But honestly Powerpoint is an amazing piece of work and makes even the most stupid statements like “Diversification often leads to dilution of equity and shareholder benefit-evaluation mental paradigms” seem like profound observations. Apparently you can also make graphs in Powerpoint, but I think that is a baseless rumour.

(A complete chapter will be dedicated to powerpoint soon...)

So there. Computing and the author have never got along quite well. We keep making jibes at each other every few days. If you are a technology-challenged person like me there is one gospel truth you need to know. This is the bloody crux of this post. Even if you dont take anything else away from this post, remember this: All computers...

WAIT... NO!!... Dammit... Beep Beep Beep. Whirr.

(p.s. Expect a startling revelation about career moves soon...)

Farewell and thanks for all the rides...

2006-01-03T17:44:00.000+05:30

It was one of those perfect weekday mornings. I fell asleep watching the TV, in a rather traumatic posture, and woke up with a terrible headache in my knees. At the driving school I was told the car had a puncture and would not be back till 8. Which meant I would have to miss class once again. I yawned in disappointment and walked across the road to drench my worries in Sambar and Rava Dosa.

Ram Mahal is a rather non-descript south indian eating place. It has the routine Formica topped tables, mumbling old man who looks like he has way too much left over coconut chutney, and simple, rapid service. There is always the radio playing and a couple of newspapers for the customers. Today the radio was playing that old south indian favorite, Don't Phunk with my Heart y the Black-eyed Peas. I picked up the newspaper and sat at my usual spot in the corner where I don't get to see through the hole in the wall into the kitchen. (Like the Backstreet Boys, I don't care much for who my dosa is and where it is from.) When I came across the piece of news in the business section I was overwhelmed.

When I was a child one of the highlights of our annual trips to my village in Kerala was the thud-thud-wheeze of my uncle's Bajaj Chetak. And now this newspaper was telling me that Bajaj rolled out the last Chetak two days ago and was moving on. Tragically I wasn't ready to do that. That blue, sturdy and awesomely cute scooter just meant too much to me.

A Chetak was probably my uncle's first big buy after he started working for his bank. It was the regulation blue Chetak and like a gazillion other people he too waited for it for months before getting it. My uncle is the quiet, pillar of the family types. When, and only when, something could not be communicated through gestures of fingers, eyebrows and head and combinations thereof, did he speak. But every one in a while, and too rare nowadays now that all the kids have grown, he will sit on the armchair on the portico and regale us with stories of days gone by. Often they starred his reliable little Chetak. It was like a member of the family and when it was brought home I daresay it received a welcome as grand as any new-born. The Chetak was religiously parked in the firehouse (where they roasted coconuts into copra) and received a thorough washing down on the weekends, even during the monsoons.

When the taxi from the airport ploughed through the muddy kaccha road and climbed up the steep driveway I often exploded out of the car to climb all over the scooter. To this day I can feel the stiff rubbery feel of the buttons and the flip switches on the handlebars. And almost certainly I would fall off the scooter in some obscene fashion thus spending the rest of my one month vacation with a swollen lip or a skinned knee. The scooter was a novelty for us "persians" as our grandma used to call us. (For some reason that whole generation called us NRIs "persians".)

But more than memories of the scooter itself, there are so many sensations I remember. The smell of petrol when my uncle opened the tank between the seats, a pretty dexterous endeavor in itself. Or the thrill of wind in my face when he took us to church standing on the footboard in the front. In "persia" you never got the wind in your face. Pavlov would have been proud of us the way we salivated, every evening, when we heard the scooter shoot up the incline, loop around the courtyard and glide into the firehouse. For there was no doubt my uncle always carried a small packet of Lacto King, Eclairs or Five Star when he came from work. When I grew older and finally gave up trying to learn cricket or football, he would bring back copies of Sputnik magazine that would invariably be stained with some gravy from his lunchbox. After all there was only so much storage in a Chetak.

The Chetak set limits on the size of his lunch box, the amount of vegetables he could buy and how many people could go to Church with him on Sunday mornings. The house rules were simple: the best behaved kids got taken to the church on the scooter while the rest had to walk with grandma to church trying to explain that persia no longer existed. After Sunday mass there was a mad rush to reach the scooter as only then could you make it back in time to see Ramayan. (Which is pretty cool in a secular kind of way.) Being a non-athletic Sputnik reader kind of guy I often ended walking home and just catching the last scene, which thrilled my grandmother. She was not as secular as the rest of us and thought growing up in a Muslim country was corruption enough!

But the all time best memory ever was when on some special evenings my uncle took us all on high-speed rounds of the neighbourhood. All my grandfather's brothers lived in adjacent compounds and my uncle twisted and swooped through the houses and in between the trees. We screamed in joy and waved at all the uncles and aunts and domestic helps who jumped aside to avoid being hit by us. The noise a Chetak made when you shifted up gears was thoroughly satisfying and more than a little macho. We took good care of him too and for many years every scratch was well-mended and only original spare parts were ever used. Not one drop of adulterated petrol either.

But then the ambassador car came along and the scooter slowly got less and less attention. Well-loved but not attended to at all, like old Bryan Adams tapes. My rather enterprising cousin, who till then merely disassembled and put back together his bicycle, now got his evil fingers on the Chetak. The scooter had to be massively over-engineered, for every time he pulled out a few parts, he could only put back half of them or so. But the scooter still managed to run like normal. But middle of the night if you needed to get some Lacto-calamine lotion the Chetak was ever faithful and would start in a jiffy, albeit sometimes after a comical "tip and straighten" routine.
Then one year when we came home my uncle said he had sold it. No one was using it anymore and he couldn't bare to see it waste away. The lacto-calamine phase had passed as well. Now we all go to Church together and come back and we really don't think there is a point in trying to drive an Ambassador at any great pace over gardens and between coconut palms. And I am sure most of our elder relatives and domestic help wont be able to jump out of the way of a careening Ambassador without atleast a couple of days of notice. Sometimes my uncle still talks about his Chetak and of maybe buying a new one.

But then those heartless people at Bajaj wont let us do that anymore. Sob.

Bye dear Chetak my friend. May thou pass into that auto yard in the sky having lived a full and well-loved life. Farewell and thanks for all the rides.

Phyrds Uykl 33

2006-01-02T15:18:00.000+05:30

This friday I made a startling discovery in the office. It was four pm and as usual I was busy battling with the printer to get a couple of important print-outs. After twenty minutes of pressing all the buttons on the printer and some on the adjoint shredder for good measure I was forced to call in the local IT expert. We gathered around the printer trying to make sense of the teeny two line LCD display and the absurd messages it flashed at two minute intervals. It was a rather newish HP printer that was loaded with the latest in cutting-edge customer friendly software which ensures "thousands of trouble-free printer outs". The IT expert soon smiled to himself and set to work. 'It takes a deft hand you know" he said, as he switched the printer off and then on again. After warming up for sometime it flashed "Paper Jam" quickly three times in quick succession, made a gleeful choking sound and then triumphantly went quite. The LCD display said, with a resounding look of self-satisfaction, "Phyrds Uykl 33". My IT expert confirmed that this was not one of the listed responses in the customer-friendly infomation booklet and may take some more time and effort to repair. I was frustrated, it was already 4:30 and I had to get that print-out or it would be the end of my weekend. In a fit of rage I asked him: "Kya fax machine kaam kar raha hai?..."

Silence settled on the office suddenly yet quietly, briefly reminding me of several occasions when the Non-veg Kebab platter was brought to the table at Tomatoes in Ahmedabad. But soon that memory faded when the IT expert turned to me and said. "Kar rahi hai..., Fax machine kaam kar rahi hai..." I was curtly reminded of the fact that in the Hindi language the Fax Machine, that block of pastic, electronics, and heavily miniaturised cd-changer full of assorted beeping noises, was indeed a female. I apologised and just to show that I had caught on, I sashayed over to her, the fax machine, and picked up one of the many pieces of paper in her inbox. I stood ramrod straight, looked out over the office full of expectant eyes and said "Yeh fax bahut acchi hai..." The ensuing rush of Tangdi Kebab memories meant I had goofed up again. Damn it!! I can never get Hindi...

It all begins many years ago. Back when i was just a kid with all the good looks, snappy wit and dreamy eyes I have today but a little less facial hair. Overhearing what my dad told the cabbie everyday I quickly picked up my first words of Hindi. "Doosre Parking sign se right lena". When I turned old enough to travel in a Cab on my own I confidently mouthed those words just after the cab went past the roundabout. Of course I never knew what they meant exactly. But having seen many Hindi movies I worked it out to mean, roughly of course, "please take me to that red building with the grocery shop on the front near the parking.". One friday evening coming back from a friend's birthday party the cabbie went the other way around the colony and I was put in a spot. I tried saying 'doosre parking se right lena' a couple of times in succession, but I was soon very lost and was subject to interesting Hindi from the cabby some of which I continue to decipher to this day. (An interesting usage involving "stupid kid", "large piece of wood', and "back side" haunts me in sleep sometimes...)

Ironically this did not mean I was bad in Hindi at school. Oh no no. On the other hand I did pretty good in the subject. My mother, quickly noted that I was languishing in the low "F"s in Hindi while even in Physical Education I was scoring commendable "middle-D"s. I was quickly put on a regime of daily one hour sessions of Hindi which involved committing to memory large tracts of Hindi poetry and prose, not even leaving out the merest of punctuation marks. It would go:yadda yadda yadda full stop, yadda, comma, yadda yadda exclamation mark. I was soon regurgitating my way into the statospheric high-Bs in Hindi. All this without understanding a word of what I was committing to memory. (Students out there should not try this yourself. Especially if your learning neurosurgery, nuclear detonation and stuff like that.) There were rude shocks to this strategy of course. Once, in a fit of uncalled for spontaneity, my Hindi teacher slipped in a short essay question into the half-yearly exam. To be written in, shudder, your own words.

For half an hour I watched, with loathing in my eyes, my hindi-speaking classmates hunched over whipping up paeans on the "Weather of your home state", or "The importance of science" depending on which one they chose. Finally I picked up my pencil and went for it. For the next two weeks, every Hindi class, I held my breath as the Hindi teacher walked in, hoping that she was not carrying a pile of thin pink test notebooks. One of those notebooks had a brief description of the rains of kerala in a language that was a melange of bad hindi, english and malayalam. All in devanagri script of course. Then one day she walked in with those books and there was much laughing, roaring of rips and loss of self esteem after that.

But there was no respite. I tried picking up bits and pieces from the weekly Hindi movie on TV but then how many 7th standard essays can you write with an assorted vocabulary of haraam zaades, khoon pee jaoonga and rishte me mein tere baap something something. (Though I did manage to once start an essay on domestic animals with the words "Duniya mein do tarah ke pashu hote hain, domestic and wild...")

And as the years went by things were getting difficult. In class 9th I begged my dad to let me shift to french. Everyone else in the school did, bar 10 or so people. And I was one of them. While the french guys gallivanted with their foreign textbooks and 95+ percent class averages we struggled with Subhadrakumari Chauhan and Harivanshrai Bacchan. Mind you I am sure the poetry was immaculate and the prose was stirring. The native hindi-speakers often rose in raptures when our teacher explained some of the finer points of some of the poems. I did understand some of the couplets by Kabeer and Tulsidas. Alas the inevitable happened, I flunked in Hindi. Out of a maximum possible 100 marks I had scored 16 in total. 8 marks came from some fill in the blank type question set and some true-or-false type questions.

This of course meant I needed to get private tuition. In hindsight Mr. Tripathi looked exactly like Amitabh Bhachchan in Bunty and Babli. He always wore Ray-bans, had that rustic charm around him and spoke English like a true Hindi teacher. "Next month fool reeveezun okay?" The first day he came he spoke to me non-stop about how he was trying to get a driving license and had been at it for years. In chaste Hindi. It was not a gentle baptism. By the end of the year I had learnt well. My hindi was ok, but my real skill was at listening to people and nodding my head at the just the right spots without understanding a single word. Tripathi sir got his license on the seventh attempt or so.

Of course its not all my fault you know. Hindi is a terrible language if your not tuned in well enough. There's that gender problem of course. Every bloody thing has to be male or female. Hindi-speakers do not enjoy the comfort of an ambiguous "it". Ask them how they know whats a "he" and whats not and they will just smile. Yes we mallus might speak like the babbling of a brook, but we know better than to make a coconut palm a he. Or a she. Dammit. (No but it has nuts jokes please.)

Then there is the merciless use of emphasis to add a little twist into an already infuriating language. How many mallus have been laughed at for downing a few drinks, raising there arms and singing out loud "Khajra Re" instead of "Kajra Re". Oh yes and we can never get enough of the "Hahahah he said KANA instead of KHANA..." little witticism. That pronounciation will be the end of me. I have often made my maid at home think she is a close male relation. She burns the dal when I do that.

But I think its all a huge conspiracy. A conspiracy to poke fun at non-natives. Otherwise why would have a perfect ek, do, teen, char, sade char, sade paanch system. And then screw it all up with dhed, dhai, savva and other hideous fractions. Only so that around lunch time in the office they can ask you the time and then grin and titter when you say saade ek. Those fractions can have no other purpose. Once I went all around Wadala market trying to flaunt my knowledge of dhed, savva, dhai and so forth. I was out buying vegetables but very soon it all fell apart. By the time I was done shopping I had enough provisions to cook a small bowl or two of rice, several tons of karela sabji with a kilo or two of salt thrown in. It was a disaster. But whenever I go back there is a sparkle in the eyes of them vendors. Especially the karela guy.

