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Rajan Bala
A soul-stirring first novel…could well be the first of its kind in India written in English …
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Meenakshi Mukherjee
It is a novel difficult to put down.
Charu Sharma
What can I say? Take a bow Hari.
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New age manners
Why I hate research
The Tax man
The perfect wife
Where have all the nice girls gone
Channelled into Stressful Pressure
Confessions of a Reformed MBA
Hyderabadi Biryani anyone
It's an Ad Mad World
Jidar Dekho Udhar-Hyderabadi Bhais
Why No Win for DD
Of Moody Telephones And Cranky Clerks
Street Smart Hydetabadi
The Great Traffic Scam
The Low Down on Light Marna-Hyderabadi Style
The Woes of a Cricket Fan
New age manners
Now that the new millennium (or whatever is going around by its name) has come, it's time to tell the old guard to learn the new age manners and stop bothering us with dirty looks at the triflest misdemeanour. If the times are changing, then manners ought to change instantly, right? We don't want the new generation perpetually worrying about dirty looks of the elders for merely following the new code.
Alright oldies (and those of the old guard) here we look at a simple thing like what to do with a dinner invitation. Let's start at the very beginning by assuming that someone had made the mistake of calling you home (their home) for dinner.
Number 1. Dress code.
The good old days:
Formal clothes, plastic smiles, well-oiled and groomed hair and all that prim and proper stuff about Kancheevaram sarees and powdered faces have been left at the turn of the century. It may be remembered that kids frequently wore dresses made of the same cloth of which made skirts, shorts, shirts and what not.
New Age Manners:
Don't bother about how you look. Grubby jeans, old shorts, tight T shirts anything goes. This is not because everyone has become less fashion conscious. It is because no one is going to waste time looking at you. Now that would surely sound strange but it's true, so don't fall off your seat yet. These days, no ones going to spare time looking at your spiked hair or your kids well-oiled hair.
Number 2. The gift.
The good old days:
Guests normally took along a small gift in the good old days. Flowers for aunty, sweets for the family, toys or chocolates for the kid..something.
New Age Manners:
Absolutely no need for anything like this because everyone has all these things already and in profusion. If you have to take anything take some food for yourself because the host may be a little too busy watching television to make food for you. You can make sure that there is enough for everyone just in case no one gets any food. Don't look like it's a bad joke. It won't be funny anymore when you start starving and there is no sign of food.
Number 3. The entry.
The good old days:
In the old times people rang bells and knocked on the door politely. Hosts opened the door and smiled and said 'Hey what a nice surprise' or 'You look lovely' or something like that.
New Age Manners:
Do not ring the bell unless you wish to receive freezing stares/ dirty looks/ unfriendly grunts because the hosts would be busy watching their favourite programme on television. Be sensitive. Walk up to the door, push it open and enter. If doors are secured from inside, try windows and if windows are secured too then it is likely that your host has changed his mind about dinner. But if you do manage to get in, don't get put off by unfamiliar faces.
Number 4. The powdered welcome.
The good old days:
In the golden olden days the hosts would be all dressed up and powdered and smelling nice in full attendance in the drawing room, smiling plastic smiles at aunty and uncle. Radios and televisions would shut up immediately as aunties and uncles are spotted half a mile away (unless tuned on to hear news of the war or as a demonstration to the downtown uncle and aunty). Small talk would begin, gifts would be given, lousy jokes exchanged and then the groups, male, female, teenage and kids would morph into little groups.
New Age Manners:
Well, none of that business here. Walk right in and holler 'Hi folks we are here'.
Don't expect the hosts to come swarming from behind secret hiding place at your announcement because they won't. They are busy doing their own thing. You may get a cursory 'Hi' and that's about it. So you do your own thing too.
Number 5. The obligatory show you the house.
The good old days:
In the olden days the host would guide the entire family all over the house and "show them". 'This is the hall, this is the kitchen, the backyard, master bedroom and such and such'. The guests would find that the young masters bedroom was kept super neat with a clean writing table, books of academia piled on it, bed lamp to read at night, clean linen and well folded clothes in the cupboard. Maybe a couple of framed Gods too. Young girls did not have their own rooms those days so it was not shown After the tour everyone settled down in the place where they find the most interesting things.
New Age Manners:
No guided tours these days because the whole things a mess and no one wants to show you their hidden wealth. You may use this new found liberty to pry around, walk into bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen etc. Look into personal belongings, read personal letters because it all helps in knowing your host better. While prying, you may watch out for old, unopened lunch boxes lying in bags, used tissues, and other such use and throw material which has not been thrown. Now the new age pryer may not browse the young masters room unless he wants to rummage through smutty books, dirty and smelly socks, stained linen and sheets and posters of nude women which may offend the sensibilities of the old fashioned. Please do not enter the young lady's rooms anyway if you value your life. While prying you may also be careful when you enter small, cold rooms that resemble prison cells because you may fall unsuspectingly upon the elderly and the dying. If they start wheezing sounds or coughing fits and ask for water, remove yourself from the scene soon because they might just die on you and you may be left holding the oldie on charges of murder. Don't leave any traces of your presence in the room. The police are smarter than they look.
Number 6. Socialising.
The good old days:
Oldies sit and yap about the good old days, uncles sit and yap abut the government or the economy, salaries and taxes (and when by themselves, about their women colleagues), aunties show off clothes and jewellery and youngsters showed off their things to one another too.
New Age Manners:
None of these for the new age guest, I am afraid. After the familiarising (prying) tour, return to the scene of activity. The host and the family would be generally watching tellly or talking on the telephone. You may watch the television too or if bored may fix a drink for yourself and settle yourself down comfortably, play with the dog, walk in the garden or whatever.
Number 7. Friends of kids.
The good old days:
Earlier friends of kids were shooed away from such gatherings unless uncle needed their help to buy some things or to help in the kitchen and with serving food. If the friends were not needed for any of the above they were shooed away because they were a major embarrassment and an indicator to the crass company the kids keep but the new age is more liberal.
