I normally do not take names of people I know on my blog, but my friend, SW needs help. He might look like a stale idli today but there was a time when he was a bright young MBA from Delhi; on the verge of bagging a dream assignment in a large IT company(which recruits trespassers). I believe his interview at campus, went something like this:
HR head: We are making an offer to you because you're name starts with S. Are you locationally mobile?
SW: Yes of course. I have always wanted to go out there and see the world. See real India. Sometimes I feel I was born to travel.
HR: hmm. We might have an opening in a project in Boston, which we need to fill urgently. How soon can you join us?
SW(holding back tears): If I run, I can reach the airport in 45 minutes.
Later it turned out that due to a sadistic slip of tongue, the HR head said Boston when he actually meant Bomanahalli. Soon enough, SW landed in Bangalore and thus his tryst with the South began. Never quite able to adjust to the Southern way of life, his luck too deserted him.
He spent the next one year waving his colleagues goodbye at the Bangalore International airport, going off on one on-site project after another. He was often found riding on empty airport trolleys going wheeeeeeeeeeee.
Disgusted with life, he decided there was only one thing a man could do, Go home to mama. He promptly quit his job and began searching for a new one in Delhi. He approached a large Indian private bank which recruits apes because they resemble humans. They offered him a job and promised a Delhi posting. But after a month of dilly dallying informed him that they had lost his offer letter(true incident).
Help and job less, his priorities had become clear as he approached a large FMCG company for an interview:
HR head: So what are your strengths?
SW: I can goto Delhi by road, air and bus.
....
HR: Interesting, so how did you handle the client dissatisfaction with project delays?
SW: I went to Delhi.
.....
HR: So where do you see your....no wait. Is there anything you want to ask us?
SW: Where is Qutab Minar located?
....
HR: You seem like an interesting fellow. We are making you an offer. You will be Area Manager Coastal Andhra based in Vijaywada.
SW:Isnt that in Mars? Theres no life there!
HR: Bwahahahahaha*
(*-Unknown to SW, all HR people are from Mars)
A very dejected SW reluctantly packed his bags and landed in Vijaywada. The hectic sales job soon took its toll on him. They made him travel so much that he had problems traveling to the bathroom. All the while hoping that a 'North' job will soon come his way. At one time last year, there were more resumes of SW floating than rumours of AbhiAsh wedding.
A large paint company took pity on him and gave him a job, then sent him to Delhi. SW was almost scared about how happy he was. After a few weeks of bliss they called him to say, 'Did we say Delhi, we meant Cochin actually.' With every effort to go up north, fate had cruelly sent him further down. After a few months in Cochin he decided to give it one last shot and speak to his HR. But the HR community had got wind of his condition and played upon his fears.
SW: Sir, I would like to go to a north location.
Evil HR Head no. 3- I know.
SW: You know?
Evil HR Head no. 3: I also know that Sriperembudur has excellent medu vadas.
SW: You cant do this to me. My father knows people in NHRC*
Evil HR Head no. 3: I know the HR head there.
(*-National Human Rigts Commission)
Recently when work took SW to Kanyakumari, he felt strangely at peace. He knew he simply could'nt go any further down. Today SW lives a contended man in Cochin. He has joined 'Learn Malyalam in 30 years' classes and thinks coconuts are sexy. He likes lifting his dhoti too. But sometimes in his sleep he mumbles, Dilli Chalo.
Sunday, 10 February 2008
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Care-ful
Man: So, what do you look for in a man?
Woman: Well, he should be caring, sensitive, successful and above all, he should make me laugh.
Man: Thats three and a half men and two of them gay. What do you want in one?
One of the cruelest cliches perpetrated on mankind by womenotsokind has been the the whole, 'I'd like a man who makes me laugh etc.' routine. Cruel, because its as blatant a lie, if there ever was one. Its purpose is to throw off innocent guys who believing the lies, rack their brains for funny anecdotes while they marry the first investment banker or power magnet they meet. (Note how these two fail miserably on criteria 1,2 and 4 mentioned above). Its a clever ploy which works nicely.
Take for example, the two pictures below:
Now ask yourself, which one of these two is more likely to be gentle, funny and sensitive. And remember, Kareena had the choice.
"I could't hurt a fly b'cos I feel their pain"
"I had blackbucks for lunch
and I dont mean illegal money"
Or better still take the case of software engineers in Bangalore.
Are they caring?
Of course! they wear ultra-tight faded jeans so that others feel cool and comfortable around them.
Are they sensitive:
Yes. They move around in groups of ten or above talking loudly, so that your own worries are drowned in the din.
Are they successful:
Why else would their company give them a T-shirt which says, 'Global Embedded Technology Multimedia Worldwide Champions Conference'. They have success written all over them, literally.
Are they humourous:
Are you kidding me, they are a walking joke unto themselves. Imagine your funfilled life if you marry a techie,
'Honey, my new jeans has only eight zippers and seven pockets!
HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Yet, what do you see? Poor techie guys spend half their non-work lives sitting in a row outside 'Forum Mall' watching one woman go after another with the meanest looking thugs, rockstar types and fat uncles.
For the benefit of my fellow men, let me dispel some myths regarding this whole caring-funny business:
A. Caring, Sensitive, gentle, loving etc: We men were not genetically designed to be all this nonsense and women know this. Remember we are the guys who gave the earth two world wars, holocaust, global warming, genocides, suicide bombing, sexually transmitted diseases etc. We dont have a caring bone in our body. Women, all too smart, use this to make you go running helter-skelter looking for qualities, nature didnt want you to have.
B. Sense of Humour: This is a double-edged sword. Most women look for this in men but not without laying down several pre-conditions. All sexist, racist, castiest, potty, lewd and sports jokes immediately disqualify you. It's stupid to even bother trying.
I would have proceeded to tell you what women really want but I have to rush to Forum to get good seats outside.
Woman: Well, he should be caring, sensitive, successful and above all, he should make me laugh.
Man: Thats three and a half men and two of them gay. What do you want in one?
One of the cruelest cliches perpetrated on mankind by womenotsokind has been the the whole, 'I'd like a man who makes me laugh etc.' routine. Cruel, because its as blatant a lie, if there ever was one. Its purpose is to throw off innocent guys who believing the lies, rack their brains for funny anecdotes while they marry the first investment banker or power magnet they meet. (Note how these two fail miserably on criteria 1,2 and 4 mentioned above). Its a clever ploy which works nicely.
Take for example, the two pictures below:
Now ask yourself, which one of these two is more likely to be gentle, funny and sensitive. And remember, Kareena had the choice.
"I could't hurt a fly b'cos I feel their pain"
"I had blackbucks for lunch
and I dont mean illegal money"
Or better still take the case of software engineers in Bangalore.
Are they caring?
Of course! they wear ultra-tight faded jeans so that others feel cool and comfortable around them.
Are they sensitive:
Yes. They move around in groups of ten or above talking loudly, so that your own worries are drowned in the din.
Are they successful:
Why else would their company give them a T-shirt which says, 'Global Embedded Technology Multimedia Worldwide Champions Conference'. They have success written all over them, literally.
Are they humourous:
Are you kidding me, they are a walking joke unto themselves. Imagine your funfilled life if you marry a techie,
'Honey, my new jeans has only eight zippers and seven pockets!
HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Yet, what do you see? Poor techie guys spend half their non-work lives sitting in a row outside 'Forum Mall' watching one woman go after another with the meanest looking thugs, rockstar types and fat uncles.
For the benefit of my fellow men, let me dispel some myths regarding this whole caring-funny business:
A. Caring, Sensitive, gentle, loving etc: We men were not genetically designed to be all this nonsense and women know this. Remember we are the guys who gave the earth two world wars, holocaust, global warming, genocides, suicide bombing, sexually transmitted diseases etc. We dont have a caring bone in our body. Women, all too smart, use this to make you go running helter-skelter looking for qualities, nature didnt want you to have.
B. Sense of Humour: This is a double-edged sword. Most women look for this in men but not without laying down several pre-conditions. All sexist, racist, castiest, potty, lewd and sports jokes immediately disqualify you. It's stupid to even bother trying.
I would have proceeded to tell you what women really want but I have to rush to Forum to get good seats outside.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Of Dilbert, Dealers and Dancing
In case you haven’t read a book called The Dilbert Principle, I suggest you run to your nearest bookshop and buy one copy. I'm sure by the time you turn to page six, you would want to send me a thank you note with a bouquet of flowers, mach 3 razor blades, size 40 formal shirt, toothpaste, shoe-shiner, socks and mortein.
Darn it, I had to go shopping not blogging.
In the book, corporate victims relate dilbertesque moments from their workplaces. Heres mine.
Top management decided to fly down distributors/dealers from all over India to a city where these distributors truly belonged, Agra. Occasion: a 'Distributor Meet". The company's overt and distributors’ covert agenda for this meet was the same:
"A platform to promote bonding with channel partners. To celebrate the successes of the past year and plan for the next". Alternatively, "Free booze and short skirted emcee"
The meet began in the lawns of a posh hotel. A large stage was set where a dance troupe would entertain the guests and after the bar opened, vice-versa. We were seated around several round tables, region wise. I was ordered to sit with my Andhra distributors. Before long, speeches and presentations were in full swing and everyone was concentrating on the bar table being set up. Important prizes were given away like the second best South Andhra Distributor for sales of epidural anaesthesia kit.
Then, we were all handed over a large candle. Our GM came onto the stage along with other top management. Everybody was asked to light their candles and stand up holding them high over our heads. Then repeating after the GM, we recited a pledge, in chorus, on how we were one big loving family and that we will destroy all competition in selling intravenous neonatal cannulas, stop cocks and urine collection units. All this in dead earnest.
I looked around to see if my friend SB saw the farce that was being played out here. He was repeatedly stabbing himself with a dagger. As the evening progressed, drunken distributors hit the dance floor, literally. I was watching the fun from a safe distance when somebody hissed into my ears, "Don’t stand here alone. Why don't you go dance with your distributors.” Best prom night ever.
I reached the dance floor to see my regional head doing a close dance with one dealer. He then moved on, signaling me to take over while he serviced others. I tried to copy the neat steps of the distributor by shaking my arms and legs in different directions and bobbing my head back to front making fish faces.
Seven of us eight new joinees quit the company before the year was out.
Darn it, I had to go shopping not blogging.
In the book, corporate victims relate dilbertesque moments from their workplaces. Heres mine.
Top management decided to fly down distributors/dealers from all over India to a city where these distributors truly belonged, Agra. Occasion: a 'Distributor Meet". The company's overt and distributors’ covert agenda for this meet was the same:
"A platform to promote bonding with channel partners. To celebrate the successes of the past year and plan for the next". Alternatively, "Free booze and short skirted emcee"
The meet began in the lawns of a posh hotel. A large stage was set where a dance troupe would entertain the guests and after the bar opened, vice-versa. We were seated around several round tables, region wise. I was ordered to sit with my Andhra distributors. Before long, speeches and presentations were in full swing and everyone was concentrating on the bar table being set up. Important prizes were given away like the second best South Andhra Distributor for sales of epidural anaesthesia kit.
Then, we were all handed over a large candle. Our GM came onto the stage along with other top management. Everybody was asked to light their candles and stand up holding them high over our heads. Then repeating after the GM, we recited a pledge, in chorus, on how we were one big loving family and that we will destroy all competition in selling intravenous neonatal cannulas, stop cocks and urine collection units. All this in dead earnest.
I looked around to see if my friend SB saw the farce that was being played out here. He was repeatedly stabbing himself with a dagger. As the evening progressed, drunken distributors hit the dance floor, literally. I was watching the fun from a safe distance when somebody hissed into my ears, "Don’t stand here alone. Why don't you go dance with your distributors.” Best prom night ever.
I reached the dance floor to see my regional head doing a close dance with one dealer. He then moved on, signaling me to take over while he serviced others. I tried to copy the neat steps of the distributor by shaking my arms and legs in different directions and bobbing my head back to front making fish faces.
Seven of us eight new joinees quit the company before the year was out.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
It's different
If this was Amit Varma's blog this entry would end right here.
People from all over send him all the interesting stuff and he hyperlinks away to glory on his blog aka ‘India Uncut and Paste’.
If this was a hidden identity blog like The Compulsively Constipated (an obliquely evident reference to eM) then I would talk about my bohemian banking lifestyle and search for sexual innuendoes in opening accounts, bouncing cheques, closing balances and 24-hr call centres.
If this was a techie blog. Shudder. It will never be.
Heavens forbid if this was a woman’s blog. Most women write the way they talk. Too much.
I will give you a talisman. Whenever you are in doubt about a blog’s gender and the self becomes too much, then follow this simple test and you will find all your doubts melting away. Recall the last blog you read. Did it go something like…
Yak yak yapp yap ratitottoo ti wooti tak tak tak …long word…longer word…yak yak yap yap…clichéd clichés …wapater hokti boo tak tak tak Yak yak yapp yap ratitottoo ti wooti tak tak tak …long word…longer word…yak yak yap yap…
Or , Did it have an exasperating rhyming scam disguised as a poem
“ Oh, the soul of those haunting eyes,
Intermingled with my cold sighs,
Searching for meaning in this existence,
Rodents are the cause of pestilence.”
If yes, you were reading a female blog.
If this was a humour blog ala Sidin Vadukut or Rahul Phondke, then why would I be trying so hard?
If this was just any other blog with a crackpot fake name like killerbazooka or flyingmongoose, where people ejaculate about the latest movie or book and then let it die a natural death only to come back intermittently and apologise for the hiatus. Then you would'nt be reading it. Er..You dont read this.
But because this is my blog, so I can do a brazen copy of everyone’s style and present a mish-mash of balderdash.
People from all over send him all the interesting stuff and he hyperlinks away to glory on his blog aka ‘India Uncut and Paste’.
If this was a hidden identity blog like The Compulsively Constipated (an obliquely evident reference to eM) then I would talk about my bohemian banking lifestyle and search for sexual innuendoes in opening accounts, bouncing cheques, closing balances and 24-hr call centres.
If this was a techie blog. Shudder. It will never be.
Heavens forbid if this was a woman’s blog. Most women write the way they talk. Too much.
