Somehow writing in broad daylight, with the world around steeped in normalcy, seems like a daunting task.
In the last few days, I -
..Was part of a school re-union - his, as part of the 'WAG' gang. Made me long for one of my own. I long to bask in the collective reminiscences of the women who were so much a part of my life then. My own memories don't do justice to my childhood.
..Sat around with some people from my team and my Boss, and drank. Like I have often said, sales is a combination of the three Ds - danda, dimaag and daaru, not necessarily in that order. Why daaru? It is an enabler to bonding, which leads to passion, without which Sales is not possible.
..Watched the three idiots. And liked it. And got excited over the fact that it was shot at B. And that I could recognize a few of the people in the frame as juniors. Liked Aamir Khan's acting - that man really tries and most often, succeeds.
..Partied the night away and decided that Eristoff is rather strong for my Absolut tastes.
..Flew to Delhi and realized that Delhi is less cold this year.
Saw some really awesome advertising for movies. Love, Sex and Dhoka - the 3-D eye that follows you from the hoarding. Sherlock Holmes - the cardboard house hoarding with doors and windows that open and shut. Neat. Is it a testimony to me being an engineer that I am fascinated by things that slide/click/turn precisely and exactly into their holes?
Maybe it is a testimony to me being a 'marketeer' that makes me so enthusiastic about searching for patterns in human behavior.
I had a brilliant 2009, one of the best ever. In retrospect, 2008 and 2009 feel like the years that changed the course of my life.
Leaping, frolicking, gushing with life
The spring raced its way down the mountain
Selecting paths at its whim and fancy
Taking along all who came
Not looking back for those who didn't
Motion being the motto if its existence
But one day the landscape changed
Greener, gentler, and still
Birds, wind and trees
The spring could now hear sounds
Other than just its own roaring rush
No longer racing against time, it fell to thinking
With a jerk, it realized that a spring it no longer was
Falling in love with the flora and fauna
Inside its vast waters, looking to it for sustainence
In love, most of all, with the bank that kept it company
Guiding it, defining course
And holding it in its protective embrace
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Beached
It finally so happened that I found myself in Goa. Ah, says the reader - this is a tale of debauchery.
Well, not really. It was due to a conference that I found myself in the vicinity of the white and sandy. Nevertheless, fun was had. To say that spirits were high would not be over-stating, in fact, quite the contrary.
The highlight of the whole thing had to be these two gentlemen making themselves available to give, what was meant to be - an inspirational talk and turned out to be, quite surprisingly, just that. These two were none other than - the man who lives by his ready wit and an eyesight powerful enough to spot a googly across 90 yards - 'HB' and the man who makes sincerity fashionable by being painfully so - 'AK'.
And cricket it was.
Off-late it has to be said that my proclivity to trust complete strangers has gone up quite a few notches. Tailors in dinghy corner shops, who hand over visiting cards saying - this is as good as any receipt, have never before met with a nod of perfect understanding for the modus operandi and a smile to ease things along. One can only hope that the artiste in question delivers the goods a week from now, that is, if the establishment does not get blown away first by an errant sea breeze.
On another slightly jarring note, I recently perused an article on workaholics with a mixture of mild amusement and not-so-mild indignation at the suggestion that they should seek medical help. Hah! As any workaholic worth his back-ache will tell you - Who me - a workaholic?
Also, if one were to list down all the things one should be seeing a therapist for, it would cause an outbreak of festive cheer and many a champagne uncorking in the offices of those remarkable mind-fixers.
And as we all know, champagne can kill. Goa comes to mind.
Well, not really. It was due to a conference that I found myself in the vicinity of the white and sandy. Nevertheless, fun was had. To say that spirits were high would not be over-stating, in fact, quite the contrary.
The highlight of the whole thing had to be these two gentlemen making themselves available to give, what was meant to be - an inspirational talk and turned out to be, quite surprisingly, just that. These two were none other than - the man who lives by his ready wit and an eyesight powerful enough to spot a googly across 90 yards - 'HB' and the man who makes sincerity fashionable by being painfully so - 'AK'.
And cricket it was.
Off-late it has to be said that my proclivity to trust complete strangers has gone up quite a few notches. Tailors in dinghy corner shops, who hand over visiting cards saying - this is as good as any receipt, have never before met with a nod of perfect understanding for the modus operandi and a smile to ease things along. One can only hope that the artiste in question delivers the goods a week from now, that is, if the establishment does not get blown away first by an errant sea breeze.
On another slightly jarring note, I recently perused an article on workaholics with a mixture of mild amusement and not-so-mild indignation at the suggestion that they should seek medical help. Hah! As any workaholic worth his back-ache will tell you - Who me - a workaholic?
Also, if one were to list down all the things one should be seeing a therapist for, it would cause an outbreak of festive cheer and many a champagne uncorking in the offices of those remarkable mind-fixers.
And as we all know, champagne can kill. Goa comes to mind.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Bluff-master
They met over Orkut
Funny way to meet
Carried on over facebook
Got intimate over Tweet
The first date was so-so
He was nervous as hell
She thought he was either shy or arrogant
First time, who can tell
But yes, there was a second
And many many more
They agreed they were different in ways
But the same at their very core
There were soon in courtship
And the city did comply
Beautiful walks and lovely dinners later
She gave an encouraging reply
Flowers were given
Teddy-bears and chocolates too
She showed them to her girl-friends
They drooled with many a Aah and many a Ooh
Undying love was professed
From both parties' side
No one must have ever felt this way before
Their love was like a tsunami in high tide
Their talks got serious
With each passing day
And the M-word crept into conversation
In an unobtrusive way
One day on their way back
From a play of no great caliber
They encountered in a dark alley
A suspicious bloke with what looked like a Sabre
He came at them menacingly
She shrieked her loudest best
And wildly turned her head to lover-boy
Who had fled from the spot with admirable zest
And so their story came to an end
A sorry finish I must say
Coz their love would have definitely endured
Had it not been tested this way
Funny way to meet
Carried on over facebook
Got intimate over Tweet
The first date was so-so
He was nervous as hell
She thought he was either shy or arrogant
First time, who can tell
But yes, there was a second
And many many more
They agreed they were different in ways
But the same at their very core
There were soon in courtship
And the city did comply
Beautiful walks and lovely dinners later
She gave an encouraging reply
Flowers were given
Teddy-bears and chocolates too
She showed them to her girl-friends
They drooled with many a Aah and many a Ooh
Undying love was professed
From both parties' side
No one must have ever felt this way before
Their love was like a tsunami in high tide
Their talks got serious
With each passing day
And the M-word crept into conversation
In an unobtrusive way
One day on their way back
From a play of no great caliber
They encountered in a dark alley
A suspicious bloke with what looked like a Sabre
He came at them menacingly
She shrieked her loudest best
And wildly turned her head to lover-boy
Who had fled from the spot with admirable zest
And so their story came to an end
A sorry finish I must say
Coz their love would have definitely endured
Had it not been tested this way
Saturday, November 07, 2009
A day in the life of..