New Age Manners:
All kinds of weird young things drop in to see the kids (generally of the opposite sex) and they all disappear into bedrooms, which are then locked and bolted from inside and loud music shuts out everything else. The new age guest need not worry because these days the kids are precocious and are experimenting with sex rather early. And anyway it is better then drugs. Inquisitive guests may be poked in the eye and names such as 'pervert' or 'voyeur' may be affixed by the younger generation for the lifetime so don't peep into key holes.
Number 8. Dinner.
The good old days:
In the olden days guests were led to the wash basins by the head of the family who would then stand by with a clean towel to wipe your hands. The ladies of the house would then start serving you like it's the last meal you will ever have in this life time and made one feel very important by saying things like 'Oh he is eating so little' and 'he has thinned down a bit' and such stuff.
New Age Manners:
Now the new age ladies would be in all likelihood exercising on the bike while you troop to the refrigerator and fix yourself a bite from whatever is available. If nothings available, eat up whatever you brought along (this is where it comes in handy). Being the guest you are entitled to raid the refrigerator for dessert but etiquette calls that you holler 'is this piece of cake reserved for anyone?' before you actually consume it ( if it is fit for consumption).
Number 9. The mess
The good old days:
In the olden days one could make a mess of the table and leave for the wash basin without as much as looking at the mess, hoping that the host will be there again holding the towel for your highness to wipe your soiled hands again.
New Age Manners:
In the new age it is made very clear that you bloody well clean up your own mess unless you want the dogs to be set on you. Also check out the washing up etiquette of the family and do so accordingly. Pointed talk about the scarcity of servant maid or how ill the lady of the house has been is a general indication.
Number 10. Dessert.
The good old days:
In the good old days one could head to the drawing room and burp and pat your tummies while ladies served dessert through young ladies of the house. More and more helpings would be offered.
New Age Manners:
If you are the kind who expects to eat desserts after every dinner, don't expect it to come floating by itself as you seat yourself after the meal. It is new age etiquette to bring some dessert with you while you visit someone. You may alternately buy designer paans after dinner.
Number 11. Post dinner chat.
The good old days:
In the old days the oldies would be allowed to give their views on anything and anybody and they would normally choose the young uns to lecture. Head patting, hand holding and other such highly torturous but ostensibly avuncular love for the young were then practised. In some really horrid households kids were asked to render nursery rhymes and other such stupid stuff that they might have mastered.
New Age Manners:
If by some chance you try to lecture the young lass who has called you uncle by lecturing her on television, clothes, company and telephones you are headed for disaster. The young lass generally comes back with acerbic stuff like 'What do you mean? Who do you think you are? Bloody old fuddy duddy. Have you come to teach me manners..learn a few yourself. Senile old men..' kind of a talk. In a shrill voice of a woman these words acquire totally different dimensions.
Number 12. Damages.
The good old days:
In the old days you could pick up the priceless family heirloom and drop it and the host would merely wince and say 'oh that was old anyway. I was planning to clear it off soon.' Similarly with babies that cry soon as you go near them. In the olden days hosts would say, 'oh he is not used to you' even if you did drop the baby.
New Age Manners:
The new age says that you are expected to replace, reimburse and also suffer dirty glares because they everything in this house is of great sentimental value. With babies that cry these days you may suffer dirty glares again and stuff like 'why did you go near the baby. Now he is awake and it will take me hours to put him asleep.' Angry and vicious mutterings would ensue for the rest of the evening and sensitive guests may suffer guilt trips for the rest of their lives.
Number 13. The farewell.
The good old days:
Entire family would rise to their feet and smile plastic smiles. 'Stay for some more time' 'Next time you will spend a whole day' 'Send the kids in holidays' kind of stuff followed. Young girls would be hugged, boys patted, namaskars flashed etc. The ladies would smear each other with kum kum, give and take blouse pieces and tobacco leaves and hold one another affectionately and talk of the other one's husbands as 'big brother' etc. The whole host family would move to the gate and wave until the guests become a speck on the horizon after which they all bitched about how much the guests ate.
New Age Manners:
The new age calls for a simple 'Bye' on your part where you may show your hands while host looks thoroughly to detect if you have made off with any stuff from his home. This is the only time in the whole evening that the host looks at you with such interest and he may actually say something like 'God you have put on so much weight' or 'Man you look horrible. What have you done to yourself?'. If satisfied that you are known to him and that you are not carrying anything away he may say 'Bye, shut the gate behind you'. You don't need to worry about saying bye to the woman of the house because by now the husband and woman would have had a tiff and she would have either gone to her mother's home or has a head ache. The young ones are either out or in their bedrooms.
Shutting the gate is entirely your option depending on whether you want to come back or not. Generally someone is keeping an eye on you and if you don't shut the gate someone will yell 'shut the gate will you'. If you don't like the guys act deaf and head into the brave new world. If you do, well, you can call them over sometime when you are hungry.
Why I hate research
When reports first came in that scientific research proved conclusively that the French people lived longer and healthier because they guzzled wine whenever they could lay their hands on it, I must confess that I was prominent among the revelers. I never thought much of science until then, but I quickly changed my opinion on the noble subject. My newfound views were lent strength and solidarity by the frank and forthright views of the oldest surviving human in Afghanistan who confessed that the secret to his long life was a life full of debauchery and sin. I thrust the wine drinking news item in the face of everyone who had until then, sympathetically looked at me as if I had one foot planted firmly in my grave.
Well, my joys were rather premature. Another news item followed the first one. In detailed research done by a bunch of European scientists on a group of Asians living in Europe, the results were rather different. Their research had proved conclusively that consumption of wine by these people normally led to a painful and slow death by way of clotting up of the blood or something to that effect. My pals came by with this news item and dampened my spirits so to say. I don't know if all the wine I drank in all this time or the news item but I felt a severe pain in my chest for a while. I gave up wine for a few days after that.