I will give you a talisman. Whenever you are in doubt about a blog’s gender and the self becomes too much, then follow this simple test and you will find all your doubts melting away. Recall the last blog you read. Did it go something like…
Yak yak yapp yap ratitottoo ti wooti tak tak tak …long word…longer word…yak yak yap yap…clichéd clichés …wapater hokti boo tak tak tak Yak yak yapp yap ratitottoo ti wooti tak tak tak …long word…longer word…yak yak yap yap…
Or , Did it have an exasperating rhyming scam disguised as a poem
“ Oh, the soul of those haunting eyes,
Intermingled with my cold sighs,
Searching for meaning in this existence,
Rodents are the cause of pestilence.”
If yes, you were reading a female blog.
If this was a humour blog ala Sidin Vadukut or Rahul Phondke, then why would I be trying so hard?
If this was just any other blog with a crackpot fake name like killerbazooka or flyingmongoose, where people ejaculate about the latest movie or book and then let it die a natural death only to come back intermittently and apologise for the hiatus. Then you would'nt be reading it. Er..You dont read this.
But because this is my blog, so I can do a brazen copy of everyone’s style and present a mish-mash of balderdash.
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
Grounded Stars
Gentlemen, keep your wet hankies aside. Ladies please swipe your nose on the sleeve.
I’m attempting to do something which no human or banker has done before: an unfavourable review of taare zameen par (tzp)
Please lift your jaw and put the eyeballs back into their socket. No, I’m not an insensitive freak, nor was I born in a lovely teachers-supportive family-encouraging system utopia. I fail to understand why are people going ga ga or in this case waaah waaah over tzp.
I went to see tzp with my flatmate Nik, and you couldn’t find two more sensitive guys than us in Bangalore. I mean Nik once helped a blind man cross the road, forcibly, thirteen years back. So, naturally we were hoping for a moving, touching experience. Like we usually do.
Aamir Khan, who obviously had made up his mind to make everyone cry, had us at the ticket window only. At 300 bucks a ticket, the two of us were left tearjerked. But then God gently reminded us that getting tickets for a new release on the first weekend without booking at PVR in Bangalore is the kind of miracle that would have given Mother Teresa sainthood.
Now, as two broke, shaken and faith-in-god-restored men sat in the cinema hall, AK unleashed his first weapon. He took soo loong ,over one and half hours, to establish an important, but obvious-in-five-minutes-of-the-movie, fact: ‘dyslexic child’, that by the end of the first half I was dyspeptic.
Thankfully the film picked up very well in the second half with some good songs and performances to match. But soon AK was at it again. He had already given us the exaggerated stereotype of the pushing father and wailing mother. And further reinforced them with the hairy Hindi teacher, accented English teacher and brawny sports teacher to it. The scene where AK tries to convince the Principal of the child’s special abilities by quoting Oscar Wilde is so corny, you have to see it to believe it.
Be that as it may, people were busy sniffling whimpering and sobbing all over. Now, I believe there’s a simple explanation for that. I mean how hard can it be to make moms, moms-to-be, wives, girlfriends and metrosexual men to cry. Just put a struggling child up there and make him cry in every conceivable pain and position. So, the kid cries in his bedroom then a quick sob in the school, one kneeling down on the bed and even while running on the basketball ground. One of these is bound to tickle your ancestral monkey instincts and soon you follow suit.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for crying in movies. When Rajesh Khanna sang a song heaving up and down on his dying elephant’s belly in Haathi Mere Saathi, I cried my eyeballs out. Or when in ‘Kishan Kanhaiya’, Shilpa Sharodkar did that….No wait, that was a different.
Ahem…well. Now that this post has firmly established me as a sexist insensitive imbecile. I would urge you to watch Polish film director Kuzwipo Polsjki’s ‘Ustyer jOkrma de childe’ before forming your opinion. Chances are you will not be able to sit through the movie, simply because it does'nt exist. You are also requested to not take my opinion seriously as I suffer from film-dyslexia. But more on that later.
I’m attempting to do something which no human or banker has done before: an unfavourable review of taare zameen par (tzp)
Please lift your jaw and put the eyeballs back into their socket. No, I’m not an insensitive freak, nor was I born in a lovely teachers-supportive family-encouraging system utopia. I fail to understand why are people going ga ga or in this case waaah waaah over tzp.
I went to see tzp with my flatmate Nik, and you couldn’t find two more sensitive guys than us in Bangalore. I mean Nik once helped a blind man cross the road, forcibly, thirteen years back. So, naturally we were hoping for a moving, touching experience. Like we usually do.
Aamir Khan, who obviously had made up his mind to make everyone cry, had us at the ticket window only. At 300 bucks a ticket, the two of us were left tearjerked. But then God gently reminded us that getting tickets for a new release on the first weekend without booking at PVR in Bangalore is the kind of miracle that would have given Mother Teresa sainthood.
Now, as two broke, shaken and faith-in-god-restored men sat in the cinema hall, AK unleashed his first weapon. He took soo loong ,over one and half hours, to establish an important, but obvious-in-five-minutes-of-the-movie, fact: ‘dyslexic child’, that by the end of the first half I was dyspeptic.
Thankfully the film picked up very well in the second half with some good songs and performances to match. But soon AK was at it again. He had already given us the exaggerated stereotype of the pushing father and wailing mother. And further reinforced them with the hairy Hindi teacher, accented English teacher and brawny sports teacher to it. The scene where AK tries to convince the Principal of the child’s special abilities by quoting Oscar Wilde is so corny, you have to see it to believe it.
Be that as it may, people were busy sniffling whimpering and sobbing all over. Now, I believe there’s a simple explanation for that. I mean how hard can it be to make moms, moms-to-be, wives, girlfriends and metrosexual men to cry. Just put a struggling child up there and make him cry in every conceivable pain and position. So, the kid cries in his bedroom then a quick sob in the school, one kneeling down on the bed and even while running on the basketball ground. One of these is bound to tickle your ancestral monkey instincts and soon you follow suit.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for crying in movies. When Rajesh Khanna sang a song heaving up and down on his dying elephant’s belly in Haathi Mere Saathi, I cried my eyeballs out. Or when in ‘Kishan Kanhaiya’, Shilpa Sharodkar did that….No wait, that was a different.
Ahem…well. Now that this post has firmly established me as a sexist insensitive imbecile. I would urge you to watch Polish film director Kuzwipo Polsjki’s ‘Ustyer jOkrma de childe’ before forming your opinion. Chances are you will not be able to sit through the movie, simply because it does'nt exist. You are also requested to not take my opinion seriously as I suffer from film-dyslexia. But more on that later.
Monday, 17 December 2007
Whats in a name? Die, Shakespeare
I am like the proverbial Hero's sister slinking into a dark corner, pleading to be left for bhagwaan. And you are the slowly taking off his shirt mustachoed villain announcing your intention to not leave me for anywhere( kaheen ka nahin).
The rape of my name continues unabated.
It started in my school in Australia, where my geogoraphy teacher insisted on calling me Tushan Keepat, making my name sound like some weird African country which her students couldnt locate.
Then in Lucknow/Delhi, my school/college friends decided to call me Tush, Tushi etc. making me a ripe target for jokes like, Tush- who needs a push and Tushi- you ***** etc.
Having survived all that and the subsequent MBA years,I was feeling fairly confident as I stepped onto sambhar-land for my first job. Little did I know that your best and my worst was yet to come.
Now the gentle folk of sambhar-land are mostly benign and peace loving.But they have an uncanny habit of giving a grotesque new look to your name while you are looking away. So, a Gaurav might become Ghaurzhavx and Dhruv, Djhruva.