So my week-days can undoubtedly be categorized into two parts - the days I go to office and the days I don't. And it's the days I don't which looked poised to contribute towards that first shade of grey on the (not-so) luxuriant mane.
Monday mornings dawn bright and full of promise. What do you know.
A quick bath, followed by throwing-on a pair of jeans so old, they probably remember the day I was born, and something on top that I reserve only for office-wear, given the fact that tank-tops, halter-necks, and other universally-acknowledged skimpy attire would not be met with appreciation, is more or less step-one. Then begins the long trudge to office.
While I must document here the fact that I live in what most people refer to as hep environs, my office is attached to the other end of that rainbow, with no proverbial pot of gold dangling from it. Now I have tried all sorts of routes to get there - and am pleased to say that after exhaustive research and on-ground experimentation, have zeroed-in on the optimum mode of transportation.
So I take the Bandra-Belapur bus that leaves every twenty minutes from Bandra station and deposits me at my destination a neat 90 minutes later. These 90 minutes are spent in relative luxury - a-listening to the radio, a-working on the laptop, or a-reading.
Office is absolute delight. Breakfast, my fifteen minutes of me-time, is followed by a karara cup of chai - the joy is enhanced by the fact that it is delivered by an amiable and industrious man, who would rather die than not oblige someone's heartfelt plea for that life-restoring beverage.
Work gets crazy after that, the phone never stops ringing, and the mails flood the mailbox tsunami-like. What I like, is that most of the people who I need to keep going back to for my daily bread like Jack-OCDingonwhetherdoorshutproperlyornot-Nicholson are situated on a couple of floors above or below.
Lunch is quick, unless there happens to be at the table, a certain mix of people, the coming together of whom, results in explosions. There are many things we Sales people are not, and aggressive is not one of them.
So the day melts into evening and suddenly the clock strikes 7 and I am left ruing the fact that even if I leave the premises that very instant, home will not be reached before good ol' 9. Nevertheless, such ruminations apart, the premises are left no sooner than a solid hour later, what with one thing and the other.
The journey back by train, is another epic one. Belapur to Wadala, Wadala to Bandra, and let me not forget the bhel at Wadala. There are few things in life, that would make one miss a near-empty train that is going expressly to where you want to get off, and said bhel is one of them. The actual taste is not much to write about, it is quite typical in its construct. It's the idea of it, the joy of looking forward to this little snack in the midst of a two-hour journey home; the alacrity and adroitness with which it is made, the sheer professionalism of never handing over the final product until completely satisfied with. Like a Bong would day - it is Bhel-made.
And then there are other post-coming-home benefits of being in town, which I shall not elaborate upon here, since they are not, my dears, for-public-consumption.
Monday mornings dawn bright and full of promise. What do you know.
A quick bath, followed by throwing-on a pair of jeans so old, they probably remember the day I was born, and something on top that I reserve only for office-wear, given the fact that tank-tops, halter-necks, and other universally-acknowledged skimpy attire would not be met with appreciation, is more or less step-one. Then begins the long trudge to office.
While I must document here the fact that I live in what most people refer to as hep environs, my office is attached to the other end of that rainbow, with no proverbial pot of gold dangling from it. Now I have tried all sorts of routes to get there - and am pleased to say that after exhaustive research and on-ground experimentation, have zeroed-in on the optimum mode of transportation.
So I take the Bandra-Belapur bus that leaves every twenty minutes from Bandra station and deposits me at my destination a neat 90 minutes later. These 90 minutes are spent in relative luxury - a-listening to the radio, a-working on the laptop, or a-reading.
Office is absolute delight. Breakfast, my fifteen minutes of me-time, is followed by a karara cup of chai - the joy is enhanced by the fact that it is delivered by an amiable and industrious man, who would rather die than not oblige someone's heartfelt plea for that life-restoring beverage.
Work gets crazy after that, the phone never stops ringing, and the mails flood the mailbox tsunami-like. What I like, is that most of the people who I need to keep going back to for my daily bread like Jack-OCDingonwhetherdoorshutproperlyornot-Nicholson are situated on a couple of floors above or below.
Lunch is quick, unless there happens to be at the table, a certain mix of people, the coming together of whom, results in explosions. There are many things we Sales people are not, and aggressive is not one of them.
So the day melts into evening and suddenly the clock strikes 7 and I am left ruing the fact that even if I leave the premises that very instant, home will not be reached before good ol' 9. Nevertheless, such ruminations apart, the premises are left no sooner than a solid hour later, what with one thing and the other.
The journey back by train, is another epic one. Belapur to Wadala, Wadala to Bandra, and let me not forget the bhel at Wadala. There are few things in life, that would make one miss a near-empty train that is going expressly to where you want to get off, and said bhel is one of them. The actual taste is not much to write about, it is quite typical in its construct. It's the idea of it, the joy of looking forward to this little snack in the midst of a two-hour journey home; the alacrity and adroitness with which it is made, the sheer professionalism of never handing over the final product until completely satisfied with. Like a Bong would day - it is Bhel-made.
And then there are other post-coming-home benefits of being in town, which I shall not elaborate upon here, since they are not, my dears, for-public-consumption.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
You strange foreign bird
Silence -
Has me in knots
How can it be
No agonizing question-marks?
No below-the-surface prickin-frickin' needles?
No existential WhoAmIs?
O wait, what is this I detect
Is this really..can it be true..no way!!
But it so does resemble..
Contentment.
A fleeting emotion, a visitor
Must be nice to it, the strange thing.
Has me in knots
How can it be
No agonizing question-marks?