But according to me the greatest conspiracy of all is expressly meant to prevent mallus, tams, gults and the like from marrying into Hindi-speaking families. It is a move of ethnic-purity maintenance par excellence. In a flash of brilliance they have ensured that no sanity-loving young boy will ever woo a hindi-speaking maiden if he did not know the language himself. To ensure you never fit in, the Hindi language has created a puzzling array of terms for every possible relationship in the family. So by the time you are done meeting the Chacha, chachi, bhabhi, jija, nana, nani, kaka, dada, dadi, lala, mama, mami, potha, pothi, tau and of course the didi of devar fame, you no longer know who is married to whom and who fathered whom. Soon you are frothing at the mouth, your head is spinning and in a fit of confusion request your girlfriend for her second cousin's hand in marriage... master stroke I tell you... I once even called someone at a very hindi dominated wedding a "bhajji" by mistake. Thankfully they were not from Chennai and did not realize I was calling them deep fried vegetable in gram flour dough.

Aha. But try we must. The other day a Taxi driver incessantly harangued me for an hour from Bandra to Wadala in the purest, most passionate marathi. I nodded, sombrely hmmed and once, just past the Don Bosco church, laughed with him heartily at a particularly lewd joke. I never understood a single word of what he said. Tripathi had taught me well indeed. Anyways it is a working day and I must go now. As I once heartily proclaimed while leaving a friend's house in delhi, "Chalo mein ja rahi hoon..." Yes you can laugh now, haraam zaade... zaadi... zaada...Crap.

p.s. I have just been told my a close confidante that lala is not actually a bonafide Hindi relation. In place of that please read phoopha. No I am serious.

Leave of absence...

2005-11-14T14:41:00.000+05:30

Been terribly busy for weeks. Weekends packed with too many things that I do not have time for on the weekdays. But there is some light at the end of the tunnel now...

Sidin

Eid Mubarak!!!

2005-11-04T09:16:00.000+05:30

Dig into that biryani with gusto!!!

P.S. Will hopefully attain salvation from powerpoint this weekend...

Happy Diwali Everyone!!!

2005-11-01T22:31:00.000+05:30

Will this click?

2005-10-24T14:02:00.000+05:30

Anyone interested in helping do an online "Mumbai Mobile Camera Photo Exhibition"?

1. Has this already been done before?
2. Will it work?

Random thought on an otherwise packed day of work...

sidin

On screens now: "The Weekly Wayback"

2005-10-18T18:59:00.000+05:30

Hi All,

Finally after sometime in limbo I finally have a blog that is everything this one is not. It is not funny, conversational, satirical, ironic or any of those things.

The Weekly Wayback (TWW) is a serious attempt to explore the historical underpinnings of contemporary events. TWW will try to unravel interesting aspects to these events. The blog will hopefully give readers food for thought and also help the author develop the serious side of his writing.

This blog will, rest assured, continue to do what it does best. Like NOT talking about world war 2 tribunals.

Sidin.

Opening Soon...

2005-10-18T10:17:00.000+05:30

Hi all,

Shortly launching a second blog.

More details by tonight.

Sidin.

Games fat people play... (Extended Mix)

2005-10-15T14:33:00.000+05:30

Old-timers in Abu Dhabi will remember the old St. Joseph's Church. It stood by the sea-side probably right where the Ajman Palace Hotel stands today. I was too young to remember anything of course. All I can remember is a large brown dome and a chandelier with yellow light bulbs inside. and a cotton-candy man outside. But maybe it was ice-creams he was selling. I really don't remember. That was when the gulf was a wild carefree place. The jobs were many and lucrative and the rules were lax. You could pick up bread, butter, some frozen chicken and a few extra passports on the way from work.

Then of course things changed and the only thing that flowed thicker than the oil were the expatriates. St. Josephs grew too small for the parish and shifted to a spanking new location near the Old Airport Road. Back then it was just the Airport Road. When you entered, through understandably secular gates, you stepped into a smooth concrete courtyard. At one end was the main entrance to the Church, to the left the residences of the priests and nuns and to the right some office buildings. The Church was a remarkable building at that age for me, all shiny marble, sturdy pews and monstrous chandeliers. The school building was right behind the church. In between was a long flat ground that served as a venue for the midnight service every Christmas and Easter. But the remaining days of the year it served one evil, sinister purpose. A purpose that to this day makes me shudder when I think of my school days. The EVIL PLAYGROUND.

In the beginning it was all not so bad. We were enclosed in a small corner of the playground with a little grass, some sand and a few flowers. There were slides and a nice set of swings. The kindergarten kids were enclosed behind a wire fence not unlike the ones undercover agents cut through with pliers. I was a peaceful child in school, never pulling ponytails too much or peeing in my shorts too often. I enjoyed the presence of other children and their wide variety of lunch boxes on offer every noon. (Jibu Joseph if you are out there I owe much of my current weight problems to your sausages in ketchup.)

I should have taken the hint early on though. Especially when I was commended for my excellent rendition of "I am a teapot" in the famous rhyme of the same name. But I think reality hit me when I was trying to use the playground toys. To cut a long story short, the slides didn't and swings seldom did without effort. I was never really very keen on swings in the first place. Having grown up in a first floor flat all my life I was not too used to heights. (Not like I was chicken or something... I just was not brought up appreciating 10 feet or above.) But I had a passion for slides that just was not mutual. I would climb up the steps well enough and my slide down began eagerly enough. I would scream in delight as I began descent. But it went more like this: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-THUK-CRUNCH.

The first part was the scream in delight. Followed by the sound of one kid wedged mid-slide. The third bit in that symphony of agony was of the stupid kid who couldn't wait for me to finish. He had crashed into me wedging me even further. This story repeated itself many times over each time I went to parks and playgrounds. Little did I know then that I was being driven down the path of TV gameshows, boardgames and career umpiring/referreeing.

Things went steadily downhill from there. In primary school I was annually subject to that self-esteem depriving exercise called annual day sport trials. You were expected to meet at various times of the week, depending on which house you belonged to, and were then expected to participate in a variety of sports, some of them downright ridiculous. Everyone who has gone through that "potato race" buffoonery raise your hands now. The scars from potato races mentally torture me to this day. They lay out a row of potatoes, each goddamn tuber a couple of meters apart, with a bucket at one end. They laid out a few rows like this and then you had to start running from bucket to potato, run back, drop it in the bucket and then go back to the next one and so on. It was okay if you did this alone. But that would have been conducive to some maintenance of self-pride. So they made you "compete" against another bunch of young, lithe, fleet footed bastards who ate one slice of brown bread every three days and had jet-pack metabolisms.

By the time I had my last frigging potato in the bucket the waifs were half way through their post-run mineral water bottles. Next time you notice someone watching an AB-Slim-Pro infomercial with gnashing teeth and reddening eyes you can be sure he has many a potato race in his past. And if you managed to fall sick suitably on a day when they had potato race trials and thought you escaped, you were so wrong. They always had "lets all have fun and lose our front teeth" sack-racing, "mmmm... lemony cutlery, my favourite" lemon-and-spoon races and of course that old classic, "are these legs yours?" three-legged races.

That is not to say I did not have my few and far between moments of triumph. How can I, or Neerak Mark D'mello, forget the summer of 1989? We were the champions of chariot racing. Almost. It was a sport that was meant for the both of us. It was a sport for two people where the driver held the chariot by his ankles, while the chariot was face down parallel to the ground propped up on his arms, palms down. The race was pretty simple then. The chariot pulled himself along the rack while the driver pushed him along like a wheel barrow. It was perfect. Neeraj was a pickle of a kid while I could easily lift him and literally pummel him down the track. We participated in the trials amidst considerable politics. (I somehow had a reputation for these trials and it was a challenge to get him to agree to partner with me. He had apparently seen one too many potato race trials.) But wonder of wonders we qualified for the finals. And then went and made utter fools of ourselves. We finished a respectable fourth, and that too only because, when I noticed we were slipping out of the medals, I picked him up and lobbed him over the finish line. It was a finish fit for champions. As Neeraj bounced away into the sunset I looked at the scorekeeper only to be told it was not enough.

Things got marginally better as I went up grades. We had things like discuss, javelin and shot put. I could throw ok. Not annual sports quality but I threw well enough to walk back with pride. (A regular reader will remember the time I knocked out myself with a javelin. That was an exception.) But except for that chariot thing I never made it into the big leagues ever again for a long time till I went to boarding school in Kerala. I was an eager participant at most games. But soon I discovered a great skill which revolutionised my entire approach towards the field of competitive sport. I could absorb the impact of most sporting equimpent and some reasonably sized people on my body without anything more than a shrug of inconvenience. As soon as the implications of this hit me, I leapt out of the shower, changed into shorts and ran down the sporting field in joy while everyone else screamed "you-streaka you-streaka"...

Thus began a long and illustrious career as keeper of wickets in cricket and keeper of goal in a variety of field games. I excelled in handball and football in particular. I had good anticipation, went really hard into tackles and made death and gravity defying dives. (Other peoples deaths and my gravity to be precise.) My jealous friends wrote off my ability to keep the ball out to probability (something about ratio of exposed areas...). But I worked hard at my skills. The transition into cricket was inevitable. Once I had worked out which crease was which and that "Leg Before Wicket" was not a motto like "Death Before Disinvestment" things went well. I blocked many catches with a deftly placed thigh and more than once dived to catch a direct throw from the fielders directed at the stumps. I was obsessed with wicket keeping. And sometimes kept wickets for both teams. (That I did not have to bat or field thus were added benefits). Which meant I had twice as many catches as anyone else after every match. My stats were good.

But I never got chosen for any of the teams though. I was not versatile. Apparently being an excellent wicket-keeper and outstanding leg-umpire wasn't good enough for them pricey captains. Which left only two things to do for a sporting and enthusiastic guy like me. Water and lemon wedges boy or match official. After a couple of months I got sick of the water boy job and could never look at lemons again for years. Thus I became a match official. That meant I got to be on the field, got refreshments, got included in all the photos and sometimes got a medal of my own. And all this without needing to know where third man, extra cover, around or over the wicket was and what "follow on" meant. (The latter caused problems on occassions but I managed to nod my way through mostly with statements like "But that just isn't cricket is it?") There were tough calls sometimes. At a particular staff-student match there was a controversy over a line call which would have determined the match. It was a heated argument between teacher and priests on one side and rabid students on the other. I had to intermediate and a weaker man would have folded under the pressure. But I held on and after listening to both parties, deliberating extensively, and having a brick thrown at me by the students, I decided in favour of the priest team. They had god and many more bricks on their side.

Basketball was always a fleeting passion for me. Our school had an excellent basketball team. But most of the team were all these tall fast guys. But sometimes miracles happen. Sometimes, when you put your mind to it, you can overcome the most impossible odds and achieve the improbable. You could be short and slow and still make it to the first 5 in the basky team. After hours of training and dedicated effort, and more than a few meals skipped for fitness, it happened. My friend Arun made it into the team. I was so happy for him.

One afternoon I was walking from the mess to the sporting field when I passed by the junior basketbal team practising. They were concentrating on last-minute long-range shots and were particularly struggling to get the slow motion part right. One of them, in that arrogant fashion of the first 5 school team, said something about fat people not being able to run or even shoot. I was inflamed. I strode up to him, grabbed the wretched spheroid from his orc-like hands and turned Aragorn-like to my goal, the daunting basket to the west. I was driven by a need to uphold the pride of my peoples, the fat of the land, and because he had wagered one small "5 star" chocolate as well. I shot, and I scored!!! (Those who, led by the general tone of this post, thought I may have missed, shame on you!!! You have no appreciation for free chocolate.)

I was hooked after that. Whenever I saw a basketball I had to go and buy a "5 star" chocolate. It compounded the Slide Wedge Syndrome. But I did play a lot of basket ball after that. I had a decent shot and was solid and portly in defence. Boarding school also taught me volleyball and table tennis. I had a pretty good backhand serve. Dont remember in which sport though.

My sporting career flamed out after that except for a brief resurgence in college when, for a brief period, I represented the college in football. But that ended when I had a fallout with the coach. He wanted me to warm-up before each session with several push-ups, sit-ups and 10 rounds of the jogging track. I would not settle for anything more than a short motivational speech. He send a 6-page email to the PE Instructor which got leaked into the school paper. It got dirty and I was moved out unceremoniously.

Business school saw me dabbling in volleyball and basketball with mixed success. In Ahmedabad the zenith was when I line-judged a women's volleyball match. I made an excellent close call and there was much screaming and howling and hugging of the line judge after that. When they left me, the opposition merely abused me profusely and slapped me about a bit. That event helped me explore many sides of my kinkiness.

Life since then has been pretty much unsporting. Except for the occassional running after local trains and running out of office at 5:30 before boss comes back from restroom I have been sitting around doing little that is not sedentary. But sometimes I lean back and my eyes focus into the distance. I smile to myself when I think of all those great sporting moments in my life. I have been truly blessed havent I? I mean a whole "5 star".

Wow.

Onashamsakal!!!

2005-09-15T12:35:00.000+05:30

Happy Onam Everyone!!!

p.s. Anyone know a place in Mumbai serving good mallu food on the occassion?? Can't find anything in the papers... :)

2005-09-12T13:18:00.000+05:30

WHATAY!!!