Sure, I'm exaggerating a bit. But if your name was ever subjected to Tusar, Thusar, Thusara and Thoosara kind of torture, you will be cynical too. I shudder to imagine if, by some sadistic twist of fate, I were actually a sambharian from sambhar-land called Thoosara.In which case,it's unlikley, I would have ever made any friends.
Me: Hello, I'm Thoosara
You: Kitna sara? hrmph...kheen kheen...hehe.
And my career opportunities would certainly have been limited.
Interviewer: hmmm...so whats your name?
Me: Thoosara
Interviewer: Aoww, u spat on me...never mind. Father's name?
Me: Muthoo
Interviewer: Aoww...security guard...throw him out
Guard: Who?
Interviewer: Thoosara
Guard: aoww...u spat on me. I quit.
Interviewer: ok. You can take his job, Thoosara.
Me: aoww, Thank you Sir!
The rape of my name continues unabated.
It started in my school in Australia, where my geogoraphy teacher insisted on calling me Tushan Keepat, making my name sound like some weird African country which her students couldnt locate.
Then in Lucknow/Delhi, my school/college friends decided to call me Tush, Tushi etc. making me a ripe target for jokes like, Tush- who needs a push and Tushi- you ***** etc.
Having survived all that and the subsequent MBA years,I was feeling fairly confident as I stepped onto sambhar-land for my first job. Little did I know that your best and my worst was yet to come.
Now the gentle folk of sambhar-land are mostly benign and peace loving.But they have an uncanny habit of giving a grotesque new look to your name while you are looking away. So, a Gaurav might become Ghaurzhavx and Dhruv, Djhruva.
Sure, I'm exaggerating a bit. But if your name was ever subjected to Tusar, Thusar, Thusara and Thoosara kind of torture, you will be cynical too. I shudder to imagine if, by some sadistic twist of fate, I were actually a sambharian from sambhar-land called Thoosara.In which case,it's unlikley, I would have ever made any friends.
Me: Hello, I'm Thoosara
You: Kitna sara? hrmph...kheen kheen...hehe.
And my career opportunities would certainly have been limited.
Interviewer: hmmm...so whats your name?
Me: Thoosara
Interviewer: Aoww, u spat on me...never mind. Father's name?
Me: Muthoo
Interviewer: Aoww...security guard...throw him out
Guard: Who?
Interviewer: Thoosara
Guard: aoww...u spat on me. I quit.
Interviewer: ok. You can take his job, Thoosara.
Me: aoww, Thank you Sir!
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Revenge
He got up with a start. That... was the first thought that came to his mind. He smiled, "I'm actually looking forward to going to office because of her. So she's not entirely useless. " He went to the bathroom and picked up the toothpaste. His mind was, for the umpteenth time, recounting all his memories of P. She had humiliated him in school, for which he could never forgive her. It had been eight years and even though he'd stood a fair distance away, he could almost make out what she was telling the Principal. He'd felt a strange sense of heaviness inside his body. The sound of his own shaking voice, while he explained to Father Joseph, made him more angry. He said, "Sir, I never made those crank calls" and thought, 'that too to her'. He suddenly realised he had stopped brushing and was standing there staring at the mirror.
As he drove to office, he found it hard to concentrate. Yesterday, when Venkat had told him that a certain Ms. P.S. was joining him in the same department, he could'nt believe his luck. It had to be her and God was giving him an opportunity for revenge. First, he would pretend that he does'nt remember her. He sat upright and looked thoughtfully at the traffic. Then, he would make her wait for hours and later, send her to visit each of our seventy four upcountry vendors.
I will make your life a miserable hell-hole.
He parked his cars and climbed up the office stairs, three at a time. At the reception he pretended to fill the entry register. The familiar sense of heaviness had returned. For, from the corner of his eye, he'd caught her sitting at the sofa. It was her all right. She uncrossed her legs. He fumbled with the pen cap. She was about to stand as he almost slammed shut the regsiter. She moved towards him. He nearly collided with the glass door which led to his cubicle.
Once inside, he felt more relieved than victorious. Every guy in school made tens of lewd calls to her so what I made one. I did'nt deserve the suspension. He felt almost righteous as he tried to calm his nerves. After ten minutes, he noted that she opened the glass door and entered the office sitting area. She moved towards his cubicle.
She has the nerve to walk in without permission. I will blast her to outer space. He looked harder and harder into his laptop without seeing anything. He jumped as the telephone rang at the same instant. Instead, of taking the call he looked up to see where she was. It kept ringing.
"Hello"
"Tushar?"
"Yes"
"Avinash"
"Yes Avinash?"
" Can you come into my cabin for a second?"
"Yes Sir."
In the cabin,
" Sir, you called me?"
"Yes"
Avinash made a large semi-circle with his hand to point towards the seat in front of him. "Meet, Ms P.S. here. She is joining the Exports division as your new boss."
As he drove to office, he found it hard to concentrate. Yesterday, when Venkat had told him that a certain Ms. P.S. was joining him in the same department, he could'nt believe his luck. It had to be her and God was giving him an opportunity for revenge. First, he would pretend that he does'nt remember her. He sat upright and looked thoughtfully at the traffic. Then, he would make her wait for hours and later, send her to visit each of our seventy four upcountry vendors.
I will make your life a miserable hell-hole.
He parked his cars and climbed up the office stairs, three at a time. At the reception he pretended to fill the entry register. The familiar sense of heaviness had returned. For, from the corner of his eye, he'd caught her sitting at the sofa. It was her all right. She uncrossed her legs. He fumbled with the pen cap. She was about to stand as he almost slammed shut the regsiter. She moved towards him. He nearly collided with the glass door which led to his cubicle.
Once inside, he felt more relieved than victorious. Every guy in school made tens of lewd calls to her so what I made one. I did'nt deserve the suspension. He felt almost righteous as he tried to calm his nerves. After ten minutes, he noted that she opened the glass door and entered the office sitting area. She moved towards his cubicle.
She has the nerve to walk in without permission. I will blast her to outer space. He looked harder and harder into his laptop without seeing anything. He jumped as the telephone rang at the same instant. Instead, of taking the call he looked up to see where she was. It kept ringing.
"Hello"
"Tushar?"
"Yes"
"Avinash"
"Yes Avinash?"
" Can you come into my cabin for a second?"
"Yes Sir."
In the cabin,
" Sir, you called me?"
"Yes"
Avinash made a large semi-circle with his hand to point towards the seat in front of him. "Meet, Ms P.S. here. She is joining the Exports division as your new boss."
Monday, 10 December 2007
Unoriginal Sin
An assorted collection of some great lines from some of my favourite movies. Feel free to suggest a few of your own. Almost every other blog you, wisely, dont read, has a compilation like this. But you know whats the difference betwen me and them. I will make this look good*.
Here goes
" Oh, Don't be ridiculous Alex, Everybody wants to be us"
- Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestley in The Devil wears Prada
( You see this movie and you would want to snatch the oscar from Helen Mirren's hands and hand it over to Meryl)
" S: You really like yourself, dont you?
K: Yes, I'm my favourite"
- Jab We Met
( I have blogged about this earlier)
" You make me want to be a better man"
- Jack Nicholson, As good as it gets
" I want to be new again"
- Meryl Streep, Adaptation
( Spike Jonze's metaphysical movie making. by far, the most intelligent movie i've ever seen)
" When there is absolutely no hope, there is complete freedom"
- Fight Club
" Servant: Baba saheb juice.