No below-the-surface prickin-frickin' needles?
No existential WhoAmIs?
O wait, what is this I detect
Is this really..can it be true..no way!!
But it so does resemble..
Contentment.
A fleeting emotion, a visitor
Must be nice to it, the strange thing.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Lizards and their fancy degrees
Met a man on a flight. Small flight, all of forty-five minutes and we managed to discuss the herculean work-pressures of aircraft-controllers at Atlanta airport, and insidious ways of wiring the phone so that callers are met with an engaged tone, within those forty-five minutes. Make no mistake, most of it was led by him.
He was one of those old men, who travel the world, picking up languages (he knew fifteen!), acquaintances, and a way of chatting up strangers.
At one point, he said -
A lizard stuck on the ceiling probably thinks it is holding the roof up. You young mbas have the same weird notion of yourselves. You'll think the company would go kaput were you to take an off-day. So, stop being a lizard.
The moral of this story is that old men have character, confidence. Young men? Are like investments. A man at twenty-five has just started to be what he really will be. A man at fifty has lived and even his scars have stories to tell.
He was one of those old men, who travel the world, picking up languages (he knew fifteen!), acquaintances, and a way of chatting up strangers.
At one point, he said -
A lizard stuck on the ceiling probably thinks it is holding the roof up. You young mbas have the same weird notion of yourselves. You'll think the company would go kaput were you to take an off-day. So, stop being a lizard.
The moral of this story is that old men have character, confidence. Young men? Are like investments. A man at twenty-five has just started to be what he really will be. A man at fifty has lived and even his scars have stories to tell.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Gourmet or Glutton?
Cooking is a bit like art. First of all, you are creating something. And more importantly, no two people can end up making something that tastes exactly alike. You put a bit of yourself - your sense of proportion, what should go in first, what should go in at all.
Great cooks have an incomprehensible passion for their art. Unlike conventional art, it starts to pay well from early on if you take it up professionally. Everybody needs to eat, not everybody needs to read or buy a painting.
While artists in our midst are praised and encouraged, cooking is seen more as a hygiene skill for women and customer delight kinda thing for the men. (Today times are changing, and these extremities are moving towards each other, slowly but surely. Men at times, need to be able to cook to survive, and women don't.)
Art has an inessential quality about it. We don't really need it. Whereas food is - well, is fuel. That makes its preparation more mundane - one of the reasons why cooking misses the high-art train. Art has more of the snob-value.
Also, the body does not need art. Art is on a higher spiritual plane - catering to the mind, the soul, the spirit. Whereas cooking satiates that primal instinct of man - hunger. The paapi pet. Centuries of conditioning through spiritual and religious philosophies and texts have led us to believe that anything that provides corporal pleasure cannot be entirely free of sin. Few would sit in a gathering of socially accepted intellectuals and proclaim proudly to be a student of food and cooking, just for the sake of.
Exploring another aspect - a lot of people claim to be fond of eating, they have little interest in preparing it. Whereas, it has been seen that most ardent readers are also closet-writers. This divide between the host and parasite varies across art forms - depending perhaps on the degree of difficulty of the art form or how much fun it is.
I enjoy reading accounts of cooks, history of food and the like. Not that I have read a lot, just a couple of articles on Gayatri Devi's book and some stuff from Padmalakshmi. But I feel that in spite of fulfilling such a basic need, cooking hogs very little of our cultural mind-space.
So for all you great artists whose talent is as priceless as the cardamoms, cloves and chillies of the Malabar coasts - If food be the music of life, stir away!
Great cooks have an incomprehensible passion for their art. Unlike conventional art, it starts to pay well from early on if you take it up professionally. Everybody needs to eat, not everybody needs to read or buy a painting.
While artists in our midst are praised and encouraged, cooking is seen more as a hygiene skill for women and customer delight kinda thing for the men. (Today times are changing, and these extremities are moving towards each other, slowly but surely. Men at times, need to be able to cook to survive, and women don't.)
Art has an inessential quality about it. We don't really need it. Whereas food is - well, is fuel. That makes its preparation more mundane - one of the reasons why cooking misses the high-art train. Art has more of the snob-value.
Also, the body does not need art. Art is on a higher spiritual plane - catering to the mind, the soul, the spirit. Whereas cooking satiates that primal instinct of man - hunger. The paapi pet. Centuries of conditioning through spiritual and religious philosophies and texts have led us to believe that anything that provides corporal pleasure cannot be entirely free of sin. Few would sit in a gathering of socially accepted intellectuals and proclaim proudly to be a student of food and cooking, just for the sake of.
Exploring another aspect - a lot of people claim to be fond of eating, they have little interest in preparing it. Whereas, it has been seen that most ardent readers are also closet-writers. This divide between the host and parasite varies across art forms - depending perhaps on the degree of difficulty of the art form or how much fun it is.
I enjoy reading accounts of cooks, history of food and the like. Not that I have read a lot, just a couple of articles on Gayatri Devi's book and some stuff from Padmalakshmi. But I feel that in spite of fulfilling such a basic need, cooking hogs very little of our cultural mind-space.
So for all you great artists whose talent is as priceless as the cardamoms, cloves and chillies of the Malabar coasts - If food be the music of life, stir away!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
A song
When I shake my head
You give a toothy grin
When I wag my finger
You wiggle your pointy chin
When I glare at you
You turn around and shake your butt
When I turn away
You come and call me a crazy nut
Let me scream, and let me shout
That I am butter in your crazy mouth
I may rant and I may pout
And call you a miserable lout
But you just put me out
And-you-just-fuckin-put-me-out
You give a toothy grin
When I wag my finger
You wiggle your pointy chin
When I glare at you
You turn around and shake your butt
When I turn away
You come and call me a crazy nut
Let me scream, and let me shout
That I am butter in your crazy mouth
I may rant and I may pout
And call you a miserable lout
But you just put me out
And-you-just-fuckin-put-me-out
Sunday, October 11, 2009
South South East
The vacation was brilliant. Just what the doc had ordered. Ten days and I must have spent around ten minutes thinking about work. To add to the bliss, neither the laptop nor the phone were working for the larger part.