Shopping with the enemy...

2005-09-08T10:35:00.000+05:30

Ganapati Bappa Moriya!!!

Everything and everybody in Mumbai has officially taken a backseat to the pot-bellied god of success and good beginnings. It is going to be my first Ganesh Chaturthi in Mumbai and this time it most definitely will be more than a convenient holiday to plan strategic leave-taking around. Pavilions housing idols and large loud speakers are erected several to every kilometre of road. And the city needs its fair share of good blessings, so play and pray on!!!

But I did work till lunch today and have spent the rest of the day doing nothing. And feeling great about it. There is Will and Grace on TV, Pineapple juice and ice in a glass and the weather is not too bad. One of those feel-good days when you finally feel like powering up Wordpad and thumping out a piece of one's mind. Oh and of course there is Liar Liar on TV in a while and Maura Tierney is cute, delectable, warm and fuzzy. Of course not all holidays are this laid back and fun you know. A few weekends ago I was in Chennai with a bosom buddy of mine and she insisted we go shopping for clothes. It had been many moons since I had wafted in the welcome heady aroma of Tiruppur-fresh tshirts and enticing rustle of large shopping bags. So I was looking forward to a couple of hours of lazing between the aisles at Westside. (Westside, I am proud to say, has the largest collection of clothing for the dimensionally challenged. Unlike other stores they do not hideaway their double-x sizes in a corner. They cater to their well-fed customers and are proud of it. Almost everything is available in large and airy sizes.) We had a movie at 4. So we had all the time to choose in peace.

So there was I, armed to the teeth with consumer credit in my wallet, when she uttered those dreadful words. "I need to buy a couple of tops for myself too...". My heart skipped a decent number of beats and my mouth fell wide open. Good God!!! What had I done? Going out with a woman and buying her stuff is the second most dangerous thing a guy can do, it closely follows going out with a woman and not buying her anything. My dreams of blissful moments in a trial room holding in my belly now lie shattered. But I nary not mention my displeasure and dread and off we embarked to Spencer's Plaza on a journey of discovery. Discovery of the perfect kurti top and full sleeve t-shirt that is.

10:45 am: Female friend declares to intention to buy women's clothing

10:52 am: Author's heart resumes beating and partial activity returns to both lobes of brain

11:20 am: Enter Spencer's Plaza

11:25 am: Decide to buy women's clothing first as we only have 4 hours left before the movie and she needs the time

11:30 am: Decide to visit Pantaloons first

11:32 am: Black t-shirt right length too tight

11:42 am: Maroon t-shirt right fit but too short

11: 43 am: Green t-shirt in right length and fit but not available in pink. Pink has been declared as favourite colour

11:45 am: Author suggests pink t-shirt that seems right in fit and legth. Severe feedback received on the unsuitability of colour of piping. Author requested to refrain from further comment or input

11:47 am: Wonderful yellow t-shirt. She loves it. Things looking good. She asks me if she looks fat in it. Author mentions slight tightness aournd the arms. 10 minutes of abuse evenly split between author and t-shirt. Mothers of both briefly referred to.

11:50 am: Pantaloon found to be severely short on choice, colours and sizes. Female anger let loose on security guard. Cashier however is politely spoken to as he is cute.

12:00 pm: Westside endowed with our attention and time. Initial reaction positive. The lighting highlights complexion well and air conditioning is just right. Saleswomen not hot. Things looking good.

12:05 pm: Kurti in orange has bad red embroidery

12:06 pm: Kurti in orange without embroidery is too plain. I suggest nice brown sleeveless shirt. Curtly reminded of previous request to "SHUT UP WHEN I AM DECIDING!!!"

12:07 pm: Kurti in orange with just the right embroidery. Hurrah. No wait. She already has similar top. Damn.

12:08 pm: Pink t-shirt is perfect but way too tight. Pink is a horrible colour. I agree. Maroon is actually the favourite colour. I am hungry. I agree to that too.

12:15 pm: NOONE WEARS T-SHIRTS ANYMORE. Absolutely I say. Button down shirts here we come.

12:16 pm: Asked to check if neck is too deep. I take my time to decide. Almost gets slapped. No guys around to notice. Phew

12:20 pm: Suggest lunch break. Heavy plastic hanger with metal clips misses right eyeball by inches. Sorry.

12:30 to 2:30 pm: Finally the perfect blue loose shirt with a spot-on neck and an immaculate print design on the front. She tries it on and I tell her she looks like Phoebe in one of the episodes in season 4. This time hanger does not miss. Ouch.

3:00 pm: Paid for the top and its in the bag. We proceed to the men's section.

3:05 pm: Two shirts, one t-shirt and a pair of jeans tried, packed and paid for. She complains of too much delay and possible missing of movie. I briefly mention the difficulty of shopping with one eye in bandage.

3:30 pm: Madagascar!!!

Man it was a wild shopping trip and Madagascar was an excellent movie. But I think I can do without another trip to Westside for sometime now. I really really like the ability to see and walk you see. So you guys take care till next time when I talk about eating out in Mumbai. Be good, take care, and, as is "en vogue" right now, Salaam Namaste...

P.S. Am going to buy a Wagon R soon. La di da!!!

Karlo dhaniya mutthi mein... AKA Of rains and restaurants Part 2

2005-08-10T12:00:00.000+05:30

(Originally written a week ago. So parts of the post may suddenly leap out at you with uncanny chronological frivolousness. Deftly side-step with a "Bah!! Die you content belittling demon of chornological accuracy!!!" and the post should read fine...)

Monday morning and the commotion outside the window reveals no respite from the showers. The TV dissapoints and the day starts off on a wrong note with the paper guy dropping off the wrong paper. A quick group SMS confirms we need to work out of home today and that means another day of iffy dial-up connections and boring hours spent over powerpoint presentations but without the comforting presence of broadband, raaga.com and the coffee machine. We still have not got a gas connection even after a month of applying. But why bore you with the sob stories of life in our corner of Wadala. Rather let us go back to my reminiscences of my life gastronomique.

My first job was one not amenable to too many culinary escapades. Long hours in the plant and a house in a corner of an industrial estate meant most meals were called in from Dominoes or Pizza Corner. Most of the time I was delivered depressing pizza and soft drink that had spent eons in the battered delivery scooter. By the time it reached my doorstep both pizza and coke had achieved an even equal lukewarm temperature. The meal was a constant struggle with pizza crust that can only be described as vulcanized. Finally after a few weeks my teeth could take it no more and I frequently made the bus trip to Ganga Sweets at Anna Nagar West. They made the most irremarkable "chat items" as they call it down south and insanely sweet Ras Malai which had so much colouring in it that the only thing that lasted longer than the after taste was the stain on ones shirt if you dropped it. Everyone told me to try out the Saravana Bhavan across the road. But just one visit to that Chennai phenomenon and I pledged never to go there again. Apparently their waiters were trained in the Idi Amin school of cheerful customer service inclusive of the thumb-in-tea, dosa-end-on-table and other age-old customer delight classics. And of course the relaxed dining atmosphere where you could lounge in your chairs after dinner for upto 15 whole nanoseconds. In the AC upper class they allowed a luxurious full minute of relaxation before you were asked to leave. With a flick of brown-green dust cloth. Sheer luxury.

Chennai was also where I discovered the joys of the Punjabi Dhaba Concept restaurant. There was one at Anna Nagar circle and a very popular one at Cenotaph road. More than anything else I remember the Amritsari Kulchas and the Lassis. But sometimes they took the decor to ridiculous lenghts. Even the most moist and tender morsels of Tandoori Chicken are difficult to savour when the ropes of mock charpoy bite into your moist and tender backside. But the lassis were amazing. The steel glasses were 3 feet tall and you wonder how all of it fit into one person. Especially the exquisite beauties who frequented these joints. The ambience was excellent. But my butt still hurt.

In my second year in Chennai I developed this thing for mocktails and sandwiches. So much so I signed up for something called a Masti Card you got from Musicworld I think just so I could get the 15% discount at a nice little eatery opposite the New Woodlands Hotel. Many many are the evenings I have spent there over baked beans and mushroom sandwiches, milk shakes and ice creams. The last football world cup saw me spend many evenings perched on orange chairs looking up at the TV on the top right hand corner. One memorable evening I watched the match with a bunch of non-english speaking oriental looking types watching Japan Vs. Morocco I think. I was rooting for Japan and grabbed a chair right in the middle of this big bunch of oriental soccer fans. I learnt some memorable lessons that day. Including the fact that Morocco has some very oriental looking fans. By half time I had quickly scooted out with a baby corn and peas sandwich safely in a plastic bag.

Then happened the Cafe craze that to this day significantly hits my bottom line. In both ways. While the caffeine addiction hit an all-time high in Ahmedabad the flavorful foundations were set in place at the Cafe Coffee Day a few paces down from Anna Nagar Circle. (Yes I noticed I havent seen much of Chennai besides Anna Nagar have I?) It is some indication of my pulsating social life in Chennai that I used to spend over 8 hours at a stretch sitting in the cafe reading, thinking and trying to do crosswords. I used to know the guys who worked by their first names and some weekends they played some of my mp3 CDs. I was a lonely man with only a Tropical Iceberg and Penthouse Letters for company. Which meant my next career move was a no-brainer. Coffee + Porn = MBA.

Ahmedabad has to be world's number one restaurant city. There are restaurants everywhere. I mean everywhere. It is the home of authentic vegetarian American, Mexican and Italian food. Amdavadis were never bored or lazy. No my dear reader if an Amdavadi had ten minutes to spare he opened a restaurant. If he was on transit from Chicago to Baroda and had a stopover in Amdavad for two hours, he rushed out of the terminal, opened a Thali joint made a couple of crores and checked in. That was how crazy eating out was in Ahmedabad. And only one thing was crazier than the number of restaurants. The number of people who wanted to eat in them. Weekend meant that hordes of families descended onto the eateries and cafes of the city and let loose orgies of, among other things, Pakwan Thalis, Paneer and Havmor Icecream. The good non-vegetarian places were few and far between and Saturday nights usually meant feasting on the biriyanis at Four Foods, the mandatory mallu eating place, or Tomoatoes, the mandatory over-priced American decor place.

Four Foods was where Amdavadi mallus celebrated any occassion with chicken, mutton and fish. Since good non-veg was tough to come by, these occassions were frequent and included such age-old auspicious events like the Sunday after Onam, all four days before Onam and all non-even days of the month. But honestly the food was not that great. But parochial spirit clouded our taste buds, and that and the Mohanlal songs on the stereo meant every morsel took me back home to Abu Dhabi... err... Thrissur.

"Tomatoes" is nothing short of a phenomenon in Ahmedabad and one of my fave ROML. The decor was severly Yankee-influenced and if it wasn't for the prohibition rules it would easily make one of the pubs that are all the rage for a few years and then slide away into oblivion. But their menu was interesting and they made a decadent Tiramsu shake that went straight from glass to artery lining in two or four mouthfulls. The crowning glory of the "Tomatoes" menu was the non-veg tandoor platter. It is to be seen to be believed and I will refrain from describing it so as to not disturb my vegetarian mostly celibate friends. Of course my veggie friends dabbled in such things like Cheese Tacos and grilled paneer and things like that. But even they gasped when a tandoor platter made its appearance and secretly wished they were never born Iyer. With a sad shrug they then quickly munched down on a piece of lifeless unemotional unpoetic babycorn.

Ah the Cafes. Hours I tell you. Hours were spend sipping brew and munching on cling-wrapped sandwiches lounging around on the orange sofas. There was a big bunch of us and few were the days when we were not at a nearby Barista or Coffee Day outlet sharing jokes and some excellent coffees. Or maybe the company just made us think the coffee was good. Soon we knew very cool facts like that the Barista at Vijay Char Rasta never had ice, or that the Coffee Day at Passport office always had less food than the one at Orchid building. As you can see even in the midst of so many people we were all individually porn-reading coffee-drinking anti-socials. Sometime in second year though our simple coffee drinking adventures were complicated by the arrival of Cafe Mocha in Ahmedabad. Cafe Mocha is to Coffee Day what Pamela Anderson is to Mamta Kulkarni. Infinitely better quality but still big big portions. We lounged more, drank coffee more, and went back to buying less toothpaste and soap to afford it. But Ahmedabad will be Ahmedabad and soon there was a waiting list of around 4 million people on the weekends. I miss Cafe Mocha though. I miss the coffees, the deserts and the awesome floor couches. And of course the celebrities. Once we saw Parthiv Patel there. He walked in, was served a cup of coffee and then promptly dropped it on the floor. As always happens to poor Parthiv it had bounced off a rough patch and was entirely not his fault

Sob. The cafes of Ahmedabad evoke many a nostalgic memory. Thankfully we were all shipped off to our respective workplaces and with the emergence of the salary and credit cards I embarked on an ongoing journey of culinary discovery… But Mumbai and its restaurants deserve a whole blog to itself…

Till then… sleep, work and eat well while I whip up a little post on Bade Miya et al...