Sometime later I discovered that research in Canada had concluded that tea and coffee caused impotency among the middle aged and I instantly cried a halt to consumption of the above beverages. This despite suffering severe withdrawal symptoms such as shaking hands, delirious talk and loss of consciousness due to not drinking tea and coffee. Better the withdrawal symptoms than the consequences I thought. I had hardly finished congratulating myself on conquering these debilitating influences after the third week when another research in North Columbia came to the fore with rather disturbing news. A study conducted by scientists on a group of Columbians indicated without doubt that the performance of the local studs was directly linked to the intake of coffee and tea. Apparently the brew is commonly taken in those parts to increase potency. This news caused a tremendous heartburn and related stress symptoms within me instantly. Coupled with the loss of intake of tea and coffee, I must also add that it knocked my libido clean out of the window. While I re-read the article, a rush of blood attacked me and I would have done something drastic had I not fortuitously remembered that a group of Danish scientists proved that violent bursts of anger caused 3.5 % of sudden and unanticipated deaths among world population annually.
In later days my keen eye noticed that research done by a group of Malaysian scientists proved that men who spent a longer time in the loo reading newspapers lived longer while shorter women were found to be more prone to be husband beaters. Tall boys were discovered to be more likely to blush when proposed by good looking women while shorter men were more faithful to their ex-wives than their current ones. Research by scientists from Belarus proved that European teens sprayed more deodorant than their American counterparts despite the fact that the American teenager had more sex by the time they passed out of school. The rate of suicide among young Japanese was attributed to their eating more hamburgers with sauce while the rate of corruption in Africa was discovered to be higher among men who wore an ear ring on their right ear. Another astounding piece of research showed that the divorce rates were highest among couples who spent more time with each other and in the case of couples who spent the least time together, research showed the evidence of partners seeking gratification outside marriage!!
Well, that's research for you. If research is to be believed I know the secret to a long and happy life. To live longer and happier one must wear long hair, not work, drink wine, have affairs, be faithful, eat grass, sit in the middle of the road and look at the sky for at least two hours a day. And if one wants a happy married life one must merely turn into stone or alternately into a senseless dingbat that goes 'yes dear' every time it opens its mouth. The secret to avoid incidence of cardiac arrest due to stress at work, all one needs to do is chew on pencil nibs five times a week while being fired by the boss and twiddle the left foot's toes in an anti clockwise direction.
Maybe it's not as difficult as that or maybe it is!! I have not done any research on the above items but I am sure if I did some research I can conclusively prove all of the above scientifically. While at that, I must confess that reading all these items about research done by a 'group of scientists' has generated a rather cynical view in my hitherto blithe bosom. These days I wonder why these people do such activities at all. Should there be some kind of a ban on these activities, which play with the sensibilities of easily led people like me. What if one took the news seriously and started on an affair at work because 65% Britons confessed that it made work more interesting according to research. This kind of a thing could lead to loss of jobs, loss of face, loss of marriage and even inflict dangerous venereal diseases on people.
I stopped giving it so much thought these days. I read an item somewhere that research on inmates of a mental asylum confirmed that they have arrived there by giving excessive importance to useless news items.
The Tax man
Once upon a time when life was full of games and books and the worst that could happen to me was homework, exams and cabbage, I must admit that I did not know that people paid taxes. One fine day I met the tax man. The property tax man.
He came riding a moped and had a greasy smile and a little rexine bag. 'It's very hot, ' he informed me, 'can I have some water?'. Normally I was pretty rude to guys with greasy faces who came in like he did, but this guy had something about him that held me back. He held the rexine bag rather carefully and I quickly decided that it might not be such a bad idea to give him his water. I returned with a jug of cool H2O only to see him walking familiarly into the doorway. He was opening his little rexine bag.
My worst fears were coming true. That bag was bad news, I thought. He drank water with a grateful look on his greasy face and extricated an old tattered book from deep within his bag. The book opened, and revealed millions of tiny figures in it. Little numbers and small careful lines crawled all over the pages completely devoured any sign of emptiness. He located my bit of bad news shortly. ' Aha,' said he accusingly, 'you did not pay your taxes last year did you?'
I was pretty frightened by then. What's he talking about?
'What tax,' I managed bravely.
'Property tax! Whose house is this? What's the built up area? Did you get your plans approved? Is there someone staying here on rent? Who are you? Where is the owner?'. It sounded similar to interrogations that secret police resorted to with hardened jail birds and it sure did break me up into a cold sweat. I answered all questions dutifully and to the best of my knowledge, which was little above zilch.
He looked into the book and started calculating on a tiny calculator. I reached for the water and simultaneously blamed my father in my mind! He was the culprit!! I always had the impression that he was a nice law abiding citizen. Now I knew that he was nothing of that sort. He was a tax evader!! I felt thoroughly betrayed. He had no right to malign my fair name. I stood quaking in my sandals waiting to be arrested for my father's crimes. Would I be allowed one phone call at least?
The nice property tax man smiled. 'I will come back tomorrow. What time will your Dad be in?'
I was terribly relieved.
'After six. I will tell him to be in,' I assured the nice tax man. I would personally make sure that he would be there. Next day the tax man came back. Dad saw him off at the gate too; an honour that very few people received.
For some years I forgot about the property tax man. One day the tax man came again. A different one this time. Dad was not around then but Mom was managing pretty well by herself. He had that same greasy smile though and that patent little rexine bag. I could make out the outline of the little book and mentally saw little figures creeping all over the book. He smiled at me and said 'Can I have some water? It's rather hot'.
I felt an old fear gripping me. 'Yes,' I croaked and went inside.
'Mom,' I whispered 'he has come.'
'Who?' she whispered back. She was a great one for whispering.
'The tax man.'
My Mom immediately rustled up the necessary files while I fed the taxman on an exclusive diet of pot cooled water. Mom came hurrying up just when he had reached the little figures and the way his eyes lit up I knew that there was more bad news.
'Namaste amma,' he said cheerfully. 'Your tax has not been paid. How much is the built up area? Is there rented portions? Are you the owner of the house? Who is this boy? Is he a tenant? When did you last pay tax?'
'How much need I pay?' asked Mom.