Thailand - don't claim to know it all. Delved into Bangkok and grazed past Pataya. Bangkok, with its many many many mega malls. I am quite the mall-rat you know. Asian food is also my thing. After making it through six weeks in China, the stir-fried noodles, Nasi Gorengs, Phad Thais etc sound heavenly and taste even better. The roads are terribly and inadequately narrow though and traffic is nightmarish in Bangkok - the worst I have ever seen, I, whose veins are hardened by the clogged up arteries of Mumbai.
One of the most striking things about Thailand - even good hotels there have scrapbooks for tourists with pictures, maps and details of places in and around they want to visit, and the last few pages of these scrapbooks are devoted to sex shows, nude beaches, places where you can get action of any and every variety, complete with pictures and addresses. Mammaries of Thigh-land.
Malaysia - is the ultimate multi-cultural hot-pot. Malays, Indians and Chinese form almost all of its population. Most of the Indians are Tamilians. There are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Christians and you can detect multi-racial notes in people - their features, their dressing. There are 'Happy Dipawali' signs everywhere and the newspapers talk about Beyonce's skimpily clad concert being a threat to culture and moral probity.
Kuala Lumpur is vast and sprawling. Roads, gardens, bridges, monorails, rapid transport system - all well planned out. The twin towers are grand. Could not go up as they were shut for maintenance work the day we were there.
We managed to catch a Tamil movie shooting in front of the national monument there. A dance sequence was being shot. The hero was tall and good looking, standing around watching the choreographers explain the steps to him. The choreographers had conjured up some crazy steps, same old ants-in-pants routine which looks ludicrous without the music but strangely normal with. The heroine was nowhere in sight. There was a smattering of Malays watching trying to imitate the steps. At first when the hero tried, he made mistakes and I thought to myself, just cause this idiot is better looking than the other people in the cast, he gets to be the hero. But then, they started the music and he switched on his expressions and the scene was transformed. Whereas earlier, it was pure technique I could have admired, now the entire scene came together as being paisa-vasool. He may not dance as well as the choreographers, or even the extras, may not act as well as some of the stalwart character artists, can not sing for nuts, has no talent for directing, writing, shooting, but he is the one people will pay to watch. The Hero.
Like Bangkok, there was only so much one could do in KL. We headed off to Langkawi, an island in the Andaman Sea for the next two days. And that was idyllic. The beaches were white, sandy and all of that, the waters were crystal and the people around few.
And then there was Genting. Enough cannot be said about Genting. We have all heard of white, sandy beaches and pristine waters, islands that inspire getaways and glossy catalogues. But have you heard of an entire town-ship that is indoors - complete with amusement parks, shopping boulevards, 'roadside' cafes, cinema theatres, casinos, restaurants and everything else that the average tourist can aspire for? Have you heard of hotels which have huge waiting areas, for the people who throng there every weekend and wait hours in line to get themselves checked-in? Waiting areas, with the same system of electronic numbering and counters being assigned to numbers, that is employed in banks and for railway bookings?
Genting was all that and we did some fun stuff there - like winning ten times over in Blackjack, or Pontoon like it is called there (although I did not put in any money, maybe next time I will), go-karting, boating, cable-car-riding and other normal touristy stuff. The thing I must mention here though is the free fall amusement park ride I took, where they elevate you first, let you hang in the air for some extremely anxious seconds and then let you dropppp! I must mention it because I took this ride against all instincts. I don't think am too fond of heights, as was clear from the rappelling experience earlier this year.
And then there was shopping. Ah. That the was the high-point. I got some good funda-clothes. Which means clothes which have a different funda to them. Also did some good clubbing, visited a couple of Hard Rock Cafes across. Managed to read alongside, watch a couple of seasons of Coupling and a few movies. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Starbucks. Starbucks is my happy place, it resonates with the ethos with which I want to live my life.
Nuff said. Now must get around to reading those 400 e-mails in my inbox.
Thailand - don't claim to know it all. Delved into Bangkok and grazed past Pataya. Bangkok, with its many many many mega malls. I am quite the mall-rat you know. Asian food is also my thing. After making it through six weeks in China, the stir-fried noodles, Nasi Gorengs, Phad Thais etc sound heavenly and taste even better. The roads are terribly and inadequately narrow though and traffic is nightmarish in Bangkok - the worst I have ever seen, I, whose veins are hardened by the clogged up arteries of Mumbai.
One of the most striking things about Thailand - even good hotels there have scrapbooks for tourists with pictures, maps and details of places in and around they want to visit, and the last few pages of these scrapbooks are devoted to sex shows, nude beaches, places where you can get action of any and every variety, complete with pictures and addresses. Mammaries of Thigh-land.
Malaysia - is the ultimate multi-cultural hot-pot. Malays, Indians and Chinese form almost all of its population. Most of the Indians are Tamilians. There are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Christians and you can detect multi-racial notes in people - their features, their dressing. There are 'Happy Dipawali' signs everywhere and the newspapers talk about Beyonce's skimpily clad concert being a threat to culture and moral probity.
Kuala Lumpur is vast and sprawling. Roads, gardens, bridges, monorails, rapid transport system - all well planned out. The twin towers are grand. Could not go up as they were shut for maintenance work the day we were there.
We managed to catch a Tamil movie shooting in front of the national monument there. A dance sequence was being shot. The hero was tall and good looking, standing around watching the choreographers explain the steps to him. The choreographers had conjured up some crazy steps, same old ants-in-pants routine which looks ludicrous without the music but strangely normal with. The heroine was nowhere in sight. There was a smattering of Malays watching trying to imitate the steps. At first when the hero tried, he made mistakes and I thought to myself, just cause this idiot is better looking than the other people in the cast, he gets to be the hero. But then, they started the music and he switched on his expressions and the scene was transformed. Whereas earlier, it was pure technique I could have admired, now the entire scene came together as being paisa-vasool. He may not dance as well as the choreographers, or even the extras, may not act as well as some of the stalwart character artists, can not sing for nuts, has no talent for directing, writing, shooting, but he is the one people will pay to watch. The Hero.
Like Bangkok, there was only so much one could do in KL. We headed off to Langkawi, an island in the Andaman Sea for the next two days. And that was idyllic. The beaches were white, sandy and all of that, the waters were crystal and the people around few.