Of rains and restaurants... Part 1

2005-08-01T16:55:00.000+05:30

It is another day of foreboding in Mumbai. It has been raining all night and as I wake up I first think my plans for breakfast at Basilico now looks very unlikely with the incessant showers. But a quick flip through the channels and one phone call from a friend later the situation prroves to be very grave. Hardly has the city bounced back from two days of madness and it seems like the streets are flooding again and people are being asked to stay indoors again. The city continues to receive plaudits from everyone from the PM downwards for its resilience and grit. But plaudits do not pump out the water in the roads or light the bulbs in Kalyan or Kalina. Thousands have no food, water or light.If it rains again today and the floods rise again we just might see the fabled resilience of the Mumbaikar wear out. What then?

Outside my windows visibility is a grey haze through the thick showers and I can see the colony of taxi drivers across the vacant plot behind my building. The rows of black and yellow cabs parked outside the buildings I guess means they wont be hitting the roads atleast for the time being. The authorities make interesting statements with the Police asking people to stay indoors while the airports say they are functioning and people can come. Jet has cancelled all its flights. Here we go again...

But I guess life must go on and so should my blog. I have been fairly busy over the last many weeks. Engrossed in a project so far, it is only this weekend that I can spend some time sitting at home doing nothing without fearing what Monday holds for me. So I was lazily leafing through an assortment of old newspapers lying around at home. Newspapers are queer things. They can accumulate for weeks in a corner of the kitchen or by the floor next to the armchair. Unread and uncared for. But alas not having a paper delivered at home even a single day is an unmentionable sin akin to not keeping your remote controls in plastic covers or, as my manager pointed out, wearing white tennis socks to a business meeting. (Under my trousers I mean…)

So there I was languidly strolling through a fortnight old copy of the Hindustan Times when I was forced to stop and smell the flowers at a column by the delectable Vir Sanghvi. He was talking of some of his favorite restaurants in Mumbai in yet another edition of his eponymous column Rude Food. But a few column inches through I was losing interest at an exponential rate as it was but a rehash of some of his excellent but old columns published recently in a compilation.

So my mind wandered and I figured if so many people paid to read him write of his favorite eateries why should not I feast my readers to a brief guided through the (and I love this phrase) restaurants of my life… So draw up your chairs, smoothen the napkins down the fronts of your shirt fronts and make sure you have an open excel sheet handy for the boss when he comes around…

Ironically the first real restaurant of my life (ROML) was Abdul Aziz Restaurant on the ground floor of my apartment building on Old Airport Road. Ironic not because it was a non-descript little mallu run place with a short menu and a shorter client list, but because for all the years I lived above and walked past it, I never ever ate there more than once or so. I really need to jog my memory to evoke images of the place. Let me see it had old creaky 70s style tables and chairs all topped with wood-stain Formica sheets. And lots of Lipton tea promotional materials. The yellow and red emblem was everywhere. On the walls, under the glass table where Abdul Aziz uncle hardly sat all day, and on the wooden box which held wax paper towels near the single wash basin. That box was special as the opening in the top was cut in the shape of the Lipton emblem. At that time it was popular in down-market restaurants all over Abu Dhabi and I always managed to skin my fingers while pulling out sheets.

Abdul Aziz was a short rotund man who looked exactly like the image "short rotund’ invokes in ones mind. He was a sweet friendly man who always offered me tea or some apples when I came back from school which I always refused like my mom told me to. He used tinted glass cutlery which made all his curries look the same and were either bottle green or a caramel brown. And so all his gravies, be it chicken, egg or the consolation mixed vegetables, all looked brownish green or well very very brown depending on what bowls he used. They all had a thin layer of oil on top and even though we lived in the building for some 15 years we never ever ordered a single dish from downstairs. Not that Abdul Aziz minded or we were embarrassed because of it. It was just the way it was. He was a family friend though. Once he celebrated the birthday of his son who was miles away in his village in Kerala. But he asked my parents to let me stand in for a little mock birthday party on the upstairs family section of Abdul Aziz restaurant. I cut an overly sweet cake and got a gift I do not remember except that it was covered with plain silver wrapping paper. We shifted out of that house a few years ago and then the building was demolished to make way for a new residential building. The grocery and used car shops came back but Abdul Aziz did not.

The first ROML where I frequently ate with family was the Emirates Casino restaurant. But have no allusions of Monte Carlo or even Macau mind you. It was probably named after the Casino Hotels in Thrissur and served North Indian, South Indian, Chinese and Rest of the World in Mallu style. Which means they found fascinating ways to infuse coconut into every dish on the menu. (But that still pales in comparison to the Kerala stall at Dilli Haat which serves an authentic malayali Fruit Beer… shudder…)

A close second was the Arab Udipi where my dad insisted we order the Veg Thalis. As kids we hated the dented to death steel plates and bowls. Except for the payasam which was the one limited dish on the menu, we abhorred all the sabjis. The Puris were oily, fried and perfect. But lasting memory to this day are two wall hangings which adorned the walls in the dinghy family section upstairs. (All the gulf Indian restaurants had family sections upstairs with bad lighting, bad air conditioning and Hillary-esque steep stairs.) One was of a dancer in Mohini Attam costume who at that pre-adolescent age appeared quite comely to me, and another was a completely irremarkable one of an elephant. It was just on top of the landing of the stairs and so I guess I just saw it too many times.

At this point I think the ROML took a radical turn with the discovery of Kentucky Fried Chicken and the world of fast food outlets and irresistible promotions. KFC continues to have a lasting impact on the life of the Vadukuts. My dad continues to use a faux leather laundry bag which we got in some promotion at KFC over 12 years ago or so. Crimson red with the face of the KFC mascot emblazoned on both sides it has become an irrevocable part of the family. A case of the laundry bag being more valuable than the laundry. (If there is such a saying…)

KFC and other fast food restaurant visits were inevitably rewards for good performances in exams and class tests and other ventures academic. At that young age such incentives were taken seriously. Unfortunately I was a decent student and this coupled with the incentive program made sure I was always obese, socially neglected and reverted to fast food for comfort. A first class vicious circle. With fries and coke. Till a few years ago we still had boxes of fast food chain toys at home. I still miss my clown faced calculator and chicken alarm clock. The calculator sang "Happy Birthday To You" every time you opened it. For a couple of days it was ok. Then it became a frigging pain in the ass. Every time I cheated on my maths homework the banshee screaming would start nullifying the very purpose of the bloody thing. But soon my younger brother devised a way of opening it without the evil ballad. I did well in maths. And got more cool stuff. Like the laundry bag.

Then of course are the ROML that were not your typical eating joints. Like a horrid restaurant in Bombay Airport that served chicken sandwiches that looked deceptively like bread rolls with filling but were so cold and hard that each bite momentarily drowned out the noise of planes landing, taking off and skidding off runways. But the sandwiches at some place called Swastik somewhere below a railway bridge in Santa Cruz were heavenly. Moist, light and spiced with a proprietary Swastik masala it was a revelation when I had it for the first time in Bombay. Once in Ahmedabad I came across a sandwich very similar to that but it had beetroot and beetroot has no business being in a sandwich. (Or in this universe… blech…)

By then I had grown older and I knew the difference between chopsuey and fengshui and learnt that you could not pack leftovers at a buffet. Albeit painfully. Engineering in Trichy was a plethora of many ROMLs. There was Cascade the coffee shop that was open twenty four hours a day and served only idlis for 16 of them. And of course Suvai where a friend was served a piping hot portion of Gulab Jamuns during one visit. Only thing was he had ordered for a Club Sandwich. But with both items having an "L" and a "U" so close to each other who can blame the waiter… Suvai though had an excellent Tandoor Platter which accounted for a large part of my pocket money. But I managed, like all engineering students, by controlling expenses on such frivolous things like toothpaste, soap and underwear. However I believe of late Suvai no longers lets people from my college partake of their excellent weekend dinner buffets. Apparently the term "eat all you can" was not applicable for engineering students for whom "can" meant gastro-intestinal collapse or complete extinction of the species that was used to make crumb-fried fish. Whichever came first.

Then followed the days of salaries, credit-cards and the intriguing eating outlets of Chennai. But there is such a term as too large a helping on a plate. So tune in soon to read the second portion of the ongoing adventures of the author and the Restaurants of his life...

All safe here...

2005-07-28T11:12:00.000+05:30

Dear people,

Me and my room mates are safe. I was not in Mumbai at all and due to some work pressure was in Gurgaon when the terrible rains hit Mumbai. There was a lot of turmoil with people missing, phone lines down and one of my roommates holed up overnight in his office. My flight to Mumbai was cancelled and have been holed up in Delhi for two days now...

Some near and dear ones were missing for some time. But all are safe and back at home or in a safe place. I hope all you guys are safe and if there is anyone who is still missing or untraceable or even need help of some kind leave a comment here. Who knows who may be reading this...

I know atleast one possible case of loss of life.

Keep the faith and lets hope the waters recede soon. If there is anyone out there who is running relief drives or anything and need help or volunteers please feel free to use the commenting function for notices... no harm in using all possible facilities...

In sha'allah
Sidin

Books I cannot write because of the places I have not visited...

2005-07-11T20:28:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

Yes I have not written anything for a long time. Yes I did let my work get to me. And yes I promise to do my best to keep the blog updated as much as I can. But if your reading I guess thanks is due for persisting. Trust me when I say not a day goes by without me thinking of writing a word or two. A million "just perfect" ideas for posts are now languising, if thoughts can languish and lie around unused, in numerous local train bogeys, many black and yellow cabs and both floors of Cafe Sundance behind Eros cinema.

I have been buying books again, especially after the month-end pay packets have started coming through. And my latest purchase was a most economical Ruskin Bond. His latest, Roads to Mussoorie, is a delightful appetiser of a book. Just a couple of Bandra-Wadala train trips long, it is nothing more than a collection of the man's ramblings about home, the hills. animals and even a ghost or two.

Just the sort of book that you read in one sitting, recommend to all the friends you know and then needles you to write a book of your own. After all its just a thrown together bunch of experiences with the narrowest of pretenses holding it all together. I would have loved to write it. I thought about it while flying from Bangalore to Mumbai last weekend, and decided I cannot. Ever.

Ruskin Bond writes of hill-stations and freezing early morning walks. He write of the noises outside his windows and the charming familiarity of a hill-station where you know everyone, has eaten at all their homes and noone minds being written about in books. And as much as I may try I have never experienced all those things. But now, after reading the book, I really want to.

I want to walk up and down twisting moutain roads covered up in thick woolens and never looking at anyone when I speak because I watch the fog from my mouth with glee. What it must feel like to walk for hours and find a tea shop miles from the nearest hillside home. You sit on a rickety old bench and sip cups of steaming tea. I must confess I have had a few cups of tea in Kodai and Ooty myself in the thick of a cool winter. The tea was too hot to taste and my blocked nose usually meant I thanked the chai-walla for three minutes of a warm sensation. Nothing more.

I remember a wonderful new year's eve in Kodai I spent with friends. Not Ruskinesque in the least though. None of the cheerful bonhomie of his Mussoorie or the sumptuousness of his misty morning breakfasts of bacons and hearty omelettes. But I did have my fair share of chilly mornings and mist rolling down the hills. Or up rather.

We lived in a dormitory a little away from Koker's Walk and one horridly cold morning I had to turn down a trek to Pillar Rock for fear of the cold and waking my asthma. So I sat on the doorstep of the dorm perched on the hill side. A few sips of soothing Honeybee later I was treated to a brilliant banket of mist that rolled up the hillside right past me in my two jackets and over the garish green roof of the dorm. So thick and rapid was the mist that I could see some of it seeping through a crack in one of the windows into the dark dormitory with its bunker beds and the mess a bunch of engineering college students seem to carry with them wherever they go.

But Mr. Bond has his leftover englishmen and their stories to narrate too. His schoolmasters and infidel husbands and their wives who jump of a cliff only to report for duty the next day as a ghost in the house down the corner. I met one marijuana pusher and one bible preacher in Kodai that year. I refused to partake both their services. The chilly pork and butter tea in the Tibetan restaurant will do fine thank you.

So as I leafed through page after page of his delightful narrative it occured how futile was my longing to write like Ruskin Bond. And I, likemost people do when they get thoughtful while reading on a plane, rested the open book on my knee and looked out the window. Mumbai shimmered under us in a sea of flickering lights with thick veins of yellow for the highways and main roads. For a few moments the scene was impressive. But as we descended I could make out the buses and the building and not just the lights themselves.

I checked to make sure I had my boarding pass to pass on to accounts. I closed the book and placed it in my bag and then braced for the landing. I thought of the roads of Mussoorie, the sharp clear air of the hills and the stories of old schools, postmen and the birds outside Mr. Ruskin Bond's window. I guess I could write about a lot of things.

But not of hill-stations.

More tomorrow people...

Swatting cyberflies...

2005-06-08T13:27:00.000+05:30

Picked up a Mumbai Mirror on the way to work today. I am now depressed. Will write on why soon of course...

By the way, I was going through some old comments. Some of you guys have opened my eyes. I have taken a terrible pledge to start responding actively to some of the comments. Lets see if we can take the interactivity on the blog to the next level.

Anyone wants to see snaps of my new home? Coming soon mon amis...

License to ... umm ... drive...

2005-06-08T11:06:00.000+05:30

Does anyone know a good driving school in Mumbai where I can get a driving license done quickly and reliably? Suddenly overcome by a need to get one done. Oh and how difficult is it to get one in Mumbai?

Sidin

Waiting for Harry...