HR: Murali, geyser on kar dena"
- Hrithik, Lakshya
(reminded me of me)
" Jo ladki apne baap ko thag sakti hai wo kisi aur ki sagi kya hogi"
- Omkara
" Atma ki santi mein, nafa nuksan nahin dekhte"
- Pankaj Kapoor, Blue Umbrella
( if you ever come across a better performance, let me know. I will disagree)
" Gilauri khaya karo gulfam, zabaan kaaboo mein rehti hai"
- Pankaj Kapoor, Maqbool
" I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time... ... ... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst.... ... ... and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry, you will someday."
- Kevin Spacey as Lester Burnham in American Beauty.( courtesy imdb)
"You have to do the best with what God gave you."
- Forrest Gump
" Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me?
....
Mrs. R: Do you want me to seduce you? "
- The Graduate
"I'm his father. You're the guy _____ his mom."
- Thank you for smoking
(one of the many fantafabulous lines in this flick)
" Wo meri beti ki saheli thi. Chutti manane humare ghar aayi thi..."
- AB, Nishabd
(easily one of old man's best performances)
*- Will Smith, Men In Black
( The would-be first black president of USA)
Here goes
" Oh, Don't be ridiculous Alex, Everybody wants to be us"
- Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestley in The Devil wears Prada
( You see this movie and you would want to snatch the oscar from Helen Mirren's hands and hand it over to Meryl)
" S: You really like yourself, dont you?
K: Yes, I'm my favourite"
- Jab We Met
( I have blogged about this earlier)
" You make me want to be a better man"
- Jack Nicholson, As good as it gets
" I want to be new again"
- Meryl Streep, Adaptation
( Spike Jonze's metaphysical movie making. by far, the most intelligent movie i've ever seen)
" When there is absolutely no hope, there is complete freedom"
- Fight Club
" Servant: Baba saheb juice.
HR: Murali, geyser on kar dena"
- Hrithik, Lakshya
(reminded me of me)
" Jo ladki apne baap ko thag sakti hai wo kisi aur ki sagi kya hogi"
- Omkara
" Atma ki santi mein, nafa nuksan nahin dekhte"
- Pankaj Kapoor, Blue Umbrella
( if you ever come across a better performance, let me know. I will disagree)
" Gilauri khaya karo gulfam, zabaan kaaboo mein rehti hai"
- Pankaj Kapoor, Maqbool
" I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time... ... ... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst.... ... ... and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry, you will someday."
- Kevin Spacey as Lester Burnham in American Beauty.( courtesy imdb)
"You have to do the best with what God gave you."
- Forrest Gump
" Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me?
....
Mrs. R: Do you want me to seduce you? "
- The Graduate
"I'm his father. You're the guy _____ his mom."
- Thank you for smoking
(one of the many fantafabulous lines in this flick)
" Wo meri beti ki saheli thi. Chutti manane humare ghar aayi thi..."
- AB, Nishabd
(easily one of old man's best performances)
*- Will Smith, Men In Black
( The would-be first black president of USA)
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
प्रेमचंद इन अ कॉर्नर
कुछ महीने पहले अगर मेरे मन में यह विचार आया होता, कि भई क्यों न हिन्दी में एक blog लिखा जाये. तो शायद मैं उपहास, परिहास में इस सोच को चलता करता. लेकिन, अब आप इसको मेरा साहस कहिये या दुस्साहस, पर विक्टर ह्यूगो से उचित माफ़ी मांगते हुए, यह वो आईडिया है जिसका समय अब आ गया है. तो फिर इस डेहरी को लांघने में देरी कैसी.
हुआ यूँ, कि कुछ समय पहले, संयोग से मेरी नज़र बंगलोर के रेसिडेन्सी रोड स्थित क्रासवर्ड के छोटे और नेगलेक्टेड हिस्से पे पड़ी जो, हिन्दी की किताबें रखता है. अब इस कलेक्शन को हिन्दी कि किताबें का संग्रह कहूँ तो जैसे कि अंग्रेजी में कहते हैं, शायद मैथलीशरण गुप्त अपनी 'कब्र' में करवट बदलें. गलत होगा क्यूँकि यहाँ केवल, मोटापा कम करने कि, अंग्रेजी सेल्फ-हेल्प उपन्यासों कि भद्दी ट्रांस्लेशन्स और अध्यात्मिक (याने कि ओशो) किताबें ही थी. पर जैसे कि कीचड़ में कमल होता है और अंधकार के बीच रोशनी, वैसे ही अकस्मात् मेरी नज़र प्रेमचंद के द्वारा लिखी गयी गोदान पर पड़ी. तो मैं उस किताब को बगल में दबाकर ऐसा भागा कि जैसे बच्चा टाफी छीन कर भागे या बन्दर केला.
अब मेरे और प्रेमचंदजी के बीच में जो रिश्ता कायम हुआ उसकी नींव गहरी है. मैं और लेखक दोनो ही पूर्वी उत्तर प्रदेश के कायस्थ समाज से हैं, और जिस सामाजिक परिवेश का विवरण , प्रेमचंद ने किया है, वह, और भाषा शैली, दोनों ही, मेरे लिए थोड़ी बहुत जानी पहचानी थी. जैसा कि मेरे साथ प्रायः होता है, कुछ नया करने से पहले, prejudices कि एक ऊंची दीवार खड़ी हो जाती है. पहली बार हिन्दी किताब पढ़ रहा हूँ...पता नहीं खत्म कर पाऊँगा के नही. जाने किस बाबा आदम कि ज़माने कि कहानी होगी जिसका relevance शायद अब लुप्त हो चुका हो.
कुछ बीस पच्चीस पन्ने हे पल्टे होंगे कि ये दीवार औंधे मृँह गिर पड़ी. Clandestine अफेयर्स, प्री-मेरिटल सेक्स और अविवाहित माओं के बारे में पढ़ के, मैं हैरान था. मिस मालती जैसा लिबरल minded इन्डीपेंडेंट, स्वाभिमानी और मोडर्न स्त्री का पात्र, शायद ही आपने कभी पढ़ा होगा.
जितने सशक्त पात्र उतनी ही सहज भाषा में लिखे गए इस उपन्यास को पढ़ के एक नए तरह का आनंद आया. मन हुआ कि सड़क पर चल रहे हर दूसरे व्यक्ति को पकड़ कर आदेश दूं कि यह किताब आज ही पढे.जल्द ही वह बच्चा, और टाफी कि लालच में वापस क्रासवर्ड पहुँचा, और पूरा डब्बा चट कर गया. भूख बढ़ी तो अब वो मनोहर श्याम जोशी तक पहुंच गया है. जिनके राईटिंग स्टाइल के नक़ल कि इमानदार कोशिश इस लेख में साफ दिखाई देगी.