And then there was Genting. Enough cannot be said about Genting. We have all heard of white, sandy beaches and pristine waters, islands that inspire getaways and glossy catalogues. But have you heard of an entire town-ship that is indoors - complete with amusement parks, shopping boulevards, 'roadside' cafes, cinema theatres, casinos, restaurants and everything else that the average tourist can aspire for? Have you heard of hotels which have huge waiting areas, for the people who throng there every weekend and wait hours in line to get themselves checked-in? Waiting areas, with the same system of electronic numbering and counters being assigned to numbers, that is employed in banks and for railway bookings?
Genting was all that and we did some fun stuff there - like winning ten times over in Blackjack, or Pontoon like it is called there (although I did not put in any money, maybe next time I will), go-karting, boating, cable-car-riding and other normal touristy stuff. The thing I must mention here though is the free fall amusement park ride I took, where they elevate you first, let you hang in the air for some extremely anxious seconds and then let you dropppp! I must mention it because I took this ride against all instincts. I don't think am too fond of heights, as was clear from the rappelling experience earlier this year.
And then there was shopping. Ah. That the was the high-point. I got some good funda-clothes. Which means clothes which have a different funda to them. Also did some good clubbing, visited a couple of Hard Rock Cafes across. Managed to read alongside, watch a couple of seasons of Coupling and a few movies. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Starbucks. Starbucks is my happy place, it resonates with the ethos with which I want to live my life.
Nuff said. Now must get around to reading those 400 e-mails in my inbox.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The train
He runs towards the train
With all his might and steam
As it starts pulling out slowly
He jumps over junta sleeping
Pushing ardent coolies away
They look at his flying form with contempt
Somebody pull the chain!
But nobody is looking at him
They would not care anyway
He sinks to the ground
And screams out aloud
Tears mingling with sweat
The train picks up speed
And disappears from his view..
..he was late - again
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wedding belles and cow bells
Rashmi got married. We went to the reception. A whole lot of us and it was great fun. I rediscovered the joys of hanging out with more than two people at a time.
It's always a little strange to see one's friends with their family. Even stranger to see them with in-laws. It's like Copernicus discovering that the Earth is not the center of the universe.
Some time back, on one of my travels, I chanced across a Cattle Bazaar. Yes, that means a congregation of folks who want to sell their cattle and folks who want to buy those cattle. There were around a hundred buffaloes there, with their owners sitting around them, waiting for bids. The most striking thing about the whole shindig was that these cattle were all done-up like they were going to dance at Kareena Kapoor's wedding. Their vast jello bodies had been covered in abeer of various colors, some had bells on their horns, some colored ribbons. Maybe Big Ben is right. The markets do look - bullish.
As I sit and write, I steal a glance at my deflated de-beaned bag. And I just cant hold it in anymore! People of the city of Bombay - have you never wondered about Bean Bags? Not actually about bean bags, but about these two words scrawled all over the city, with a phone number in tow? I have been around in Mumbai since the past thirteen years, and in almost all of those years, have seen these omnipresent signs at the least expected of places - on asbestos sheets at constructions sites, steel pipes, chipped walls that you pass from the inside of a train. How, why, what? Which surreptitious bean-bag store owner stalks the city post mid-night and makes the whole world his visiting card? Do these owners have secret associations? The Priory of Sion? (For non-mumbai junta, Sion is also a place in central mumbai).
Back to the wedding. Kavity looked resplendent in black. Lighter, much. Deepa-sans-hubby, was the only one who knew the pain of standing on stage with arc lights beaming and strangers - coming-grinning-shaking. (Although it must be said that the bride was more preening than pained). Jags, Shahrukh-esque, 'stole' stylishly flung around neck, was the star of the trip. Don't ask me why. Katrix, though a much-improved version as far as socializing with the female of the species is concerned, spent the day with both his feet inside his mouth. Tatha, at one point, turned to me and said - Good you are here, at least one other person beside me shall be boozing. I had to pick up my jaw from the floor post this shocking revelation. Mani, the lean-mean-case-writing-machine Mani. Also gym-going, daaru-drinking, laundi-aspiring Mani. VVB, quiet, quite.
Rashmi looked like she had the whole evening in the bag. She knew what to say, whom to say to, how to say. In her element, centerstage, beautiful, shimmering, glimmering, Mrs Rammohan. Dijo promised not to read that night.
Think marriage is not all that bad. My sidie am sure will rock the other side of that prickly fence too.
It's always a little strange to see one's friends with their family. Even stranger to see them with in-laws. It's like Copernicus discovering that the Earth is not the center of the universe.
Some time back, on one of my travels, I chanced across a Cattle Bazaar. Yes, that means a congregation of folks who want to sell their cattle and folks who want to buy those cattle. There were around a hundred buffaloes there, with their owners sitting around them, waiting for bids. The most striking thing about the whole shindig was that these cattle were all done-up like they were going to dance at Kareena Kapoor's wedding. Their vast jello bodies had been covered in abeer of various colors, some had bells on their horns, some colored ribbons. Maybe Big Ben is right. The markets do look - bullish.
As I sit and write, I steal a glance at my deflated de-beaned bag. And I just cant hold it in anymore! People of the city of Bombay - have you never wondered about Bean Bags? Not actually about bean bags, but about these two words scrawled all over the city, with a phone number in tow? I have been around in Mumbai since the past thirteen years, and in almost all of those years, have seen these omnipresent signs at the least expected of places - on asbestos sheets at constructions sites, steel pipes, chipped walls that you pass from the inside of a train. How, why, what? Which surreptitious bean-bag store owner stalks the city post mid-night and makes the whole world his visiting card? Do these owners have secret associations? The Priory of Sion? (For non-mumbai junta, Sion is also a place in central mumbai).
Back to the wedding. Kavity looked resplendent in black. Lighter, much. Deepa-sans-hubby, was the only one who knew the pain of standing on stage with arc lights beaming and strangers - coming-grinning-shaking. (Although it must be said that the bride was more preening than pained). Jags, Shahrukh-esque, 'stole' stylishly flung around neck, was the star of the trip. Don't ask me why. Katrix, though a much-improved version as far as socializing with the female of the species is concerned, spent the day with both his feet inside his mouth. Tatha, at one point, turned to me and said - Good you are here, at least one other person beside me shall be boozing. I had to pick up my jaw from the floor post this shocking revelation. Mani, the lean-mean-case-writing-machine Mani. Also gym-going, daaru-drinking, laundi-aspiring Mani. VVB, quiet, quite.