2005-06-07T14:44:00.000+05:30

A few weekends ago I had the opportunity of watching Kya Kool Hai Hum with a bunch of friends. One thing that remains etched into my memory is the scene where Tushhar Kapoor drops a cigarette butt into his pants. However it was not that particular detail that caught my attention, rather it was the location of the scene itself. I had made no mistake, it was the Barista in Bandra where, merely the weekend before, I had spent two hours waiting for the Harry the broker. It was from there that I had began my epic journey to find a house in Mumbai. In hindsight I should have just done what Tusshar Kapoor did and opted for a lesser pain.

After three weeks of wearing the soles of my shoes and my patience thin in Mumbai I have finally found a 2 BHK in Wadala East with a nice view of an oil refinery belonging to a leading Indian petrochemicals major, with an abandoned warehouse nestling in lawns which were lush green sometime in the early 50s. As I was reclining in my recliner-cum-sofa-cum-bed (It was a sofa-cum-recliner till there was a horrible accident earlier that day and I sat on it where I was not supposed to) and enjoying this view last night, it dawned on me to distill my experiences to a concise list of bullet points to help the unwary house hunter in Mumbai. While this may not guarantee immediate accommodation, you may be able to avoid explaining management consulting and the word Kearney to a slightly tone-deaf 80-year old Parsi lady, as I had to, during my epic journeys.

1. So you have that FMCG job you always wanted? Or maybe it is that dream consulting company? Say goodbye to all that and sign up with ICICI bank right now. No matter what division and what job, join them and all the property brokers (and some of the matrimonial ones) will make a beeline to you. If that is not possible at least join one of the companies which has an ICICI in it. If you are in ICI just say your company name twice in rapid succession and it should work mostly. I got a home only because our office was just behind the ICICI building. There is something in the name that makes brokers go gaga and house owners go weak in the knees. For example:

House Owner: So tell me a little bit about yourself…
Hunter of house: I am a mallu who drinks at least four bottles of beer a day and have been known to play loud music at night and have a couple of maid and neighbour harassment lawsuits pending in the Mumbai and Bhubhaneswar High Courts. I work in a bank on weekdays.
House Owner: Which one?
Hunter of house: ICICI Bank…
House Owner: Excellent. You can move in on Sunday…
House owner to wife after hunter has left: What a nice boy no?

2. Were you one of those who laugh loudly when you read news stories of engineers who get posted in Bihar and then promptly get kidnapped and married to some landlord’s daughter? Well you can eat every single snigger now. That poor soul will be settled in a plush place in Pali Hill while you are still standing by the roadside in a dusty corner of Khar looking at a two room hovel and wondering why it needs a 5 lakh deposit. House-owners trust single men less than they do a strain of the Ebola virus. So call up your girlfriend and tell her things are moving faster than you thought and you need to tie the knot by 4 pm before you meet that society in Kalina at 4:30. If you don’t have a girlfriend make one in Mumbai now. I believe the Hiranandani’s have a lass in college.

3. If Murgh Malai or Shark Fin soup is your fave dish for a wholesome dinner then time for some CPR, or Culinary Process Reengineering. 99% percent of all house owners I saw are violent, rabid vegetarians who will kill to protect their vegetarianism. So before you go in for an interview with the house owner prepare your lines well. Avoid this:

House Owner: So what do you cook at home?
Severely Tanned Househunter: Oh rice, fish, chicken…
Whoosh!! Thud!! (Noise of 24-year old man flying out of house and falling on road.)

When ideally it should have been like this:

House Owner: So what do you cook at home?
Lightly Sweating Househunter Nearing Kill: Rice.
House Owner: And?
Lightly Sweating Househunter breathing down neck of prey: That’s it. Only rice.
House Owner: Alcohol?
Steadily drying Househunter with snigger of imminent success: Only in my shaving lotion.
House Owner: These are the keys, you can move in tonight
Triumphant Househunter mentally noting to have Sheesh Kebab and beer tonight to celebrate: Thank you.

This 3-mantra-model should help you easily locate a house in Mumbai and avoid the pain I had to go through for three weeks. Take them, understand them and adopt them. Make them a part of your life for a week. That comfy apartment in Bandra is just waiting for you.

Now that cigarette butt thing by Tusshar Kapoor did remind me of something else too which happened in engineering college. But then this is just not the place for that sort of story.

I see no rhymes...

2005-06-07T11:16:00.000+05:30

The view from my building is not as poetic as I would like it to be. There are no parks with trees and birds, no waves crashing against uncared for beaches and not even a local train station with all its turbulence. My house is perched on top of a hill, from where I can see some wasteland, an old abandoned warehousing building, and a pool of murky water. One of my friend told me that my area will be polluted a lot because these trucks keep coming to and from the oil refinery nearby. But I don’t think so at all. Maybe I am just too high in my 6th floor flat to notice the pollution.

One of the things I am upset about is that I don’t get a view of the refinery. It is on the other side of the building, and the wonderful old Parsi lady next door has a breathtaking view of the complex. By day I guess it is a hulking mass of pipelines and rust and smoke, and if she leaves her curtains open I guess she must think it is an eyesore. But by night it must be a sea of tiny lights, some arranged in long tall lines, where they are arranged on refinery towers and buildings, and some in random arrangements, as if thrown around by hand. I would have loved to have that view. I love that glow you get through the window at night when you have switched off all the lights but the city outside is still awake. Sometimes you can hear tiny sounds of buses and trucks. But in my flat all I hear is the sound of water hissing in the pipes and sometimes the screech of new people moving in and pushing their furniture along the floor.

There are four flats on my floor, but I have only spoken to the Parsi lady next door. One of the other two I think is unoccupied and the third is occupied by a Catholic family, the Noronhas. I have never spoken to them of course, the Parsi lady told me all this. She is the sort who makes you feel at home from the first time you talk to her. She was relieved to get a neighbour opposite her flat finally. I guess she is lonely from staying alone on the floor and having noone to be… umm… old-ladyish with.

She makes tea for me everyday in the morning, and while it was very sweet of her in the beginning I really don’t know now if I should ask her to stop. She makes cups of tea that have just the right amount of milk and her tea powder leaves a wonderfully spicy aftertaste. It reminds me of a school trip I did when I was in 8th class I think. We went to this tea estate somewhere in the Nilgiris and, like all of us used to do in school, I too wanted to buy something from my pocket money for my folks back home. We were served cups of tea made with the leaves from the estate and it was so invigorating that I immediately bought a bag for home.

My grandma refused to open the bag of tea immediately though. I hemmed and hawed with impatience. But she was adamant on opening it only after we were done with the already opened bag of Kannan Devan at home. I nursed the thought of heaving that garish silver and green bag of “company-made” tea over the fence many times. The impostor had no business impeding my “original-direct-from-estate-brew”. A few days later when I drank enough tea everyday to finally exhaust the bag, my grandma finally made a fresh brew from my tea pouch. And it tasted exactly like the Kannan Devan she made the day before. Maybe I was conned, maybe people can brew tea only one way.

But the lady next door makes her tea exactly how I tasted it all those years ago in the Nilgiris.

Out home is now a very respectable bachelor pad. We have a TV and a washing machine and a drying stand which is mostly festooned with multi-coloured underwear. The stand, with its proud embellishments, is currently stationed at one end of the living room. We don’t expect too many visitors right now. At least not ones who would mind our underwear.

Its been an exhausting couple of weeks settling down and furnishing the place up. It is too easy to go out buying small knicks and knacks when they cost so little. Four bucks for a vacuum hook, 20 bucks for a bunch of hangers. End of the week it all adds up to a bloody pile of cash. And its just the first week of this month. Salary seems so far away. But now I know where all the trains go, which platforms handle which lines and I even have a season ticket and pass. In a few weeks I should even know which station comes on which side of the train. Then I will be a complete commuter I guess. I guess that should be mighty satisfying. But then I come back home, draw apart the curtains and sit down to finish An Equal Music. And I look out and see nothing poetic. Nothing at all.

Home with a View!!!

2005-05-30T16:29:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

I am now a resident of Lloyds Estate * block flat No. *** in Vadala East. The journey for a home has ended. Many many thanks for all those who called in and gave me leads and contacts. I love you all...

Now I can sit in peace and blog... so till next time Ciao everyone...

Sidin

HELP!!!

2005-05-18T15:17:00.000+05:30

Desperately looking for a place to take on rent. 2 BHK types at a reasonable distance from Bandra Kurla Complex. If anyone out there knows anything PLEASE help!!!

Sidin
(p.s. Joined work on Monday... will blog soon...)

Time for a change perhaps?

2005-05-10T02:19:00.000+05:30

Am thinking of redesigning the site with possibly one of the other templates available in Blogger. Thoughts or tips anyone? Any usability thing I should probably include?

Sidin

Play it by the letters old boy...

2005-05-05T00:34:00.000+05:30

Fresh out of the first day first show of "Kingdom of Heaven", I can say I am impressed. By many things. For starters I find it nice they ran the movie with three people in the theatre out of which one guy came late, and the other I am sure was an employee posted to make sure I didn't do any of those things single men normally do when in dark rooms alone with movies. (Married men don't use dark rooms, they have "something important" that come up in the office just after everyone else has left. This is particularly prevalent among those who have laptops not subject to weekly IT team checkups. Sometimes this causes headaches when they go back home. Forcing their wives to subscribe to Cosmo. Which the men then smuggle to the office. It is a vicious circle.)

But onto more serious things, KOH is a good movie. Orlando Bloom actually pulled off the lead role well I thought. I don't know if it was the rugged costume and makeup or the strong double espresso I had before the movie, but he looked very unlike his roles in LOTR or Troy, both of which were very gay. Ridley Scott seems to have made a product which is classier than Gladiator, but I would be surprised if any Oscars happened this time. Just does not have that feel about it. But I enjoyed it thoroughly, even moreso because of the historical background to the story and a lack of the pretentiousness that made a hash of Alexander. Some excellent graphical work, and good performances by a majority of the cast. While the story and the sript seems very touchy in this day and age, the movie seems to pull it off well with minimal cliche or jingoism. The very fact that it was screened without controversy in the Middle East I think is proof enough. A good couple of hours of filmmaking. I think Ridley Scott has done ok. Or it could be the espresso.

I bought a cassette of clasical music today. Now before any of you start waving admonishing fingers at any perceived pseud behaviour, let me tell you that I enjoy a little bit of the symphony and all without really understanding much of it, or purporting to do so. Today I pocketed a nice little collection of bits from symphonies. I think it makes excellent accompaniment to a blogging session or some light reading. One of the things I want to be able to is identify atleast the famous bits of music when I listen to them. Beethoven, Mozart etc. And then maybe even learn to appreciate all of them a little bit. Right now its all a little bit frustrating really. I see that aftershave ad and I swear I've heard that bit of music somewhere. Which reminds of me a conversation I once had with a friend of mine:

Me: Dey!!! Whats that piece in the Old Spice ad?
Friend: The one with the surfboarder?
Me: yeah yeah
Friend: Tada tada tatata tada... (etc.)

He had a good memory for music. Pity we were chatting online then. Anyways the tape plays behind me as I write this and it is a soothing feeling let me tell you. Speaking of symphonies I can never forget a friend of mine who was burning a CD in a packed netcafe. He caused a minor uproar when he called out to an aquaintance a few computers away that he had just "completed Beethoven's Unfinished".

Back home my sister, yes the Gameboy whiz, rushes through lunch to watch Kkusum on cable. Kkusum I believe is a highly rated soap. I used to watch episodes of the Bold and the Beautiful when I was small. Everyone who had a crush on Caroline when they were in school say AYE!!! Ah those were the days. Before all the infighting and plot twists went awry. I finally gave up when some guy divorced and remarried so many times he became his own aunt at one point. Nowadays I only watch it when the episode guide says things like "intimate", "romance", "steamy" etc. Then you get to see small patches of lingerie before the camera moves behind a bookshelf.

Coming to think of it, its not so tough to make one of those soaps. I mean a sample episode would be so:

Scene 1: Phone rings, male character picks up, "Hello", "yes" Look of shock... "My God..."
Ad break
Scene 2: "Batao...kya hua Blossom Babykutty ko?"... (Rest of family gathers around phone...) Male character hangs up...
Ad break
Scene 3: "Blossom ko hospitalise kiya hua hai..." Mother character: "Nahi...!!!" Faints...
Ad break
Scene 4: They all go to hospital, rush to ICU, doctor walks up to male character... look of shock.. pause... end of episode...

The next week you can reveal that Blossom had an appendix problem that actually turned out to be an illegitimate child that looks a lot like the male character except that the child does not wear glasses or smoke. That should take it till 2008.

Though for all the turmoil and suspense in our desi soaps, nothing can match the phirangs in terms of character names. ALL the guys, every single one of them, have ultra cool names. Most of them are named after geographical formations, tools and other industrial supplies. Which muscle ripping young man would not want a stud name like Spanner, Drill or Crag?

Anyways the rest of today will be spent in trying to hammer out a short story thats been playing around in my head for sometime. An interesting little thing that should take a couple of days to rough draft atleast. On the professional side I will be booking into a hotel in Mumbai for around ten days from the 15th of May before I get my own acco. Need to find a place somewhere around BKC where the office is. Anyone with any leads to drop in an email.

Now off I go to complete a book about marvels of modern engineering. Has all the major feats of indutry and fabrication like the Brooklyn bridge and all. It doesn't have Micheal Jackson though.

Ciao people and take care.