हुआ यूँ, कि कुछ समय पहले, संयोग से मेरी नज़र बंगलोर के रेसिडेन्सी रोड स्थित क्रासवर्ड के छोटे और नेगलेक्टेड हिस्से पे पड़ी जो, हिन्दी की किताबें रखता है. अब इस कलेक्शन को हिन्दी कि किताबें का संग्रह कहूँ तो जैसे कि अंग्रेजी में कहते हैं, शायद मैथलीशरण गुप्त अपनी 'कब्र' में करवट बदलें. गलत होगा क्यूँकि यहाँ केवल, मोटापा कम करने कि, अंग्रेजी सेल्फ-हेल्प उपन्यासों कि भद्दी ट्रांस्लेशन्स और अध्यात्मिक (याने कि ओशो) किताबें ही थी. पर जैसे कि कीचड़ में कमल होता है और अंधकार के बीच रोशनी, वैसे ही अकस्मात् मेरी नज़र प्रेमचंद के द्वारा लिखी गयी गोदान पर पड़ी. तो मैं उस किताब को बगल में दबाकर ऐसा भागा कि जैसे बच्चा टाफी छीन कर भागे या बन्दर केला.
अब मेरे और प्रेमचंदजी के बीच में जो रिश्ता कायम हुआ उसकी नींव गहरी है. मैं और लेखक दोनो ही पूर्वी उत्तर प्रदेश के कायस्थ समाज से हैं, और जिस सामाजिक परिवेश का विवरण , प्रेमचंद ने किया है, वह, और भाषा शैली, दोनों ही, मेरे लिए थोड़ी बहुत जानी पहचानी थी. जैसा कि मेरे साथ प्रायः होता है, कुछ नया करने से पहले, prejudices कि एक ऊंची दीवार खड़ी हो जाती है. पहली बार हिन्दी किताब पढ़ रहा हूँ...पता नहीं खत्म कर पाऊँगा के नही. जाने किस बाबा आदम कि ज़माने कि कहानी होगी जिसका relevance शायद अब लुप्त हो चुका हो.
कुछ बीस पच्चीस पन्ने हे पल्टे होंगे कि ये दीवार औंधे मृँह गिर पड़ी. Clandestine अफेयर्स, प्री-मेरिटल सेक्स और अविवाहित माओं के बारे में पढ़ के, मैं हैरान था. मिस मालती जैसा लिबरल minded इन्डीपेंडेंट, स्वाभिमानी और मोडर्न स्त्री का पात्र, शायद ही आपने कभी पढ़ा होगा.
जितने सशक्त पात्र उतनी ही सहज भाषा में लिखे गए इस उपन्यास को पढ़ के एक नए तरह का आनंद आया. मन हुआ कि सड़क पर चल रहे हर दूसरे व्यक्ति को पकड़ कर आदेश दूं कि यह किताब आज ही पढे.जल्द ही वह बच्चा, और टाफी कि लालच में वापस क्रासवर्ड पहुँचा, और पूरा डब्बा चट कर गया. भूख बढ़ी तो अब वो मनोहर श्याम जोशी तक पहुंच गया है. जिनके राईटिंग स्टाइल के नक़ल कि इमानदार कोशिश इस लेख में साफ दिखाई देगी.
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Laughing all the way to the bank
Humour is such a divine emotion. Everyone wants to be around people who make them laugh. Who are the people who make you laugh? I decided to compile a list of top 5 people I know, whom I'm instantly reminded of having a great sense of humour. Here it is,
1. A N (batchmate from b-school- The Great Indian Laughter Champion)
2. DDD (bm from school- creative musical humour)
3. T M (bm from college- dry, witty, situational humour)
4. N V (bm from school- slapstick sleazy humour)
5. V M (friend from work- his blog: lostconfusedandconfident.blogspot.com)
Unfortunately, I have been working in a place which is a graveyard for humour. Anything funny is frowned upon. And if you want to say something remotely funny, be sure to test it on a few friends and sleep over it for a couple of nights. I work in a bank. There is wisdom in old phrases like, 'laughing all the way to the bank' because once inside you might be pulled up for misconduct. 'He was caught laughing in the corridor during office hours'.
To be fair, it IS hard for bank employees to have a sense of humour. I mean, imagine telling a customer, 'We charged you an interest rate that would make Shylock proud' or 'Your cheque bounced like popcorn in a microwave'. However, there are two kinds of humour prevalent in my bank. The no-women-around-lets-quickly-crack-dirty-jokes variety and the property-prices-are-rising-in-chennai-oh-stop,-ur-killing-me kind.
It is under these difficult circumstances, that me and my friend V managed to create a few memorable characters.
1. Cho: The chappie who was getting fired. We imagined he might do a Cho( a la Virginia Tech.) and end up killing our bosses.
2. Ganpat: The shortie, who on account of his shortness managed to get into everyones a** and thus being a PITA.
3. TPO: the perfect one, the girl who looked good from a distance. Our collective thoughts about her would make a serial rapist blush. She was visually maligned so much by everyone in the bank that she once stood up in an office meet and said, "Main tum sab ke bacche ki maa banne waali hoon."
1. A N (batchmate from b-school- The Great Indian Laughter Champion)
2. DDD (bm from school- creative musical humour)
3. T M (bm from college- dry, witty, situational humour)
4. N V (bm from school- slapstick sleazy humour)
5. V M (friend from work- his blog: lostconfusedandconfident.blogspot.com)
Unfortunately, I have been working in a place which is a graveyard for humour. Anything funny is frowned upon. And if you want to say something remotely funny, be sure to test it on a few friends and sleep over it for a couple of nights. I work in a bank. There is wisdom in old phrases like, 'laughing all the way to the bank' because once inside you might be pulled up for misconduct. 'He was caught laughing in the corridor during office hours'.
To be fair, it IS hard for bank employees to have a sense of humour. I mean, imagine telling a customer, 'We charged you an interest rate that would make Shylock proud' or 'Your cheque bounced like popcorn in a microwave'. However, there are two kinds of humour prevalent in my bank. The no-women-around-lets-quickly-crack-dirty-jokes variety and the property-prices-are-rising-in-chennai-oh-stop,-ur-killing-me kind.
It is under these difficult circumstances, that me and my friend V managed to create a few memorable characters.
1. Cho: The chappie who was getting fired. We imagined he might do a Cho( a la Virginia Tech.) and end up killing our bosses.
2. Ganpat: The shortie, who on account of his shortness managed to get into everyones a** and thus being a PITA.
3. TPO: the perfect one, the girl who looked good from a distance. Our collective thoughts about her would make a serial rapist blush. She was visually maligned so much by everyone in the bank that she once stood up in an office meet and said, "Main tum sab ke bacche ki maa banne waali hoon."
Friday, 16 November 2007
Thanks but no thanks
My first vote of thanks goes to Imtiaz Ali. Thank you and thank god for a genuinely and actually funny movie at last: jab we met. A movie which doesnt require you to leave your brains behind, suspend your belief or disbelief or any such activity as does the usual dose of trash which gets passed off as comedy in bollywood. These are either plain unfunny or downright crass, for eg. malamaal weekly, garam masala, bheja fry, bhool bhualiya hera pheri-2, partner, dhol, golmaal etc. etc.
Thank you Shahrukh Khan. Now enough!! Shah ruk jao please. You made a medicore film and marketed it so much that we all have collective nausea. Its not possible to watch tv for 5 min. without you popping into our screens. I've been reduced to watching animal planet but am afraid that soon some animals will start singing songs from OSO.
A big sarcastic thanks is also due to the Board which Controls Cricket in India. You have successfully managed to take the sting out of cricket and in particular Indo-Pak matches with incessant and long drawn tours. Encounters between these two teams have never been so tame or marked by such camaraderie between players.