The little calculator came out and calculations were done at express speed. Finally the great man looked up and reeled off a figure. Mom was ready. She got out a bunch of old tax receipts and then started reducing the figure little by little with every receipt she produced. A final figure was hammered out soon and the taxman wrote carefully on a piece of white paper. 'Ah, three hundred rupees. Too much. I cannot afford it,' said she.
Tax man smiled and said, 'It will be very expensive for you otherwise. The tax rates are going up.'
Another receipt was made out but I noticed that two hundred and fifty rupees was added to the receipt figure. The greasy man got really cheerful. He told us that if there was any problem he would be available at the office.
'..he will increase our tax otherwise,' she told me.
I was very happy that Mom and our neighbours had figured out a way to tackle the tax man. Surely Dad must have done the same thing too. I was quite happy with the result and was quite happy keeping the taxman happy for a long time after that. It never struck me to ask him what the tax rates were, why they collect tax on properties and on what basis, how much would I have to pay if he increased my tax rate and so on. I merrily went along with all our neighbours to pay the thirsty taxman his dues.
One fine day, some twenty years after my first meeting with the tax man, I happened to see something related to the tax man in the newspaper. Huge commercial complexes, said the paper angrily, had not paid a single paise tax for two decades. I could imagine the tax man of that area; rexine bag and all. A few days later there was another news item, which featured honest officials of the property tax department lamenting on the lack of honesty among the citizens that they are serving. There was a touch of sacrifice in their tone. Much would have been achieved if people paid their taxes on time they felt, if they had been honest. In the same breath they said that the tax men were rather corrupt else the position would not have been so bad. With corrupt tax men things were going to get out of hand. Well now, there was another revelation. Since the tax men were corrupt and since the corporation accepted the fact now, the only ones to save the corporation were honest people who needed to up their honesty and get more realistic and more reasonable.
You see, it is rather reasonable.
I had a funny feeling as I read the article. I wondered why I paid the tax. I wondered why I paid tax at all.
More news came out. Nobody was paying tax in most areas. Most huge complexes were not. The poshest houses were not paying taxes. Some neighbourhoods were paying more and some less. It all seemed to boil down to the honesty factor. There were some noise from the officials that the corporation was not very happy with so much dishonesty in the citizens and the tax men.
A few days later the corporation asked the honest and conscientious citizens to voluntarily disclose their property details and pay - like honest citizens that they are. My mom and her gang of neighbours got together feeling a bit like criminals. We have been paying too low taxes said they guiltily and discussed the various options that the good corporation had thought up. Everyone took the method they liked and arrived at honest figures. One month's rent they said which is so much better than the mandatory three months they said. They fell over each other trying to balance the whole thing. You see the corporation had even given a deadline for honesty. 'Citizens pay up honestly' said the guidelines and declare the details. No arrears need be paid. I saw our taxman explaining the reasonable rates to our people and exhorting them to be honest, with a straight face and a rexine bag under his armpit. I saw one commercial complex owner walk past caring two hoots for honesty. The deadline may expire warned the tax man and the act may catch up with us threatened he. The rates may go up.
At least he was consistent.
I believe that the chaps with unauthorised constructions at the end of the colony almost beat our tax man up when he went there to ask them to pay up one month's honest rent. Meanwhile my neighbours worried 'No extension of deadlines,' they whispered 'else we have to write reasons and seek extension of time. We might get penalised even…there times. The Act probably has penalties too.'
My Mom returned from one of her clandestine meetings where they discussed tax in whispery voices. 'It's a Catch 22 situation,' she whispered. 'If you pay the honest rate it surely means that you are dishonest because the honesty rates are too high. Since we cannot afford honesty let's be honest about our dishonesty. Let's declare reasonable honesty.'
We did, feeling guilty as hell. That evening Mom asked me rather hesitantly 'Tell me something son, who are these people who have been collecting honesty taxes from us all these years and why? What do they do with our taxes?'
I really did not have an answer. Honest!
The tax men you see, they work in mysterious ways.
The perfect wife
I went to congratulate my friend who was elected 'the complete man of the year' by the women folk in his neighbourhood. It came as a surprise to me actually because he was always slightly weird and effeminate as I knew him. I wondered why he was chosen the complete man of the year because I always thought that women loved the rugged, muscular types. I wanted to see what the ninny had that others did not.
He was on all fours mopping the floors. "I like to keep my house spick and span," said he, polishing a corner furiously, wagging his behind frenziedly. I have once seen a maid polishing corners furiously (in anger) but never a man, and that too a man without a motive. Weird he was, but he seemed to have some outstanding abilities. "Just sit down and I will join you in a minute," said he, "or do you want to mop that corner," he offered generously. I quickly sat down to read the newspaper.
Shortly the woman behind the complete man joined me and I congratulated her on having such a complete man for a husband. She smiled modestly and asked if I would prefer coffee or tea. I told her not to trouble herself. No trouble at all she said and I confessed to desiring tea in the mornings. She yelled, "Darling, two cups of tea for us please." Yeah. No trouble. I should have married this guy.
We chatted for a while and my friend appeared on the scenery complete with an apron, and with two cups of tea. "What about you," I enquired since I remembered him to be an avid tea drinker in earlier days. He said he had to watch his figure. I told him to come to the gym and work out. "Oh! And who will do the washing then," he pouted. "What about that washing machine of yours," I asked. "I meant the dishes," he replied hurrying back into the house. His wife let me in on the secret It seemed that their last maid developed an inferiority complex watching our man at dishes, at cleaning and mopping etc. and had to be sent to rehab. Their house was taboo for the maids community she said because it inculcated the wrong ideas about maidly duties.
I told his wife who was watching some favourite soap opera of hers that I better go since they seemed quite busy. She insisted that I wait a few minutes because darling would shortly be through with waking, washing, brushing, feeding the baby. Feeding?!! How complete can the complete man get. The family got pretty cozy in a short while as they discussed the days division of labour. The man mooned, "Honeypie, I will drop Sunny at the creche while I go to the office." Honeypie said that it was fine with her but could darling also pick up Sunny from the creche because she had shopping, kitty party, club, and such stuff lined up for her day. "I am so tied up," said she."Oh don't bother and have a good time," insisted the compete man. He was a great mystery to me. Rather uneven it seemed this division of labour but I could only take that much for then, and told him that I would call later.