Rashmi looked like she had the whole evening in the bag. She knew what to say, whom to say to, how to say. In her element, centerstage, beautiful, shimmering, glimmering, Mrs Rammohan. Dijo promised not to read that night.
Think marriage is not all that bad. My sidie am sure will rock the other side of that prickly fence too.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Rock Star
Stoned and blurry-eyed
He looked at the pulsating crowds
Some were waving hands
Screaming his name
His guitar hung limp
Oozing blood
His hair stuck to his face
Beads of loftiness
He swayed back to his room
Unseeing of all the madness
His room felt like a silent scream
He turned on his heel
Floating on a cloud
Drugged into legend
Only his music living
He was the rock-star
He looked at the pulsating crowds
Some were waving hands
Screaming his name
His guitar hung limp
Oozing blood
His hair stuck to his face
Beads of loftiness
He swayed back to his room
Unseeing of all the madness
His room felt like a silent scream
He turned on his heel
Floating on a cloud
Drugged into legend
Only his music living
He was the rock-star
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Chronicles of an ASM
So as I stand in these godowns, I sometimes have these little out-of-body experiences, wherein my spirit floats outside of my body, hovering somewhere a couple of feet above my head and watching the proceedings with not a little amusement.
Here is how the scene looks - straight out of a Manmohan Desai flick – it has weird characters, extras and props. There are a couple of prosperous-looking (read well-endowed around the stomach region) men invariably in shabby clothing (in complete contrast to the prosperous image that the pot-belly arouses) - they are the dukaandaars - let me refer to them as mai-baap from now on. Then there is a sharply-dressed guy, in formals, who looks like an Income Tax officer conducting a raid. He surveys the godown with the eye of a hawk and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He is also playing the part of a tour-guide, displaying the attractions, rather ruins of an erstwhile shrine to his hapless boss - this guy is the Territory Sales Officer, in other words - the company's eyes, ears and bald pate on the field. Next there is a suspicious looking bloke in uniform - he is the sales equivalent of the 'aam aadmi'. He carries samples for new launches, takes orders for 150 products, manages to have around him some twenty odd sheets with various data tables detailing how much maal each dukaandaar on his beat took in which month, in what state of mental sobriety etc etc. He claims to his dying breath that he refers to these sheets. This guy is the Salesman, that epitome of hard-work, efficacy, intelligence, selling-skills, mathematical prowess that gets Levers its 14000 crore per annum revenue and him his Rs 7000 per month salary. And then there are the distributors - these mini-ambanis and birlas, the difference being that an Ambani has only his stern mother or political godfather to answer to, whereas these poor guys are pulled up to task more often than Ram Gopal Varma makes flop-busters. There are a few extras dotting the landscape too, for hauling-and-carrying purposes.
And the company boss, or the madam in this case. This girl, who, in happier circumstances, would not look out of place getting her nails done in an up-market salon on Carter road, instead paces around these shady holes – in basements or attics, drinking in all that they carry – sacks of flour, overpowering and enticingly sweet smell of jaggery, bags of green, blue, yellow detergent powder, stacks of green, blue, white, pink, yellow detergent cakes, drums of oil, sacks of masalas, battalions of mice. She counts the bags, pokes the stacks, and looks around with blood-shot eyes, shooting questions faster than quick-gun-murugan. That’s her role – to squirm the hell out of all around.
It’s a funny scene alright.
Here is how the scene looks - straight out of a Manmohan Desai flick – it has weird characters, extras and props. There are a couple of prosperous-looking (read well-endowed around the stomach region) men invariably in shabby clothing (in complete contrast to the prosperous image that the pot-belly arouses) - they are the dukaandaars - let me refer to them as mai-baap from now on. Then there is a sharply-dressed guy, in formals, who looks like an Income Tax officer conducting a raid. He surveys the godown with the eye of a hawk and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He is also playing the part of a tour-guide, displaying the attractions, rather ruins of an erstwhile shrine to his hapless boss - this guy is the Territory Sales Officer, in other words - the company's eyes, ears and bald pate on the field. Next there is a suspicious looking bloke in uniform - he is the sales equivalent of the 'aam aadmi'. He carries samples for new launches, takes orders for 150 products, manages to have around him some twenty odd sheets with various data tables detailing how much maal each dukaandaar on his beat took in which month, in what state of mental sobriety etc etc. He claims to his dying breath that he refers to these sheets. This guy is the Salesman, that epitome of hard-work, efficacy, intelligence, selling-skills, mathematical prowess that gets Levers its 14000 crore per annum revenue and him his Rs 7000 per month salary. And then there are the distributors - these mini-ambanis and birlas, the difference being that an Ambani has only his stern mother or political godfather to answer to, whereas these poor guys are pulled up to task more often than Ram Gopal Varma makes flop-busters. There are a few extras dotting the landscape too, for hauling-and-carrying purposes.
And the company boss, or the madam in this case. This girl, who, in happier circumstances, would not look out of place getting her nails done in an up-market salon on Carter road, instead paces around these shady holes – in basements or attics, drinking in all that they carry – sacks of flour, overpowering and enticingly sweet smell of jaggery, bags of green, blue, yellow detergent powder, stacks of green, blue, white, pink, yellow detergent cakes, drums of oil, sacks of masalas, battalions of mice. She counts the bags, pokes the stacks, and looks around with blood-shot eyes, shooting questions faster than quick-gun-murugan. That’s her role – to squirm the hell out of all around.
It’s a funny scene alright.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Inspired
As day moves into week, week into months, I realize that many many things are going unsaid. While a whole lot that has never been said before is being painted in scarlett letters across the evening sky.
I vacillate between trying to be good and trying hard to not be all good. The goodness in me prevents me from succumbing whole-ly to it, because nothing ever is, all good. Selfishness keeps us sane.
There's a balance to be striven towards. Life is about balance. You need to get the scales to be carrying just the right quantities of love, hatred, belief, cynicism, naivete, worldliness, individuality, collectivism, poetry, practicality, defiance, submissivity, objectivity, subjectivity, indifference, compassion, the yin, the yang to reach that point of absolute perfection.