Another Thank you but ENOUGH request to all chunnu munnu guddu banti and wannabe celebrities. Please stop dancing and singing on every show on every tv channel. And if you cant help it, dont invite Shahrukh to do it with you.
Thank you Shahrukh Khan. Now enough!! Shah ruk jao please. You made a medicore film and marketed it so much that we all have collective nausea. Its not possible to watch tv for 5 min. without you popping into our screens. I've been reduced to watching animal planet but am afraid that soon some animals will start singing songs from OSO.
A big sarcastic thanks is also due to the Board which Controls Cricket in India. You have successfully managed to take the sting out of cricket and in particular Indo-Pak matches with incessant and long drawn tours. Encounters between these two teams have never been so tame or marked by such camaraderie between players.
Another Thank you but ENOUGH request to all chunnu munnu guddu banti and wannabe celebrities. Please stop dancing and singing on every show on every tv channel. And if you cant help it, dont invite Shahrukh to do it with you.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Mid-year appraisal
A quick review of my blog and I'm happy to say that its a 'not a bad blog at all'. A decent six on ten but I can do better. Where I have lost is the unneccesary wordy and almost wannabe/juvenile language in some of my entries eg. scenes from a thriller. I usually dislike people who use long words to show off their vocabulary and lo! I have gone and done the same. But the succinctness yet completeness and the flow are plus points of this blog.
Trivia:
Two titles of my blog entries are based on famous books. Can you guess which ones?
Trivia:
Two titles of my blog entries are based on famous books. Can you guess which ones?
Saturday, 26 May 2007
The attack of the notorious balancesheeters
The spread of their virus is as worrisome as the virulence of its strain. Or maybe, as is my wont, I am in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I must begin at the beginning.
A balance sheeter is a person with a criminally single track mind whose world begins and ends with finance, trade and of course balancesheets. Mind you, they are no less dangerous than notorious history-sheeters. Perhaps, it's a classic molehill into a mountain situation. But I'm afraid they are ganging up on me. Fast.
I seem to run into them everywhere. At work, in my apartment, parties and restaurants, while hanging out with friends and even friendly visits to relatives and family. I have tried to run but I, certainly, cant hide. They lurk in my morning newspapers, blare out of my television, stare at me from billboard hoardings, sneak onto me from magazine shelves and they even have my mobile number.
To be fair, balancesheeters are few and far between but their infection is contagious. An alarming number of my conversations circle around property prices, stock markets,esops, tax calculations and planning, mutual funds, insurance, business confidence, real estate etc. Its appalling. Needless to say my contribution to such conversations is minimal. Both, out of ignorance and indifference.
Far too many of my friends and relatives are falling prey. Perfectly sane individuals develop an overnight interest in the wily sensex. Heck, even my job requires me to be uptodate on all such topics.
So, I'm left wondering about the wisdom of age old sayings. That if i cant beat them, I must join them.
A balancesheeter in the making.
A balance sheeter is a person with a criminally single track mind whose world begins and ends with finance, trade and of course balancesheets. Mind you, they are no less dangerous than notorious history-sheeters. Perhaps, it's a classic molehill into a mountain situation. But I'm afraid they are ganging up on me. Fast.
I seem to run into them everywhere. At work, in my apartment, parties and restaurants, while hanging out with friends and even friendly visits to relatives and family. I have tried to run but I, certainly, cant hide. They lurk in my morning newspapers, blare out of my television, stare at me from billboard hoardings, sneak onto me from magazine shelves and they even have my mobile number.
To be fair, balancesheeters are few and far between but their infection is contagious. An alarming number of my conversations circle around property prices, stock markets,esops, tax calculations and planning, mutual funds, insurance, business confidence, real estate etc. Its appalling. Needless to say my contribution to such conversations is minimal. Both, out of ignorance and indifference.
Far too many of my friends and relatives are falling prey. Perfectly sane individuals develop an overnight interest in the wily sensex. Heck, even my job requires me to be uptodate on all such topics.
So, I'm left wondering about the wisdom of age old sayings. That if i cant beat them, I must join them.
A balancesheeter in the making.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Scenes from a thriller
In the days to come, erudite words will pour out from the pens of discerning men and fill the pages of various intellectual newspapers/magazines of India. And all of them will be a fitting tribute to what is, in essence, a celebration of Indian democracy. I, of course, refer to the electoral exercise that took place in the heart of India, Uttar Pradesh. Casual and cogent conversations will fill the air with animated discussion over the stunning outcome of the UP elections. For me, certain scenes stood out, from the whole chain of events.
The incredible turning of tables, with dalits offering a benevolent hand to the brahmins, making them look like their poorer cousins.
The whole of UP elections passing by without as much a slap being reported by the media.
The strength of superior leadership, crafty strategising and a systematic and clinical organisation of the BSP.
The endearing slogans coined by BSP which penetrate to the places where no media can reach.
The uneasy expressions on the faces of Kapil Sibal and Arun Jaitley, oscillating between consternation and appreciation over the events of the UP elections.
And, finally, the victory song of the small voices of the common man on the roads of India which barely, if ever, reaches our ears.
- May 11, 2007, Bangalore
P.S.- Coming up soon 'The attack of the notorious balancesheeters'
The incredible turning of tables, with dalits offering a benevolent hand to the brahmins, making them look like their poorer cousins.
The whole of UP elections passing by without as much a slap being reported by the media.
The strength of superior leadership, crafty strategising and a systematic and clinical organisation of the BSP.
The endearing slogans coined by BSP which penetrate to the places where no media can reach.
The uneasy expressions on the faces of Kapil Sibal and Arun Jaitley, oscillating between consternation and appreciation over the events of the UP elections.
And, finally, the victory song of the small voices of the common man on the roads of India which barely, if ever, reaches our ears.
- May 11, 2007, Bangalore
P.S.- Coming up soon 'The attack of the notorious balancesheeters'
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Blogging
I don't enjoy reading other peoples blogs. It makes me sad. [But I sure would like some strangers to comment on mine. I'm a sucker for other peoples opinion.]
However, blogging per se is a wonderful exercise. Cathartic.Download all your nonsense or let your imagination soar.Infact I'm beginning to enjoy it a lot. I keep thinking about what I should be writing next.
However, blogging per se is a wonderful exercise. Cathartic.Download all your nonsense or let your imagination soar.Infact I'm beginning to enjoy it a lot. I keep thinking about what I should be writing next.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Tale from the hills
Two beautiful years of childhood were spent in heavenly verdant lap of the Himalayas. Almora, to be precise. My family and I, together bit by wanderlust, spent a considerable time exploring the virgin territories of this amazing landscape. Tehri, Garh Mukteshwar, Pithoragarh, Uttarkashi, Chamoli et al.
I have quite naturally, some wonderful young memories of my time spent there. One such place I visited deserves a mention here called Munshiari. If I recollect correctly, it was a picnic of some sort on large green patch on a plateau. Overlooking this plateau was a large pointed snow-capped mountain, which to me, resembled a cone of ‘Rita’ ice cream. In between these two was a deep ominous valley. I still remember the place because the peak seemed to be so close that I felt that I could reach out my five year old hands and touch the snow on the peak. Quite unbelievable.
It is therefore with much eagerness that I picked up a book called The Man-eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett.