All day the super man was busy in meetings, presentations and negotiations etc. Seemed like he had a busy career to balance too. He dropped in suddenly at my office eating chocolate and holding an ice cream in his other hand. Just love these said he. I quickly shut the door behind him and waited for him to finish before we stepped out. Once on the road it had begun raining. I want to get wet said the man and jumped off the vehicle like he were a nubile mermaid and did some vague rain dance like Antara Mali while I cowered inside the car. He hugged some street urchins and bought them some chocolates. He helped a couple of old people across the road, gave away flowers that he had brought for honeypie to what appeared to me to be an unmarried mother who was reduced to begging, also managed to save little school kids from falling over.
We picked up Sunny at the crèche and took him home. By the time Sunny went to sleep our food had gone cold. I drank a beer and watched TV while he warmed up the food. He joined me with some knitting kind of stuff and a ball of wool and got down to doing the work. I am knitting honeypie a lace sweater said he giggling with joy. I drank my beer faster.
Sometime close to midnight honeypie got dropped off by a raucous bunch. Honeypie and darling lost me while they fell over each other like they had not expected to see each other ever again in their lives. I coughed gently when things got out of hand and they proceeded to the dining table. And high time they did too. There was food served lovingly to honeypie and cooing about all the things that he did during the day. Honeypie formulated some strategies to counter some problem areas, complained about the food and huddled away to sleep. While he was clearing up the table I noticed that he had tears in his eyes. I was alarmed. What was the matter? I asked. "Oh I am so happy," he confessed, "and so content." He sighed deeply. "And if one is a complete man he does not hold back his tears you know," he revealed. The complete man. I went away feeling quite incomplete. I felt like crying too. The perfect wife. And he had to be a man!
Where have all the nice girls gone
It has been the cherished dream of all adolescent boys and like minded men since Adam to find the quintessential nice girl. Nice girls are the ones all men want to propose to. They are demure and coy. Their hair is soft and fluffy and they induce an indulgent look into every man's eyes.
There is more to nice girls.
They sob themselves red eyed at sad movies and bury their heads in responsive shoulders in scary ones. They shut their eyes tight during violent scenes (and close the guy's eyes during adult scenes). Nice girls find endless happiness in babies, pups and flowers and are terrified to death of cockroaches, snakes and frogs. They are highly pious and easily prone to charitable activities (they also prefer to be virgins till they marry!).
Nice girls have peaches and cream complexion with hair that blows in the air like a poem. Their eyes are soulfully big and white as a baby's and their lips are red and soft, demure. When they smile a warm glow spreads all over the heavens and when they cry, the world is draped in gloom. When they are in trouble all men rise as one to protect them and when they are despondent every heart aches to comfort them.
All guys want to take the nice girl out for coffee because God gave all men the same dream. Sometimes she may confide her dreams and aspirations over coffee; secrets that guys safeguard with their life. When she finds something funny she giggles uncontrollably (never laughs full throatedly) and causes every guy to dream of that moment when she would fall into his arms, soft as a dew laden flower.
Naturally all men want to meet her and eventually marry her (it's another thing that she happens to marry the one guy all guys hate). But the problem is that she does not seem to be around anymore.
She has somehow morphed into a confident young woman who wears trousers to work. She prefers jeans to flowery skirts on a date (just in case there is a flat tyre and she needs to change the tyre), has a python for a pet and likes riding heavy motorcycles. Her hair has weird colours and is sometimes spiky to suit the mood. She sports black lipstick and silvery accompaniments that strike the fear of God in most people and if that does not do the trick, her knowledge of dangerous martial arts and four letter words will.
She does not need the young man to help out (in fact can help out the young man better) and does not take nonsense from anyone. She does not believe in marrying because she has been out on two successive dates with the same guy and does not complicate simple issues like having a blast with getting engaged. Talk of late nights, pre marital sex etc does not make her faint (on the other hand she is quite capable of making guys blush when she gets into a risque mood). She can share a cigarette as well as a drink and puts greedy traffic cops and rude waiters quickly in their place (she can also manage tickets in black better). She can handle situations with jealous ex/current boyfriends just as efficiently as she handles her career graph and is most likely earning more than most guys around. She also has an exact idea whom to marry and what she wants to do with her life, time and money.
There is no denying the fact that these subtle changes to the woman's lifestyle are wonderful, except for the fact that it makes life pretty difficult for the man. Most men would agree that it's certainly a difficult proposition to make a macho impression on a woman who carries weapons stronger than tears and pockets deeper than his own. No wonder then, that despite such sterling features in the new, improved woman, men continue to search dreamily for the fading clan of nice girls. After all they are a lot easier to propose to than a gym trained kick boxer who jabs you sharply in the ribs for a greeting, guffaws like a ruffian and puts away rum like a sailor.
Channelled into stressful pressure
Harimohan Paruvu
After a stressful day, I clicked on the idiot box for some relaxing entertainment. Luckily I chanced upon a channel showing popular songs. Which was all very well since music relaxes you. However, before I could start tapping my foot to song No10, two imbeciles came up and held forth a discussions about their private affairs. The discussions by themselves were endless and insipid, but what amazed me was an invisible audience full of laughter, apparently finding it all very hilarious. Distressed at the antics these two, and the sponsors of the programs, I surfed on, deeply disturbed.
I stopped. A peppy young thing flashed a bright smile and talked nineteen to the dozen. She raced up the street and caught hold of a young housewife 'Do you fantasise about SRK when you go to bed with your husband?' she asked. The young housewife blushed beetroot red and shied away despite the best efforts of the crew to cajole her into confessing her dark secrets. PYT smiled indulgently into the camera with a 'You can't win em all' kind of look and turned to the young hulk standing alongside smoking. 'What do you fantasise about?' she queried. The hulk was apparently waiting to tell the world all the dark secrets he hid in his bosom, and caught on to the act immediately.