And yet, they never will. For, what's the point of living then?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Twenty-Seven
The fool bumbles along
Falling into ditches galore
Dusts self off and sets out again
Singing a happy tune
Songs of friendship
Love and great riches that await
The promise makes the going
More exciting than the reward
He meets travelers
Who have buried their boots
Their cauldrons simmer
Granaries full of grain
He looks wistfully at them
At times, wanting a full meal
And the assurance of one all winter
But the stars twinkle-ingly beckon
Everyday is an adventure
Though he knows not where he is going
But he is the fool
And he can do as he pleases
Falling into ditches galore
Dusts self off and sets out again
Singing a happy tune
Songs of friendship
Love and great riches that await
The promise makes the going
More exciting than the reward
He meets travelers
Who have buried their boots
Their cauldrons simmer
Granaries full of grain
He looks wistfully at them
At times, wanting a full meal
And the assurance of one all winter
But the stars twinkle-ingly beckon
Everyday is an adventure
Though he knows not where he is going
But he is the fool
And he can do as he pleases
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A full ton
Read Smart Alec's blog today where she writes about it turning 50. This is my 100th post, in over three years. Not Sterling by any standards, except maybe Smart Alec's.
But let me not put any more pressure on this just-born-post by going on and on about it making that turn of the century. Let me just - write. Let this post be a mosaic of all these wispy thoughts that are flying around in my head.
Sometime back, I stumbled across a cracker of an idea - THE EXIT ROOM. A getaway. Every relationship must have one. It is to be noted that it is a 'room' I suggest, not a retreat or a farmhouse in the country, a villa in France, or a cabin in the woods. Point being, it must be a hop, skip and jump away. Your oasis.
Having spoken about wispy thoughts, they are getting wispier by the second. Getting increasingly difficult to pin them down. How can it be that I have nothing worth blogging about. Writer's block? Mid-life crisis? Ahem, let us not dwell too long on the latter.
Luxury. We all have different definitions for it. For me, luxury is functional. Non-indulgent. I would not appreciate monogrammed pillow cases. But somebody to do my taxes would be put on an engraved pedestal and fed grapes.
Mumbai is having a swim-athon. I dont like the rains, at least not when I am caught in them. I refuse to carry an umbrella. Who wants to go armoured against something as depressing as the skies howling their eyes out. I'd much rather go out in denial of their existence.
A member of my team recently resigned. He is getting a much better pay-package at some other company. He called to inform me and I was quite speechless. Not out of shock, but out of a genuine lack of anything to say. On a slightly different note, I call my line manager - Boss. It feels just awesome. To be part of that culture where he tells me - Shreya, you must really hump your people if they dont perform. And I say, Yes Boss, I will.
But let me not put any more pressure on this just-born-post by going on and on about it making that turn of the century. Let me just - write. Let this post be a mosaic of all these wispy thoughts that are flying around in my head.
Sometime back, I stumbled across a cracker of an idea - THE EXIT ROOM. A getaway. Every relationship must have one. It is to be noted that it is a 'room' I suggest, not a retreat or a farmhouse in the country, a villa in France, or a cabin in the woods. Point being, it must be a hop, skip and jump away. Your oasis.
Having spoken about wispy thoughts, they are getting wispier by the second. Getting increasingly difficult to pin them down. How can it be that I have nothing worth blogging about. Writer's block? Mid-life crisis? Ahem, let us not dwell too long on the latter.
Luxury. We all have different definitions for it. For me, luxury is functional. Non-indulgent. I would not appreciate monogrammed pillow cases. But somebody to do my taxes would be put on an engraved pedestal and fed grapes.
Mumbai is having a swim-athon. I dont like the rains, at least not when I am caught in them. I refuse to carry an umbrella. Who wants to go armoured against something as depressing as the skies howling their eyes out. I'd much rather go out in denial of their existence.
A member of my team recently resigned. He is getting a much better pay-package at some other company. He called to inform me and I was quite speechless. Not out of shock, but out of a genuine lack of anything to say. On a slightly different note, I call my line manager - Boss. It feels just awesome. To be part of that culture where he tells me - Shreya, you must really hump your people if they dont perform. And I say, Yes Boss, I will.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Tambakoo
Some things in life are simple.
The other day in Satana, which is a town somewhere near Dhulia - if you know where that is, I learnt that the government had made it mandatory to put pictures of cancerous crabs on local zarda. Which had resulted in a 50% decline in sales.
Wow. That's cause and effect. As simple as it gets.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Pain and Prada
I like Carrie from Sex and the City. That is one honest character. In all her relationships, she has never shied away from asking questions. Even potentially dangerous ones, which could leave her out in the dry.
I admire that kind of honesty. Most people struggle to get that honest with themselves, let alone others.
Why is it so that we so love to live in denial. Why is it so difficult to accept that our lives will have some troubles, that it will not be as picture-perfect as the Swiss Alps.
We need to come to terms with the fact that sometimes happiness does not fall out of the sky. Like marble has to be chiselled to be made into a 'David', life has to be worked upon.
No pain, no gain. Pain is the single most important constant of our lives. It's an indicator of the love we feel, of the effort we make, of the heights we rise to. It is at the center of all human existence.
I admire that kind of honesty. Most people struggle to get that honest with themselves, let alone others.
Why is it so that we so love to live in denial. Why is it so difficult to accept that our lives will have some troubles, that it will not be as picture-perfect as the Swiss Alps.
We need to come to terms with the fact that sometimes happiness does not fall out of the sky. Like marble has to be chiselled to be made into a 'David', life has to be worked upon.
No pain, no gain. Pain is the single most important constant of our lives. It's an indicator of the love we feel, of the effort we make, of the heights we rise to. It is at the center of all human existence.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Back-pack and a road-map
I don't know what it is with traveling and me. One of those infamous love-hate relationships. I have traveled more than most people I know. Have lived in numerous cities, had homes in four. Traveled eighteen countries and over forty cities in Europe. Been to the far east - the land of the stinky food and chinky people. In the last year itself, have been to more than seventy cities, towns and villages in India. And I love it. I love my job and my life.
Yet, yet. Most of this is not the kind of traveling that sets my pulse racing. I dont like going to places for four days, blurring past all the hot-spots, leaving with a lot less money and a zillion photographs in my touristy bag. I dont like squeezing out time from sardines-in-a-can like day to clock in some moments as a wander-lusty tourist, laptop firmly in bag.