Double Expresso, No Sugar

2005-05-03T14:24:00.000+05:30

Aloha people from the unusually unsunny and cool climes of the Middle East. The princely city of Abu Dhabi to be precise. Another few days of feeding and fattening before I hit the Mumbai roads two weeks from now. A terrible lot of things have happened since the last post by the way. I was witness to another spectacular feast at the local church, yet another laptop crash and reinstall and, to top it all of nicely, an exhilarating road trip from Mumbai to Chennai through "Oh I really want to retire here" Pune and "I will drop if I have another bite of Biryani" Hyderabad. The trip itself augurs many a traveloguish post. I dare say my adventures in Mumbai, a mere couple of hours after landing there, would make a rollicking little chapter in any book of historical blunders. Suffice to say, one cellphone was lost in a Mumbai taxi, and in an hour's time one call was made on that phone, on roaming, to my house in Mallu-land by a certain Inspector Mahabole in the Mumbai Crime Branch. The incident was not well received at home. The police have as much to do with the Vadukuts as Iraq has to do with WMDs. (By which I mean "nothing" for all you war-mongering types.)

I started off an a day-by-day, pint-by-pint description of the road-trip, but lost everything when the OS on my IBM crashed. I tried to revive it many many times, and even took it to a conclave of IBM service people. But there was only black smoke everywhere. So I had to reinstall everything. Voila!!! Sidin's Thinkpad the Second. And now my memory fails me in this old age and I don't remember enough of the trip to write posts on. And how old am I? A ripe old 26 as of the 30th of April... Yes people 3 days ago was yours truly's birthday and I celebrated it by filching out of my dad not just a new cellphone but a computer game thingie as well. But more on all that a little later...

On friday I was a passenger on one of the first Air India Express flights. I took the one out of Cochin to Abu Dhabi and the experience was mixed. I was thrilled at having saved a nice little packet on the ticket which I could use on something useful in Abu Dhabi like chocolates full of peanuts or a pair of jogging shoes or something. But all the while I was also scared they may try to reduce costs by cutting down on the number of wheels, wings or pilots based on some consultant's work. My fears were uncalled for, at least on that particular front. The flight had excellent security arrangments, and even had a pilot all the way from Boeing. The uniform for the cabin crew varied according to seniority. From "dignified dhinchak" for the senior staff to "pathetically pansy" for the underlings. The guy who served in my section of the plane wore a pink shirt over an orange turtle-neck something underneath. Both garments had numerous cheerful red-brown swoosh marks on them. And just in case they tried to de-pansy themselves with a coat, they were issued with screaming red overcoats, thus in one fell swoop doing away with the need for any sort of emergency lights in case of a landing at sea in pitch darkness.

All that said the crew were very courteous and the seats were not as bad as I was told to expect. Being one of robust girth I was secretly dreading the thought of spending the whole flight wedged between handrests with my bottom a few inches off the seat. But I was quite comfy in my aisle seat and had much fun watching the new crew learning the ropes and making a complete hash of the little flight safety demonstration thing they do while taxiing. Which is excellent timing. The ordinary passenger is just minutes away from take off and suddenly they are telling him what to do in case of a landing on water. But even the most pessimistic of passengers must have cracked up seeing the orange and pink crew member aggravate the situation further by wearing a yellow life jacket. I held my tongue while almost shouting for an encore. (More than one housewife was spotted choosing paint shades for the new children's room during the demo.)

Then they served a light meal. You know that moment in a horror movie when the transition occurs from nice, romantic and steamy intro sequence to random rapid fire appendectomies? That happened when the meal was served. In one moment of culinary madness they had made all that X-raying and frisking in the airport meaningless. The vada could easily knock out one man at 10 paces and an aloo bonda on a mad trajectory could pierce the aircraft fuselage before you could say "one cube of sambar please". I was looking at over 170 people being served potentially fatal weapons of destruction. Indeed it took me a little while to notice that what I thought was cleverly disguised sheets of kevlar was actually a cheese sandwich, at least at one point it was. I wore my seatbelt just in case dozens of mouths biting into the bondas and vadas led to turbulence. While I gathered my senses and chipped teeth, I made a small mental note to carry some food and a pair of Ray-bans the next time I flew. No sense in exposing my body to the food and uniforms.

But otherwise it was a pleasant flight and I hope the venture is a succesfull one. Once home I quickly went about securing the purchase of a cute little Samsung mobile phone and a Gameboy Advance Handheld game console. I was due a new mobile phone, but the computer game was a total whim. It was not easy to convince especially when the only other person who owns one in the family is a cousin younger than that grey pair of socks I have. But I have always have been a computer gaming freak and though I am terrible at them, I enjoy a good hour of gaming more than most things. (More than mos things that take an hour I mean...) So off I went and bought the machine and a couple of games including Max Payne!! Boy, games have become tougher than when I was in school. Back then Streetfighter was hot property and you were a master if you knew the special moves for all the characters. Today you cant even make your character throw a punch without tearing the webbing between your fingers.

Phew its been a tough couple of days trying to get past even the first few stages. But damn!!! it is a good machine and helps me forget the fact that I am 26 years old and will be working in two week's time. But my sister is already sizing up the machine for conquest. She is a whiz at these games. I dunno how I am ever to play these games they make nowadays. Sometimes I see nightmares where they make a game where you have to grow armies and then drive from village to village in Porsches killing Nazis and recovering flags. People out there pray for me to kill that guy with the big gun in level four. If only Max had a few "Air India Express" vadas and bondas... sigh...

Chalo all, and do keep reading and writing in...

Of black halwa and Wrestlemania 21...

2005-04-10T17:57:00.000+05:30

The deafening silence was but an interval while I got a job, got my degree, vacated my dorm room, said farewell to IIMA and trudged back to my little village in Kerala. Damn its been an overwhelmingly pacy two years hasn't it? And ever since those heady days last summer when my blog counter went ballistic I've had a brilliant time writing, getting emails and yes even filling in a few surveys on the side :)

Now I have a few weeks of peace till I join AT Kearney in Mumbai on the 16th of May. Its been a terrible few months especially since my last post. Its been just one big whirlwind of work, emails, CVs, companies, recruitments, press conferences, impossible deadlines and some unbelievable results. It was a relief to be back home doing nothing, but only for a while. Now I am just dying to get a rock hammer of my own and find a nice little poster to tunnel behind. The languour is exhausting.

There was a certain poetry to the way the pope passed away around convocation time at the Insti. Poetry at a personal level I mean. I am not a weekend churchgoer by any means but the news of the Pope slowly, inevitably, letting go of life did tug at strings somewhere. I guess its the lousy feeling when one of those things you took for granted all your life is now no longer a default parameter. And trust me it does not take long to institutionalise some things in your mind. Two years and BANG!!! off goes IIMA and a lifestyle and another thousand things I took for granted. Sob.

Enough melodrama. Back to malluland and what better way to continue writing than with a nice little home-grown post. I haven't been home this long for well over 4 years. And everytime I go through this weird mini-culture shock when I'm done changing and getting a good night's sleep. The local temple had its Pooram a few days ago. Every temple celebrates a Pooram once a year with special prayers and processions, elephants, hawkers and fireworks. The size of the spectacle depending on the largesse of the devotee community. The local temple is not the richest, and neither is the local populace that nourishes it, but they still manage three elephants and a fantastic percussion performance at night. I walk across to the temple with my brother, nodding to everyone who I think I recognise and anyone my brother talks to.

I have on and off been at home for the Pooram over the last many years, but it has not changed at all. The shops remains the same, the hawkers come every year, and VAT or no VAT, the prices seem to have increased only by a shade. But this time there are a few handicams here and there and many cellphones with cameras. I buy the usual quarter kilo of black halwa and a packet of puffed rice. The rice will never get eaten and, like old furniture and luggage, will be preserved in the storeroom till we run out of space or the next year we get more puffed rice at the Pooram.

The black halwa is one of my favourite sweets back home. Treacly sweet and dripping with oil, packing it and labelling it "Permanent Artery Lining" would not be off-mark by too much. I have put on a little bit of weight since Christmas and everyone tells me to exercise when they see me. When the "lose weight, you are very young" talk gets on my nerves I tell them about my job. Try telling a "coconut harvesting contractor" about strategy and management consulting. They walk away with a look of feigned understanding while I jiggle away, belly and double chin and all.

Nothing at the Pooram costs more than twenty ruppes. You cannot spend more than hundred rupees at the festival unless you do something stupid like buy enough black halwa to cardiac arest one of the elephants, all three of whom we just missed by a few minutes. Elephants have a way of making their presence felt even when they're gone. Big, dirty green and around the size of footballs they lay around till late evening when the courtyard is cleaned for the procession. Ironically that has an elephant too. And he is not holding back any.

Back home I buy an internet pack. The cyber silence is worse than starvation and dehydration. I install a dialer and tons of other crap and then finally find out that the server has crashed and won't be up till the next evening. I tell them they are an ISP and don't people have serious business to do on the net? Their call centre give me the names of a couple of other ISPs whose services are working. They could do with some consulting, I grin to myself.

It takes me two days and three more internet packs to get the net to work properly, but it is worth it. The connection is fast and there are many emails to read. I also notice that the site has crossed 200000 hits. Clap clap.

Since then I have been to a couple of weddings, zipped through the latest Arkady Renko novel by Martin Cruz Smith and fought over 30 times with my kid cousin who will let nothing but wrestling to be played on the TV at home. I try to change the tempo by playing out Jurassic Park 3 on the VCD player. The kid, who jumps for joy at the sight of Iron Cage matches and human beings being dropped head first onto steel furniture by a person called the Undertaker, is terrified at the sight of CGI dinosaurs. I have to pacify him by giving him a pillow he then uses to do mock bodyslams with.

In a way the dissonance is comforting. While I have gone from manufacturing to a website to now a consulting firm in Mumbai, home here remains the same. People still don't see why I took IIMA over the one in Kozhikode "just a bus ride away", chose a company they can't even pronounce over a Tata company, and then when they see what salaries people get there is a moment of awkward silence. I always say it is good to know that there are things that will remain the same, even if I don't.

Now I go back to my latest book by Tim Parks about Verona and football and random combinations of both. Hmm... I feel a little light today. A slice of black halwa should take care of that. Ciao all... and as long as there is only wrestling on the TV I should be writing a lot more.

My Autobiography: Part 1 - Birth to Class 1

2005-02-17T00:49:00.000+05:30

Birth and Lineage
I was born in the Sacred Heart Hospital in a place called Pullur in central Kerala, a few minutes away from my mother’s home in Irinjalakuda. I was born to Diliala and Sunny, a very happily married couple, the husband labouring away in the Middle East, and the wife a firebrand of a woman, full of ideas and imagination and art.

My father’s was a family of agriculturalists. Settled in the tiny little village of Pavaratty, they were a joint family for many years through my father’s childhood, till the mid 1960s when my grandfather and his brothers decided to split up and move into separate homes. I never got to know why they did that. The Vadukut Kottas have always come across to me as the highly accommodating, the more-is-the-merrier type of family. But I am guessing 21 mouths to feed got too much for some of the women, and some of the patriarchs were bestowed with gigantic egos.

There is a theory that my father’s family name, Vadukut, means people who came from the north, or “Vadukku” as north is called in Malayalam. There are family names that are derivatives of the other three directions as well. So that theory seems plausible. However there is no theory whatsoever why we are called the “Kottas”, which is a subdivision of the Vadukuts comprising of all my grandfathers and there progeny.

The Vadukut Kottas are a respected lot. Fairly affluent with atleast one member per household in the Persian Gulf, the Vadukut Kottas are well-liked and are a vibrant element of every village activity from politics to the annual tug of war competition at the local chapel. My father was the second of three children who were born to Thomas and Kochumariam, Thomas himself being the third of four brothers, the four who gave the family the name and prestige it has today. I do my best to not let them down completely.

My mother’s side has not one but many sagas embedded in their history. One of the downsides of having grown up almost my entire life in the Gulf is scant knowledge of these many sagas and their variants that are cooked up at every family function. All I know for sure is that my grandfather was a civil servant, a Block Development Officer, he ran away to Mumbai when he was a child, made his fortune there, and he was gravely wronged by his parents and siblings over property and such things. He had eight children, four boys and four girls, and my mother was second of eight and first of four. The Parambaths, as they are called, are a merry, raucous lot and the neighborhood rumbles at every family reunion.

After marriage my parents flew for the Persian Gulf where, from what old photographs tell me, they lived a merry life. My dad had hair like that tall bearded member of the BeeGees and my mother looked exactly like some of the heroines in Hindi movies of the “Mona Darling” period. They lived a simple, contented life. And then I happened.

I flew out to Abu Dhabi a few months after I was born with my mother. And I am being very honest when I say I was a nice, bouncy and cute kid. I have few memories of that period when life was merry and I was fed, burped and slept. I do have a grainy memory of things like getting my finger jammed in a door, dropping a plate and cutting my foot etc. I was a good little baby, quiet, well-behaved, and bestowed with an utter inability to crawl forward. One of our family friends nicknamed me reverse gear. The name, thankfully, did not stick. Everyone called me Sidin, no nicknames, pet names nothing. I guess you cannot shorten a five-letter two-syllable name even if you wanted to. As an aside, my name is a combination of my father’s name and my mother’s, at least in principle. It then went though some continuous improvement till they settled on Sidin. Which sounds like someone heavy slipping and falling, but it’s easy to remember and I have never met anyone else with a name like that.