I switched on further to catch film roundups by a well-dressed young lad who made a profession of discussing public and private lives of heroes and heroines. 'Ms Z is out of the movies and it is rumoured that her affairs with producer K have died down due to L catching them red-handed. Distressed Z is now convalescing in the arms of…' The next channel had some sort of a talent finding competition going on, where singers from all over the country sang passionately and full-throatedly. There was a definite shortage of talent but then the winner took away gift vouchers and two air tickets to Goa. In addition, the winners also won 150 metres of 2 inch thick cable from Cool Cables, 4 jute bales from Jumpy Mills and 30 kilos of papayas from Fat Farms.
On the next channel I found teenage anchors twisting their young tongues trying to read out complicated names of viewers and even more complicated names of viewer's friends and relatives. In a horrifying moment, photographs were shown on the screen of young mothers and kids, wives and husband standing uncomfortably close to each other, awkwardly posing adolescents who were celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and other such forgettable days.
I surfed cautiously and gingerly after this experience and stopped at a sports channel. Huge hulks came up in weird costumes and spewed their bile on opponents and camera and went into a springboard kind of a ring where they bounced one another violently. A crowd of a few thousands were actually cheering the fake fights on. Don't people have anything to do? Less said about the fake-fights the better. I moved on to more civilized areas.
At the talk show programme hosted by a homely lady, an apologetic cop, a frequent pal of the aforementioned lady, a psychoanalyst, talked about the world's oldest profession. There was a very involved crowd that kept diverting the discussion with regular degenerate, digressing nonsense. Everyone looked distinctly uncomfortable and spoke a lot of untruths. The homely host asked many questions with a saintly, prim and sympathetic face. Bored with the unctuous host I moved on.
I also saw two politicians almost beat each other up on live telecast. They behaved in a childish and churlish manner that got me wondering what such guys were doing handling ministries. The hostesses interviewing them were distinctly uncomfortable not knowing how to clam down the two.
To revive old memories I decided to view good old cartoons. However it was quite unpalatable. They were more violent than anything else.
I now switched to the world news. More than 56 deaths were reported in train accidents, 13 in bombing, 400 in massacres in Algeria, Rwanda etc, business in the region was poor, prices were rising, a few kidnappings and murders and rapes in the cities and growing retrenchment in the companies.
Further detailed reports were given on political scams, black economy. To top it all our neighbourhood goon better known for murders, rapes and extortion appeared on TV and spoke of the nation.
This was too much. I shut the TV.
Confessions of a Reformed MBA
This is the first of a series of exposes. This one is titled 'Confessions of an MBA - The story of an Indian MBA', (not to be confused with the popular 'Confessions' series of soft porn films which are available in all leading video libraries). For the benefit of those suspicious souls who may seek my qualifications in doing so, I must say that I am qualified to confess. Having been an MBA in my past, I lived a few prime years of my life as one before I noticed many clones (fellow MBAs) flooding my life from all around. The thought of bring one of so many irked me very much, but then being a philosophical sort, I lay back and thought deeply about it. Why is there an MBA? What is its purpose? Why are there so many? Is it the age of 'The Selfish MBA?' and so on. And while thinking about it, I reached a state of mind which most MBAs merely dream of! I because a HmmMBA (which is a thinking MBA, so called because they Hmm when they think). There are suspected to be only 20HmmMBAs all over the world. As HmmBAs are wont to do, I continued to Hmmm (and at times Haww) before delving into my murky past - the world of MBAs of mmMBAs (so named because they are so delicious, they make you go Mmmm). Despite being one of them, the objectives of MBAs were never lucid enough for me. This state of haziness in my mind regarding MBAs called for a lot more Hmm than mere Mmmm and I decided to probe the subject with no further delay.
As the first step to investigate into the probable fallouts of my crusade, a dedicated team of researchers and analysts (most of them HmmMBAs) were asked to analyse critically the various aspects of the rapidly proliferating MBAs. The team shared with me the concern of the population boom in this sector and this they put first on the agenda. The team came up with a startling finding within a mere 3.64 days that the growth rate of MBAs, has but only one parallel in history. The phenomenon was fondly named as the 'Rats of Hamlin' syndrome, because in Hamlin in year unknown, rats had multiplied in large numbers for no apparent reason, and posed a serious threat to the Humans of Hamlin. In similar fashion, our researchers logically concluded that MBAs were growing out of premier institutes as whiney voiced, smooth cheeked and nose-stuck-in-the-air variety (mmmMBAs), multiplying in universities as philosophical kinds with the main aim of prolonging life as a student (HuhmMBAs), an private colleges in varieties less said the better (MBAsses), and also flock out of your friendly neighbourhood institute affiliated to great universities of the advanced world (MbaaAs). As with the rats, there was no obvious reason for the boom in population, but MBAs posed a serious threat to the engineer and doctor brigade itself (to start with) - considered as the only educated class capable of earning a decent living - and drove them to strike work/or alternatively join the MBA brigade. This phenomenon marked the beginning in this world. Our team went on a large backslapping spree at the above discovery and drunk themselves silly in celebrations that lasted all of 25 days.
After the celebrations died out, the team, in a fit of social conscientiousness resumed work. they wanted to devise steps to identify MBAs. MBAs, unlike doctors and lawyers who carry identifiable clothing, do not have any such ostensibly identifiable equipment on their person. It is however, possible to identify the MBA by the foolproof methods devised by our team called
1)the dress method
2) the flirt method
3) the know all method and
4) the air method. Method 1.
Method 1.
Dress code - dark trousers well tailored, latest branded shirts white or blue, red ties with dinosaurs, clean shaven, sweet, innocent looks. If a girl, looks range from copy to aggressive and dress code is as women are wont to dress generally. The critical aspect of the dress code in both sexes is what one ought to look for - a smug look on the face every MBA wears one.
Methods 2.
MBAs possess this inherent right to flirt. Watch carefully how he flirts with the receptionist (or for that matter anyone single and/or in skirts). Flirting is not done quietly as most other do, but loudly and within everybody's earshot.