The book is a collection of the adventures of this great man, taking place at various locations I mentioned above. It immediately took me back in time and brought back some wonderful memories. Any experience, which does that to me, is something I will cherish forever. But it is not merely my own childhood experiences, which compel me to write about this book. This collection of stories is truly a fantastic read.
Corbett relates one adventure after another with the big cat. You can almost smell the jungle, hear the rustling of leaves under the soft paws of a tiger and see the naked face of terror upon staring into a leopard’s eye in the wild. The setting is so realistic, the fear raw and the atmosphere taut.
At no point does Corbett come across as a fearless hunter going after the tigers. He is mostly scared stiff and shows reverence for these magnificent animals. His fear and adventures are so frightfully real that it puts to shame all the contrived thrillers and artificial situations we come across in the works of Sheldon, Archer and Follet etc.
Corbett brings alive, with his simplistic and humble style, the lives of the ordinary men folk, the land and the beasts. I can bet anyone who reads the Champawat man-eater alone in the wee hours of night would jump at the slightest creak of the door.
I have quite naturally, some wonderful young memories of my time spent there. One such place I visited deserves a mention here called Munshiari. If I recollect correctly, it was a picnic of some sort on large green patch on a plateau. Overlooking this plateau was a large pointed snow-capped mountain, which to me, resembled a cone of ‘Rita’ ice cream. In between these two was a deep ominous valley. I still remember the place because the peak seemed to be so close that I felt that I could reach out my five year old hands and touch the snow on the peak. Quite unbelievable.
It is therefore with much eagerness that I picked up a book called The Man-eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett.
The book is a collection of the adventures of this great man, taking place at various locations I mentioned above. It immediately took me back in time and brought back some wonderful memories. Any experience, which does that to me, is something I will cherish forever. But it is not merely my own childhood experiences, which compel me to write about this book. This collection of stories is truly a fantastic read.
Corbett relates one adventure after another with the big cat. You can almost smell the jungle, hear the rustling of leaves under the soft paws of a tiger and see the naked face of terror upon staring into a leopard’s eye in the wild. The setting is so realistic, the fear raw and the atmosphere taut.
At no point does Corbett come across as a fearless hunter going after the tigers. He is mostly scared stiff and shows reverence for these magnificent animals. His fear and adventures are so frightfully real that it puts to shame all the contrived thrillers and artificial situations we come across in the works of Sheldon, Archer and Follet etc.
Corbett brings alive, with his simplistic and humble style, the lives of the ordinary men folk, the land and the beasts. I can bet anyone who reads the Champawat man-eater alone in the wee hours of night would jump at the slightest creak of the door.
Questions I want to ask the West Indies
How could Sir Vivian Richards walk into the ground with such brutal self-confidence? Swagger to match an undefeated knight, brandishing his battle weary blade. Knowing that he could decimate the opposition and then do it. How could he do all this and yet fill the hearts of the opponent’s team and supporters with joy?
How could the Big Cat, Clive Lloyd move like a Neanderthal man dragging his club along the ground, and smash the cricket ball into a pulp.
How did Jeff Dujon and Gus Logie perfect their respective arts of keeping and fielding when these were skill just talked about?
How could the tiny islands of West Indies produce an assembly line of tall monstrously fast bowlers that one of them was considered fit to be called the Whispering death?
How did the average West Indian learn to love and celebrate his cricket the way only he does?
And how does a team like that reduce itself to a caricature of its former self?
Wither West Indies. Where art thou?
How could the Big Cat, Clive Lloyd move like a Neanderthal man dragging his club along the ground, and smash the cricket ball into a pulp.
How did Jeff Dujon and Gus Logie perfect their respective arts of keeping and fielding when these were skill just talked about?
How could the tiny islands of West Indies produce an assembly line of tall monstrously fast bowlers that one of them was considered fit to be called the Whispering death?
How did the average West Indian learn to love and celebrate his cricket the way only he does?
And how does a team like that reduce itself to a caricature of its former self?
Wither West Indies. Where art thou?
Friday, 6 April 2007
The Guide
I recently finished a book called The Guide written by the venerable RK Narayan. The first thought that came to my mind was that this is a story which longs to be written in Tamil.
The innocent descriptions of a typical day in a typical Tamil set-up and the subtle nuances of bucolic Tamil life would come alive in the native language. The medium of expression needs to be true to the chosen environment and the narration must emanate from real experiences. When these come together, magic happens. As something I experienced reading the works of Munshi Premchand.
The Guide tells the story of a journey of a young high-spirited man, who on account of his enterprise, journeys through a life less ordinary. The book does bring alive the life in a typical 50-60's era sleepy town somewhere in Tamil Nadu, but only to an extent. I felt the book moved a tad too fast. The important times and turnarounds in the lives of the main protaganists left little impact on me, let alone move me.The story is interesting and one is left thinking , in the hands of a master this would spell magic. But,my judgement is impaired because I am far removed and ignorant of the setting, this book was written in.
Which brings me to the film made on the book by the same name. The film is an entertaining watch and leaves little impact, jus like the book. That is, right until the climax. This is where the director redeems himself. The film rolls along smoothly with excellent music and Dev Anands stylish demeanour. It is the end which grabs you.
Full marks to the maker of the film for the adapted screenplay. Adapted, because, the film is only loosely based on the book. The script 'adapts' the book to a more North Indian setting and elongates the ending, much to the joy and satisfation of the viewer. The transformation of Raju from a happy-go-lucky guide to a saint is more pronounced in the film.My take, unless you're a Tam, avoid the book and have a dekko at the film.
The innocent descriptions of a typical day in a typical Tamil set-up and the subtle nuances of bucolic Tamil life would come alive in the native language. The medium of expression needs to be true to the chosen environment and the narration must emanate from real experiences. When these come together, magic happens. As something I experienced reading the works of Munshi Premchand.
The Guide tells the story of a journey of a young high-spirited man, who on account of his enterprise, journeys through a life less ordinary. The book does bring alive the life in a typical 50-60's era sleepy town somewhere in Tamil Nadu, but only to an extent. I felt the book moved a tad too fast. The important times and turnarounds in the lives of the main protaganists left little impact on me, let alone move me.The story is interesting and one is left thinking , in the hands of a master this would spell magic. But,my judgement is impaired because I am far removed and ignorant of the setting, this book was written in.
Which brings me to the film made on the book by the same name. The film is an entertaining watch and leaves little impact, jus like the book. That is, right until the climax. This is where the director redeems himself. The film rolls along smoothly with excellent music and Dev Anands stylish demeanour. It is the end which grabs you.
Full marks to the maker of the film for the adapted screenplay. Adapted, because, the film is only loosely based on the book. The script 'adapts' the book to a more North Indian setting and elongates the ending, much to the joy and satisfation of the viewer. The transformation of Raju from a happy-go-lucky guide to a saint is more pronounced in the film.My take, unless you're a Tam, avoid the book and have a dekko at the film.
Sunday, 25 March 2007
Here goes nothing
Well, I thought I would never blog. It seemed a platform where people pour out all the nonsense of their lives and put them up online where other and even bigger losers can read them. But I enjoy writing and and have been at it for some time. Although I am a more paper-and-pen kind of person.Unfortunately, I spend so much time infront of the computer screen, and the writing on it is so darn convenient, that I finally decided to have a blog of my own. I have a few ideas about what i am going to put up on this blog. Lets see if they materialise in the times to come.Heres wishing me all the very best. Cheers!!
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