Babyhood to Class 1
Soon I grew older and was quickly enrolled in Maryland Kindergarten, my first attempt at education. I have vague memories of hating going away from home, sitting in classrooms and of uniforms. The greatest challenge of course was not all that. It was how to find a water bottle that wouldn’t leak. For years hence I was always under this weird curse of never being able to own a water bottle that would not leak. And whenever I did possess one that did not leave my school bag smelling of orange juice concentrate, I lost it in the school bus or in the playground. I also remember the thrill of doing well in exams, the smell of clean classrooms, and oddly, the buzz of the air-conditioning. The hum of cooling equipment continues to soothe and comfort me to this day.

A rather messy memory was when I was slapped on the hand by a Hindi teacher, and the pencil point pierced into my palm. It was rather painful and I think my parents gave the teacher a mouthful. But ever since I never got as much an unkind glance from that villainous woman. You don’t mess around with the Parambath women and leave unscathed.

Nursery was a nice time I think. I was happy, did well in exams and things, lost a lot of lunch boxes, got beaten up a bit by teachers and at home, and never learnt to write the number eight properly. (I always wrote it with two circles on top of each other, a little space between them with a line bridging the gap.) I could not pronounce helicopter either. Nonetheless the days passed and soon I was in Kindergarten, wearing a new uniform, carrying school books, and generally being a big boy now. I kept putting on weight.

As an aside, I did watch a lot of television, especially local language programs. Even today if I sit and watch ten minutes of Arabic language programming it does me make me feel nostalgic. There were not too many English channels those days and I saw whatever I could in the evenings. Weirdly enough Dubai Channel 33 used to show Hindi movies on Friday evenings and I watched a lot of that. All that theory about picking languages when you’re young is wrong. I must have seen hundreds of Mithun and Amitabh pot boilers and I know as much Hindi as I know Madagascarian.

Kindergarten started off with me spending a few hours flabbergasted. I walked into Senior Kindergarten by mistake and it took the teacher a few hours to comprehend that I was acquainted with neither Jack nor Jill and had no clue to their water-fetching exploits. I was quickly shunted down to Junior KG and was relieved to be in the company of fellow food-fighters and Jack-and-Jill-ignorants. I quickly hit it off with Cheryl D’Souza who shared her toy camera with me, and Jibu Joseph who let me take a bite from his lunch box. Such were the foundations of my first friends.

Two years quickly flew by. I came last in class in Junior KG, but the teacher said I had potential. In Senior KG I did better, acted in the Christmas play, developed a skill for reading loudly and peed in my pants on stage once during a poetry recital competition.

It was around this time that my younger brother came into the family. Four years younger than me, he was a bundle of joy from day one, and though I have few memories of him as a child, I do remember spending many many hours playing and jumping on the furniture and giving my dad panic attacks. (My dad is quite particular about the way the house looks and the furniture, and the house plants. I and my brother are not. If it’s got a roof, a TV and a kitchen, its home as far as the both of us were concerned.)

Another life-changing event was my first encounter with books and reading. The flat next door went up in flames and my mother and I chipped in to kill the flames and help our neighbors salvage whatever they could. For my courage and assistance, and due to the fact that no one next door was reading it, I was given a copy of a lightly grilled encyclopedia to keep. That kicked off my passion for reading and buying and borrowing books. To this day I need to only walk within a hundred meters of a bookstore and I can feel my wallet begin to squirm in my jeans.

Armed with probably more than average esoteric knowledge, a good vocabulary and a well-corrected number eight I marched into Primary School and some of the most momentous years of my life in terms of discovering myself, the world and everything else.

My Calling...

2005-01-21T03:20:00.000+05:30

When I was around 6 years old I think, the apartment next to mine went up in flames. Not the big, loud flames you always see in the news but never in real life. No, rather the apartment just smouldered, there was a lot of smoke, but little heat, and even less commotion. At that age, the fire was a terrible dissapointment. Of course I went to school and told them how the flames were 10 feet tall, how there were people running around screaming and how the firemen needed my help to rescue 4 helpless babies. But deep in my heart I knew what had happened was as much a towering inferno as Arindam Chauduri is a film director.

But there was one positive outcome. During the post-fire debris cleaning out procedure I was given a half smouldered out encyclopedia. I dont remember which Encyclopedia it was, but I can still, to this day, smell the toasted-old-book scent it had from cover to cover, and the feel of the thick rough pages. It started a few pages before the Harappan civilization and ended a little after atomic energy. I was fascinated. I read and reread the book a hundred times. It was my first big, grown-up book and I loved it. My "Encyclopedia 65" was a thousand times more interesting than the "The Chicken Who Lived In A Pot", and "Brainless Benny and other Bedtime Stories" type things we got in school. (Talk about a chicken who was asking for it...)

Of course it also meant I knew a lot of stuff the other kids in school didn't know or care to. I was a nerd. But I also, for the first time in my life, knew what I wanted to become. When Mrs. Clark told us to write a paragraph on what we wanted to become when we grew up, I wrote without no hesitation, indeed with a flourish, that I wanted to become an archaeologist. Among the astronauts, firemen, doctors, football players and engineers, my archaeologist stood out like a Sunny Deol at a "Tasteful Dancers" convention. The pages of pictures of golden and ivory statues and dusty bearded men with paintbrushes bent over enticing treasures buried in the deserts and valleys had me in a spell. That was my first career crush.

The years passed, I grew up and was soon in a boarding school in a cozy little corner of Kerala run by priests. They were no ordinary priests. These guys played volleyball, composed music, painted wonderful pictures and let loose sermons that made your hair stand on end, and drove you to go out and make the world a better place. One day I woke up and knew I wanted to become a priest. It took me ten minutes to decide that I could live the devout life and embrace celibacy. (I have since vigorously and publicly shed the evil shackles of celibacy. To absolutely no effect.) That was my second calling in life.

That too did pass. I travelled back and forth between Indian and middle eastern shores. The mind wanders far and wide at that age. I wanted to become a professional Video Gamer, an Air Traffic Controller, a Special Forces Operative, briefly wanted to become Mohanlal and then finally mass media led me to my next moment of vocational epiphany.

A chef. I wanted to become a master of the culinary arts. I wanted to bake, broil, flambe, souffle, filet, and devil all kinds of soups and starters and deserts and stuff. In yet another departure from a normal upbringing I spent a LOT of time watching cookery shows. so many shows, at one point I thought I was putting on weight because of it. My favourite show was "Yan Can Cook". Yan was a master of all dishes chinese, but his special skill was in chopping and slicing. He was as smooth as a Lodha with a Birla will, and when it was required, he could chop up a whole basket of tomoatoes in a flash, faster than Mukesh can say "Brotherly Love". I especially loved the part when he whipped up a Chinese thingie and fed it to randomly picked members of the audience. Many nights I spent savoring dreams of fond fettucini, dreamy dimsum and superlative souffle. But then the entire "engineer or doctor or instant removal of name from ration card" happened.

The years flew away and as I graduated from engineering I was overwhelmed by a need to work in manufacturing. In nine months I was overwhelmed by a need to not. As I had mentioned poignantly in a previous post, that job required all the brains of a left elbow. (No offence to any of you in manufacturing and reading this. I do not mean to insult you, only reveal the potential hidden in just one of your many joints.) Then I worked for a B2B portal for a little while. I joined them 7 or 8 minutes after the dotcom industry crashed. It was a not a nice beginning. But I learnt to like the work. Whenever it came up once or twice a month. (The only people who had less work than me was a bunch in Customer Service.) Otherwise I read websites on cooking, archaeology and some very anti-celibacy type things. I got bored after a while and decided to do an MBA due to the sheer monotony. That and the need to nurture the leadership potential and analytical skills I inherently carried. (You never now when a recruiter is reading your blog.) So off I trotted down to Ahmedabad, and spent another two years discovering such important things like inserting headers and footers in word documents, how to say "creating customer value propositions" in public with a straight face, and how to hide large bottles in carry bags to look like study materials.

Its been a long and fascinating journey of self discovery. (And please dont read anything more into that sentence...) And now I sit with an email in my inbox saying I've been offered a job as an Associate Consultant with the inhouse consulting division of one of the country's largest business groups. I guess thats what I want to do in life. And I guess now I will never know if I would have unearthed lost cities, saved a hundred souls or invented an exotic dessert that would take the culinary world by storm. Yet I think I am happy. Lets see what this little journey has in store for me. And through my hours of interviews and preparation and moments of doubt, dissapointment and, ultimately, joy, I was always comforted by the many many wishes I received from all of you reading my blog. I am deeply indebted.

And onto more lighter things, CHAOS (http://www.iima-chaos.com) is happening on campus as we speak. I can hear the soulful melodies of Pt. Chaurasia's magic wafting into my room from across the road. If your down on campus, or will be soon, do drop in a line and I will be happy to take you around. Its a time for much mirth, timepass and loud music. IIMA is the place to be. So if your anywhere near Ahmedabad, drop everything and rush while the party lasts... And thats advice you don't need a consultant to tell you...

God bless all...

Wish me Luck!!!

2005-01-05T12:18:00.000+05:30

Peoples of the world,

The newspaper got three things wrong: my name age and rank. Now its become a joke on campus. So dont really fret over my rank too much.

But the real news is I am interviewing with Bain & Co. on Friday. And I REALLY REALLY REALLY want to make this happen. So all of you spare a moment and utter a prayer for me won't you... Been prepping really hard and enjoying it too. But a little bit of providence never hurts anyone... Till further news (which is good I hope...) adios and take care....

I get printed...!!!

2005-01-01T14:23:00.000+05:30

Hajaar cliched but well... got printed finally...
http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/articleshow/976703.cms

Sidin

Sorry peoples...

2004-12-29T12:26:00.000+05:30

Expect much by tomorrow... many many things happened in the interim... so please please forgive and see you all soon...

To B.E. or not to B.E.... part 1

2004-10-30T10:35:00.000+05:30

We have this course called Persuasive Communication. The prof really didn't want to offer it, but we talked him into it. During one of the PC classes, he mentioned how engineers always think and communicate logically. Which immediately set me thinking. A very stereotyped person is the poor engineer. Accused of moral and social weaknesses, material follies, and compromised ethics, the engineer is doomed the moment he steps into his first engineering drawing class. From that moment he has lost all chance of being accepted as a normal human being by his fellow non-engineer human beings.

It is quite a tragedy really. If a normal guy wears a pair of Hawaii slippers out on a weekend its comfortable chic. However let it out that he has a B.Tech degree and works for a software firm and his choice of footware is affrontery and irreverence. "They don't teach manners at engineering college..." grunts the Commerce graduate. Which is completely untrue. For example every engineer knows that a cigarette is never smoked alone in company, it is always passed. Nor will an engineer ever hog all the alcohol at a weekend drink-a-thon. Never. He always makes sure everyone gets enough. (especially the women, but there are reasons for this as we shall see...) I had a friend who was an expert bartender. The mere sight of a bottle of firewater and his mind would go into mix mode.

Me: Hey!!! Look an old partly drunk bottle of Old Cask lying in the bottle of the drawer. Good for the party?

Friend: (After come quick mathematics in his head...) That should be enough for 17 drinks of 60ml each with an allowance of 100 ml for spills...

Me: Its a party for only mallus...Friend: er... 4 drinks then.

(Yes yes I know no true engineer would leave booze lying around undrunk. They teach you that in first year. Unless you are a teetotaller. Teetoallers learnt how to seal all the cracks in your hostel room door and windows using newspaper.)

Indeed it is unfortunate that people do not appreciate the great computing power of the engineer. Many are the IT behemoths that run on the Indian engineer's intellect. Infosys, Wipro, Nasa and Desibaba just to name a few. Without him and his complete dedication to his work and his employer where would they be today. These and many other multinationals owe everything to him and his utter lack of social life.

But how can one have social skills if one is told from birth that one has to become an engineer and protect the family from endless ridicule and shame. One spends all his time between tuition centers and school and coaching classes that very soon society is but a sweaty mass to be avoided on local transport. When he goes to a book fair he is bought IIT guides and question banks. When he sees a movie he notices even Rajnikanth in "Padayappa" is a mechanical engineer. (Which reminds me of this good friend who had never read a normal book in his entire life until his dad bought him a classic by mistake. It took him two days before he noticed there were no formulae or questions at the end of each chapter. His dad was not happy to learn that he had got the title wrong and it was not "The Unbearable Lightness of B.E.-ing".)

Then there are those who accuse the poor engineer of promiscuity. Look, they say, all they do is watch porn. All they do is talk kinky. Have a heart people. Only a person who has gone through four years of mechanical engineering and such allied sciences knows what it means to be deprived. No this is not the deprivation of the non-vegetarian stuck in a Saravana Bhavan for life. No this is infinitely worse. Anything remotely comparable is the plight of the Thakur in Sholay who lost his wife and both arms. Indeed much mirth and celebration happened on the days when women were seen in and around the Mechanical Department. Entire academic proceedings once came to a standstill when a new textbook on fliud dynamics had a pretty lass on the cover. Oh yes we were quite active in trying to handle our deprivation. I distinctly remember the scoring sheet when paper contests were held in our department back then.