Method 3.
MBAs are easily identifiable by their suave manner and easy confidence, as if all the world's problem had well typed out solutions only in his pocket. Remember always,- the MBA never says 'I don't know that', and also they have views, to everything and everyone.
While using method 3 you are advised to use Precaution 1, don't gaze at the MBA for too long, else you may be enlightened on most of the above.
The team also came up with what I personally found to be the best method to identify the MBA. The average MBA is also identifiable by the 'air method', which was founded by one of our senior researchers. This method is based on the air the MBA carries - a perpetual air of condescension. The of condescension may sound abstract as an identifier, so you should simply look for a face with a Cheshire cat smile, tinged with a dash or arrogance. One look at the supercilious eye will confirm the MBA.
Some well known features of MBAs were documents by two of the younger, but not necessarily brighter, members of the team which we shall incorporate for academic interest. Feature 1. All MBAs are born out of the philosophy that 'if you have nothing and build a beautiful package around it - you have added value'. Feature 2. MBAs never say 'no' to anything (with the exception of real hard work). Feature 3. MBA talk is impressive, when reviewed minus gestures, smiles, jargon and other such add ons - actually
reveals nothing. Feature 4. By talking, the MBA gets you confused, and at the same time gains more confidence form the illusion of having said something important, when in reality he might have said something ludicrous.
Finding 1. In MBA jargon, the effect of these features is called as 'Management by Confusion', which is the mother at all management concepts, but is forbidden to the world, being a trade secret.
The team coordinator came up with some well coordinated discoveries which indicated that MBAs don't stay in any one job for too long. This aspect caused a flutter amongst the analysts, because they believed that they had discovered another characteristic trait of the MBA which hinted at a nomadic bent of mind. Comparisons followed inevitably with Fa Hien and Huen Tsang and such, who were suspected to be MBAs. But then, careful analysis by three cynical elements in the team of researchers proposed the theory that the average MBA must travel to survive. "Reasons like 'faster growth, better pay, more job satisfaction, craving to excel' etc, which are proferred by the MBA, do not justify comparisons with Fa Hien and Huen Tasng, but were merely smoke screens" said the cynics to an astounded audience.
The three elements submitted clinching proof through 'The hot air aspect method' which showed that if the MBA does not travel at short intervals, the hot air aspect of his talk and work becomes obvious to some people. The MBA has been shown by the experiment to be constantly on the lookout for people whose psyche has similarities to the little kid in the fable of "The Emperor's New Clothes ' because they (the little kids) are bound to start a riot.
Usually, at the end of his short, dynamic stay, the erudite mmMBA's notable achievements are very nearly the same in most cases, and are in direct proportion to the class of institute it has passed through. These include
1) making resumes from your computer and using up all the laser printer stationery,
2) Making copies of your software, critical agreements etc,
3) Initiating an expensive project which only he can complete (finally abandoned after some research)
4) Touring all tourist spots in a sincere effort to promote sales
5) Made off with all useful data which might help the youngster in venturing into new areas
6) Married your trustworthy, reliable and pretty receptionist/executive assistant.
The bigger the institute the greater are the achievements by the MBA, and the greater the propensity of the MBA to travel at the earliest before trouble brews.
The psyche of the MBA was found highly disturbing, if the psychiatrist on the team of researchers is to be believed. They, he said, have a single purpose of succeeding without as much as a wee concern about the cost aspect (more so if the cost happens to be your entirely), have responded with blank stares when asked if they have heard of the word 'conscience', and have shown a rat like attitude in sinking ships (which is what I personally believe prompted our team to name the breeding syndrome after the famous rats of Hamlin). Sometime after this revelation, the team went away to the North Pole to enjoy the twilight and came back only 6 months later.
Confusion, the team summarised upon returning from the North Pole, is achieved mainly due to the following permutations and combinations. A load of jargon, research planning, strategizing, testing, executing, panicking, post morteming, fresh strategizing (in view of the uncontrollable variables) reimplementing etc. Suffice to stay that is the entire procedure were to be applied to the simple task of falling off a log, you will experience great difficulty and if you actually manage to fall off it, you will experience great satisfaction which provides immense confidence in you to start a new venture which teaches people how to fall off logs (at a princely sum). At this, the team abruptly ceased all research and analysis, and hurried of in a bunch to study the sexual perversions of old men in Norway and have never returned since. I promised to join them shortly after completing my mission-the subject being a great interest to me (of the old men not MBAs).
The broad course outline of countering MBAs is provided in a concise fashion below. All you have to do to render this breed incapable of functioning is to cut off its lifeline. Like humans thrive on oxygen 02, the mmMBA, it appears, thrives on ego Just cut-off its supply. Refrain from viewing it with a glazed look and wide eyes. Instead, a severe look will help in reducing its confidence levels, and consequently, its nonsense. Review objectively all that it has told you (in private) and try to sense before breaking out into wide smiles and patting it on the back. Look at it with the kind of a look that you could if you saw a hot air bag. Keep deflating that own super inflated ego and watch these know alls get caught in their own trap -of confusion and chaos. These techniques as one who has seen MBAs from close up would testify are very hard to implement, though they may sound very simple. For example, the task of looking severely into the supercilious eyes of an MBA is something that is best left to stouthearted men like the army generals department or uncivilized cannibals. Hence, you may contact our marketing department and enroll for the specialized 'RA-MBA' courses offered (after RAMBO, who was an MBO).
These are some of the confessions I have made to purge myself of the guilt of having perpetrated crimes, though unknowingly, against man and non MBA. I have begun this crusade knowing fully well the complications ahead. I expect treatment lenient to the extreme from ruffled MBAs because I have not dealt with sensitive topics to MBAs like management consultancy, export and import, advertising and even specialized areas like moving out of the organization with the entire team. The barter (silence against physical harm to me) seems to me very reasonable. As for the future of MBAs, I can aver that it will keep on happening to the world as long as the word 'confusion' is alive - in fact, after while, it is predicated that the two words shall become synonomous!