Traveling isn't a morning-evening journey. It isnt going to the famous Lucknawi chikan market on the way back to the airport and buying half the shop in a tizzy of excitement to carry gifts home. It isnt staying in the best hotel in Gorakhpur with toilet paper, but being too fatigued to get the ayurvedic massage in Varanasi. It isnt disembarking on the red-earth of Chiplun at 5 in the morning, having the best haafuz and pomfret that coastal Ratnagiri has to offer and then throwing-up after four hours of non-stop travel on those serpentine roads of the ghats. It isnt visiting a Sericulture farm in Kolar in between village visits, watching the moth and the female mate, after which the female gives birth and dies and the males are recycled. It isnt having the best filter coffee ever at T-nagar in Chennai in between gruelling interviews, or spending some now-missed idle moments at one of the beaches of toy-town Pondicherry in the midst of that one-week schedule packed with assembly lines, pack mats, gigantic distillation chambers and safety boots. It isnt having sweet bengali rasmalai at a dhaba on the road between sultry Kolkata and buzzing Burdhawan.
None of this is travel. Or atleast not the kind of travel that I can say I have a passion for. What is it then?
Traveling is - when you have a sense of timelessness. When you can get up at 4 in the morning and watch the sun rise, come back and sleep till noon. When you stroll aimlessly in whichever direction the wind takes you in, spend the day being a spectator, and come back with a sense of accomplishment. When you take the same buses and trams that locals take. When you shop at the same markets that they shop at. When you hang out at the same joints. You do visit the famous places, but you also revisit. You want them to become a part of you, you don't want to leave with just photopgraphs, you want to leave with memories - you want to leave the Eiffel with memories, of your visit.
But maybe I am wrong and need to get my priorities right. It is not about squeezing in a coffee when the flight is delayed at the airport in Kolhapur, but about squeezing in some work while primarily on a visit to the Ajanta-Ellora after having spent a couple of fully-paid-for-by-company days at the awesome Taj, Aurangabad.
Yet, yet. Most of this is not the kind of traveling that sets my pulse racing. I dont like going to places for four days, blurring past all the hot-spots, leaving with a lot less money and a zillion photographs in my touristy bag. I dont like squeezing out time from sardines-in-a-can like day to clock in some moments as a wander-lusty tourist, laptop firmly in bag.
Traveling isn't a morning-evening journey. It isnt going to the famous Lucknawi chikan market on the way back to the airport and buying half the shop in a tizzy of excitement to carry gifts home. It isnt staying in the best hotel in Gorakhpur with toilet paper, but being too fatigued to get the ayurvedic massage in Varanasi. It isnt disembarking on the red-earth of Chiplun at 5 in the morning, having the best haafuz and pomfret that coastal Ratnagiri has to offer and then throwing-up after four hours of non-stop travel on those serpentine roads of the ghats. It isnt visiting a Sericulture farm in Kolar in between village visits, watching the moth and the female mate, after which the female gives birth and dies and the males are recycled. It isnt having the best filter coffee ever at T-nagar in Chennai in between gruelling interviews, or spending some now-missed idle moments at one of the beaches of toy-town Pondicherry in the midst of that one-week schedule packed with assembly lines, pack mats, gigantic distillation chambers and safety boots. It isnt having sweet bengali rasmalai at a dhaba on the road between sultry Kolkata and buzzing Burdhawan.
None of this is travel. Or atleast not the kind of travel that I can say I have a passion for. What is it then?
Traveling is - when you have a sense of timelessness. When you can get up at 4 in the morning and watch the sun rise, come back and sleep till noon. When you stroll aimlessly in whichever direction the wind takes you in, spend the day being a spectator, and come back with a sense of accomplishment. When you take the same buses and trams that locals take. When you shop at the same markets that they shop at. When you hang out at the same joints. You do visit the famous places, but you also revisit. You want them to become a part of you, you don't want to leave with just photopgraphs, you want to leave with memories - you want to leave the Eiffel with memories, of your visit.
But maybe I am wrong and need to get my priorities right. It is not about squeezing in a coffee when the flight is delayed at the airport in Kolhapur, but about squeezing in some work while primarily on a visit to the Ajanta-Ellora after having spent a couple of fully-paid-for-by-company days at the awesome Taj, Aurangabad.
Friday, June 26, 2009
White Hot
The sea was as calm as ever. More importantly, she was calm - it always had that effect on her.
Such an endless expanse of blue-green, a little scary at times. But she had grown up with it, seen it turn within a span of 10 years into less of the blue-green and more of the black-brown that this city is so famous for.
Why only this city, why blame only this city. Isnt that the way of life? A baby - pure as untainted snow, a water-cress lily. The entire transformative journey into adulthood and beyond is paved by dark encounters with this degenerate world. Any aberation is just that - an aberation.
She wondered - was life meant to be this difficult? Is that what the challenge of it was? Would we be just cardboard cut-outs of the Brady family if things were any different? Would she mind?
The waves made these swooshing noises. And some spraying noises. She could feel the salt on her face. It stung. Especially at the places where her wounds were still healing.
But the scars inside ran far deeper and were dangerous, as dangerous as righteousness. Righteousness gives us a special kind of anger, that seethes and seethes, sending out little sparks before engulfing all that comes in its way.
The scenes kept coming back to her. The smell of charred human flesh filled her dreams. Her anger was white-hot.
Such an endless expanse of blue-green, a little scary at times. But she had grown up with it, seen it turn within a span of 10 years into less of the blue-green and more of the black-brown that this city is so famous for.
Why only this city, why blame only this city. Isnt that the way of life? A baby - pure as untainted snow, a water-cress lily. The entire transformative journey into adulthood and beyond is paved by dark encounters with this degenerate world. Any aberation is just that - an aberation.
She wondered - was life meant to be this difficult? Is that what the challenge of it was? Would we be just cardboard cut-outs of the Brady family if things were any different? Would she mind?
The waves made these swooshing noises. And some spraying noises. She could feel the salt on her face. It stung. Especially at the places where her wounds were still healing.
But the scars inside ran far deeper and were dangerous, as dangerous as righteousness. Righteousness gives us a special kind of anger, that seethes and seethes, sending out little sparks before engulfing all that comes in its way.
The scenes kept coming back to her. The smell of charred human flesh filled her dreams. Her anger was white-hot.
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