Technical Content: 10%

Presentation: 10%

Primary research: 10%

Sex of author: 70% + 40 million bonus points

It wasn't an easy life by any means. And after all the rat race was over we got recruited into multinational companies who offered us high career growth jobs. HR told us that we were lucky to join a firm that did so much to ensure our jobs were designed to fit our individual strengths and weakness and from the day we joined we would receive personal mentorship. This was told during our orientation programme which took place in a stadium so as to hold all the new recruits. It was a tough life. Employee of the month one day, laid off the other. And still no sign of a cance to propagate the species. Of course some of us decided enough was enough was enough and wrote GRE. For some even that did not work. A very close mate was rushing on his bike to his GRE centre in Chennai, almost out of time when a busfull of Ethiraj College women passed by. The poor fellow had not a chance.

And then there is Bschool with all the women. And boy was it a cultural shock.

"THEY study here?"

"Exchange women actually come here????"

"THEY WON'T EXPEL IF YOU GO TO THE GIRLS DORMS???"

"ALL THAT STUFF IS SHARED???.... YOU CAN COPY IT???..."

Blame culture shock I plead you. not the innocent ignorant technologist. In fact next time you spy an innocent engineer being lambasted for anti-social behaviour spare a thought for his past that has made him the substance abusing, hormone driven animal he is today. It just isnt his fault. It was all society fault. But also remember this. The earth will finally be inherited by the engineer. The man of science will indeed triumph over arts, commerce and such majors. (Except maybe physical education. Those guys are huge sometimes. So they're cool.) The brave technologist will indeed rewrite our future as we know it. (No seriously he will. All the novels you have read about the future isn't called chartered-accountancy-fiction is it?) Then the world will be a better place where people are happy, content, and have a lot of free porn.

The Ballad of the Sceptical Schoolboy

2004-10-28T14:03:00.000+05:30

Why do I have no beanstalk to climb
and no ogres wife to make my own
And alas I have roamed in every park
And yet found no sword embedded in stone

I used up every day of my summer break
looking for a hole in the little town dam
Not one little scratch not even a pinhole
which I can use my little finger to jam

Last July I went with Pa to the beach
and rubbed every bottle lying on the sand
Not one genie popped out in clouds of smoke
Not even a wish (not even fair Lucille's hand...)

I even made cousin Tom catch me a frog
and I kissed it when noone was looking
I should get a princess I thought to myself
Frog stayed put, and mom gave me a royal licking

Then last Sunday noon I hopped over to Lucille's
And I peeped through her bedroom pane
There she lay on her eiderdown bed, quite, still and ashen
The scene awoke the hero within and I leapt (the memory is pain...)

Alas she was not poisoned by an evil stepmother
Nor had she eaten poisoned fruit
Yet I kissed her full on her crimson lips
And as I did, in her room her father set foot.

He whipped my ass for a good half hour
and then he called my dad
Dad took me home and told me she was with fever
And he whipped me too, and dad whips bad

So I think, Sir, that these stories are all make-believe
there are no kings and princes, or goblins or gold,
I spent so long trying to make them true
But I know better now, I am ten years old!!!

So Sir, will you please read this letter of mine
And give me a light sabre sword this year
I have been good you know, (except for the kiss)
And my mom always says I am a son most dear

So I will wake up tomorrow morning early and bright
and hope you had forgotten my flaws
I will run down the stairs two at a time,
so do leave me a sword Santa Claus.

(In a moment of poetic abandon...)

Finally...

2004-10-26T10:23:00.000+05:30

People dont ask. It is summer internship all over Indian b school world and it is not a time for dilly-dallying or blogging. But after a month or so of devestating silence, here I go again.

The latest addition to my growing collection of books on food is one by Vir Sanghvi. I don't particularly like his brand of TV presentation. Its too conceited for my liking. Reminds me of a maths teacher I had in school. Never let his students get the upper hand.

"Now Mr. Vadukut what is the square root of 14641..?"
"121 sir..." (With as much flourish and panache as ash shorts and white shirt dirt-caked from recess football will allow...)
"Ahh... very good... and the cube root of 234665772883...?" (Thus obliterating every remnant of grin from my face...)

Nope I dont like Mr. Sanghvi on TV. But the printed word is a whole different ball game. The man is a genius when it comes to describing food. He conjures up images of food so lifelike, at one point I burped after a rather vivid mimeo on tandoori chicken. Mr. Sanghvi is so good he makes food I have never seen, heard or pronounced before taste marvelous. Like Foie Gras or Carpaccio. Personally I never knew such skill existed outside Penthouse Letters.

As anyone who has seen me in person will testify, I am not one to back from the sizeable meal. I relish a good spread and have had a few gastronomic adventures of my own. Though unlike Mr. Sanghvi, they are not particularly good ones to talk about. Like the time my uncle took to me to this aloo wada place in Mumbai. Somewhere near Santa Cruz we went to this totally local aloo wada shop. A place that made nothing but aloo wadas all day long. A big sweaty well-fed man (I abhor use of the f-word) squated in front of a gas fired stove lording over a humongous cast iron wok-type thing, not unlike the thing in which they shot Titanic. The vessel had 1.2 million litres of oil in which thousands of aloo wadas bobbed up and down in crispening synchronicity.

He knew my uncle well and nodded in recognition. My uncle nodded back, letting loose a flurry of salivary emanations. We were soon on our way home in his Omni van with a bag full of aloo wadas sitting pretty on the seat between us. Conversation was muted during that drive. The all-encompassing aroma of tenderly cooked potato enrobed in crispy luminescent yellow dough, everything covered in a sheen of aorta-clogging, heart-stopping, medical-insurance demanding cooking oil.

As soon as my grandmother doled out the wadas I devoured them at the rate of knots, as Ravi Shastri would say. Pick out a wada, rip it in two, carefully making sure there was an even distribution of dough and filling, smother in green chutney and pop into mouth. After more wadas than I can describe without nausea even today I retired to bed. I slept soundly till roughly around 3 in the morning. Then the burping started.

At lunch time the next day I was still burping so much my folks took me to a doctor. While initially I enjoyed the satisfaction of a good burp every few minutes, too much of anything is indeed bad for you. It drove me nuts. I couldn't speak a whole sentence without letting one rip. Soon I was seeing images of being featured on Ripley's and becoming an item in school. My belly, which was no chiseled marble block, as it is today, back then, swelled up so much my dad was afraid he'd have excess baggage trouble on the flight back to Abu Dhabi.

Thankfully the doc prescribed two chemists' worth of Gelusil and I was deflated and happy in no time. To this day I can not look at a plate of aloo wadas without evoking tremors of gastric effervescence within. Now would something like that ever get published? Even if I was rich and famous? I dont think so.

In fact my adventures with things culinary have been many. And many of those have been inane. If you have ever been to an upmarket restaurant with waiters who can't read the menu you know what I mean. And Trichy was full of them. My advice is to try something simple first and see if it registers. For example, see if you can get, say, a pineapple gateaux ordered with minimal sign language. If then you get served gulab jamuns, it’s adios to all hopes of having the fancy french and thai stuff.

Then there's plane food. Ugh. I like air travel. For all its idiocies, hassles, uncomfortable waiting chairs, bad food and under-whelming in-flight service, I like whizzing around once in a while. And being an NRI makes you a veteran of jet travel by the time your four years old. Indeed, by the time I was 10 I could convince the customs guy that the thing in the box was a large ash tray that looked like a VCR and not a VCR itself.

"Yes sir, it is an ash tray... that’s where the ash goes in sir... no sir...it does not play anything sir... we smoke a lot at home sir... entire packs at a time... yes even the children sir... oh look a 50 dirham note stuck to the side sir... yes you can sir... thank you sir... that way sir??... happy vacations to you too sir..."

Those were merry days before liberalisation and all. Now noone wants Brut deo, Nido milk powder, Cherry umbrellas, National Panasonic tape players, and Sharp torches. When your Ambassador car reached home they would unload the bags and boxes first, rush them indoors and devour them. Depending on who got what, the visitor from the gulf would get the room upstairs with fan and bed and nonstop power supply, or got dumped in the corner room with the only egg-laying chicken. Being an NRI was a lot tougher than you could imagine.

Air travel also brings out the worst in people. People are at their anti-social disestablishment worst when they have an air ticket in their hands. Take a perfectly well mannered, well brought up, educated, polite type person (or any random mallu in other words) and give him an air ticket and, boom, before you know it you have this fidgety, finicky, queue breaking, nitpicking, rule breaking animal. Raise your hands all of you who wait for the plane to come to a complete halt before standing up and taking your bags out. (Not as much a single little finger in sight...) or what about a quick "aye" from everyone who has never carried more than one piece of cabin baggage... And what about all those who have stolen a quick ogle at the stewardesses... (Just one arm per person will do thank you...)

Indeed I say the true test of a man is when he has to fly. Observe him and you will know what lies deep uder the polite and gentle facade. Of course there are some things which are just meant to infuriate you in a plane. If your well-built like I am, you should be well aware of the agonies of economy class travel. Tell me, whoever designs, these things, why is there one armrest between two people. Whats with that? On a long flight all it does is evoke this weird arm moving, jostling ritual fight for a few inches of plastic armrest. People refuse to go to the loo for hours on end to protect their hard earned limb space. (Of course here we need to thank nature we don’t get all cat or dog-like when it comes to designating personal space.)

But the food. Good lord the food they serve in airplanes. I could write a whole post on that. So I will. Adios and a thousand apologies again.

Many many apologies...

2004-10-16T12:08:00.000+05:30

Will be back in a day or two. Unwell.. and heavily loaded with work... summer internship season is pure madness...

Sidin

Poove Poli Poove...

2004-09-01T12:58:00.000+05:30

The olympics has to be one of the most depressing things I have ever seen. Late night TV session after late night TV session I have gone to bed feeling sourer than that generic Gujju lemon pickle they serve everywhere in Ahmedabad. Of course it would'nt have been that way if I was american or chinese. Oh those guys have nothing to crib about (except their president and facial indistinguishability in that order...). Is it too much to ask for a little more than one silver? So now everytime I have to scroll down the entire medals table till almost the very end to catch a glimpse of the motherland. Past such illustrious sporting nations as Latvia, the Dominican Republic, and of course the UAE. The combined population of these three countries being less the number of people missed out on the electoral roles during the recent Lok Sabha elections in the Mumbai South constituency. Dammit. (Some consultancy firm came up with a report that we will have atleast 10 Olympic Golds with us by 2040. Yes we will... if we host it or something...then we wil have the whole lot for sometime...)

So I content myself watching freestyle wrestling. At one point I was rooting for this hairy guy from Azerbaijan I think. I really cant tell the difference between all these consonant-y countries. Freestyle wrestling is very gay in parts. Which makes it really kinky when the women are having a go. Anyways that was another sport where we got blown out of contention within a few nanoseconds of our wrestlers hitting the mat. One Indian guy was down ten points in one minute or so. (In wrestling you need to do a lot of shit to get 10 points. Its not bridge ok...) The irony was that before the wrestling started our wrestlers vowed to put an end to all the beating our national pride was getting throughout the olympics. They were right. Now that we dont have any, noone can beat it up. Pity about Anju though, she just seemed to hiccup under the pressure. She looked all worked up and all. (No mallu senti here. Let me not start on where all those wrestlers hail from.)

Then there is that national game. Which reminds me, its a lot like our national bird and animal too no? Not too much of any of them around. If it weren't for Egypt we would've lost all our games. But we did beat Korea and come 6th in the end. You know we should have the option to change our national sport. It should be something we are good at. Right now I root for Double Trap Shooting.

Thank god there are Onam special Mohanlal reruns to quickly switch to when the athletics get too depressing. Onam is complete only with a few good reruns and a few family comedies in the evenings. Some of those Dileep comedies are unbelievably funny, a close second behind anything the state wing of the congress does.

Its good to be back home. I was getting a little too comfy with the wide roads, uninterrupted power and active phone lines of Ahmedabad. After more than a year of regularity the power cuts, voltage fluctuations and general lack of customer service was a reality check.

Me: Telephone Enquiry?

TE: Yes...Me: Jet Air Thrissur office number please...

TE: They have an office in Thrissur?

Me: I am not really sure, can you please check and tell me?

TE: First you be sure and then you find out... click...

Me: WTF?

The state is in real bad shape. Dont let all this "Gods own country" propaganda fool you. The state is as akin to things godly as the Paris Hilton video is to The Sound of Music. The newspapers are filled with stories of suicides and thievery and crime. If my local newspaper had so much sex, violence and masala by jove I would make sure I was literate...

There is this new found drive in me to write short stories. Ahmedabad and IIMA is getting too routine. I think I need to make up stuff now to keep all you voracious types busy. And I have seen enough mallu movies to fuel a lot of fictional thinking. If thou art mallu definitely watch this movie called Kalyanaraman, if thou art not get a mallu to see it and explain it to you. It is so funny it will make you pee in your pants. (Which is another compelling reason to wear the lungi and watch movies...)

And finally, we have a new Chief Minister. The old one resigned yesterday. I real can't tell you anything more. We lost power yesterday and havent been able to see a news bulletin since. The newspapers dont print non-crime anymore. But then on the bright side I didnt have to watch Trinidad and Tobago get more medals than us either.

Soon coming to a monitor near you...

2004-08-28T19:50:00.000+05:30

Armed with a brand new IBM R40e laptop. At home for Onam right now... so expect something soon.. in the meantime have a great Onam wherever all of you are...

And thanks for mailing in even when I dont reply so much as a peep...

Love you all.
Sidin