PS 1. Apologies are sought form the female of the species for reference to MBAs as 'he' due to extreme fatigue experienced by the writer in compiling this piece. Female of the species may please read all such as he/she/it henceforth. PS 2. This piece has been written only for the benefit of those who are in agreement with the author's views. All others may treat it as they would treat any corporate training programme.
Haleem- More than a fast-breaking feast
Come Ramzan season and I prowl the streets every evening. It has become a ritual, these past few years - haleem hunting. I do the rounds of the cafes far and wide. "Nayagara mein acha hai baap," squeaks an acquaintance and I am present amongst the millions near Nayagara Café that very evening "Garden ka Zabardast hai boss," said some one else and I race my scooter towards Garden Restaurant with little else occupying my mind. "Shadab ka nahin khaya kya," ridiculed another and I feel like I missed out the world's best. Kukatpally to L B Nagar, Sainikpuri to Gachibowli, Uppal to Barkas on the lookout for haleem, at Azizia or Madina or Paradise, tell me where I am not there.
Does it sound like an obsession? I don't know what one calls it, but haleem tastes wonderful to me and it is well worth every trouble that I suffer for it. Like yesterday, when I went to Parwaaz with a novice to the world of haleem. I was piqued by his behavior and suffered his endless questions. He peered at the rushes near the special counter selling haleem and asked me a naïve questions. "What's happening out there?" pointing to the rush near the counter. White bowls, spoons and, of course, the huge utensil containing haleem were mere flashes that one could see amidst the jostling multitude. I explained patiently that haleem was being sold. He asked me yet another naïve question, "What is haleem?" I was exasperated. On one hand I had this delectable haleem and, on the other, I had this philistine who had the curiosity of a banker. Sometimes I wonder why I associate with some people.
"Haleem," I explained, "is a porridge made of meat, wheat, pulses, ghee, egg yolk, dry fruits etc., It is a high protein diet which takes a long time to prepare and it takes just as long to digest." This, I thought was sufficient to shut him up. The philistine got in the way just as I almost caught the attention of the man in charge of the counter.
"But I have not heard of it. Biryani, yes. But haleem, no. And why is there so much rush now?" I had not much choice: I decided to quell his doubts once and for all. In a humongous effort I set my desire to consume haleem aside and instead took the chap out of the way and the thronging millions and steaming haleem bowls.
"This, my friend, is Ramzan time, the holy month of fasting. Now, our Muslim friends, like Aqueel, who fast through the day during month of Ramzan need a high calorie diet to keep them going from sunrise to sunset. Haleem is the answer. That little bowl you see. That will keep you going like a well-oiled engine for 12 hours. Now, you understand the reason for the rush."
The philistine joined up the thronging crowds without acknowledging my effort. The crowds had considerably increased in the meanwhile. I rushed into the café being more experienced in these matters. In the insides of the café I found myself some space and ordered myself one single haleem. Now, if the philistine were here he would ask what a single, double and special as in Parwaaz, for example. The first two have to do with quantity and the last with quality. The prices ranged from Rs. 16 to Rs. 55.
I relaxed and went into my pavlovian spasms as I waited for the haleem to arrive. I looked around me and espied many others consuming the delicacy happily. The philistine arrived with a bowl and a disheveled appearance. He seemed happy.
My bowl arrived in a more orderly fashion thanks to the helpful waiter. As we got down to work on it, the philistine noted, "Funny. I thought this was mainly for the fasting Muslims. As I see it there are people of every religion out here." And some with no religion, I thought as I looked at him gulping down the stuff like it were his last meal.
Shortly, I was done with my bowl of Haleem. I relaxed. I looked around.
Yes. The philistine was right. Haleem appeared to have broken the barrier of religion that was so carefully being propped up by some. There were as many Hindus and Christians and Sikhs as' there were Muslims in there I guess. Some things in life are inexplicable. I paid up and jostled my way out.
The philistine attached himself to me for the rest of the days so far as I did my haleem rounds and I am sure he would for the rest of the month.
Hyderabadi Biryani anyone?
In my travels away form my beloved hometown Hyderabad, till some years ago, I would, in all innocence, not even glance at the menu before blurting out my choice - biryani. I have lived to tell this sad tale. Other unsuspecting and weak Hyderabadis have lost their sense (primarily of taste, smell and justice) or worse, have turned vegetarian after consuming the non-Hyderabadi biryani. Don't be misled by glittering proclamations of'Hyderabadi biryani etc in strange lands,. What is dished out could be as outlandish as something sweet with raisins on top, rice which is purely white and cooked, dumped on top of sweet chicken curry and a lot of a gravy at the bottom. I know it is hard to believe, but it is the truth. And its no use arguing with these chaps. They believe with all of their collective hearts and souls that biryani can be nothing else but what has been served.
Whoever said that ignorance was bliss was definitely representing the ignorants. It is nothing like bliss for someone on the other side of the counter to explain the sheer blunder of calling this elementary mixture a biryani. The first few times I burst out articulately upon the waiters, cooks and managements, I expected to see them shrinking in fear at having had their racket exposed. Surprisingly, they took a rather unpleasant view of the entire thing and treated me the way ancient Greeks would have treated Socrates and his ilk. Ever since those unpleasant few times, each time the biryani turned to ashes. I just barely resisted a strong urge to have a straightforward talk with the cook as regards to what a biryani is, what it ought to look like and how it would generally taste. And over the years, my indignant anger has slowly mellowed into a philosophical attitude and I merely reserve a dirty look for these cheap imitations.
Hyderabadi biryani, in all the ambience reserved for it, is like a dream. It took me many years and many more sad disappointments to realize that biryani is biryani only in Hyderabad. Anywhere else, it is only ashes. To feel so strongly about something so personal one needs a passion, and my passion is borne out of experience. Experience that is best shared. My first out-of-Hyderabad biryani incident is still clearly etched in memory.
We were touring Kerala and were in the vicinity of Calicut. There was this small joint looking reasonably clean and sincere. Can't blame them. They were serving biryani in their Chinese section. I went for it in a trice. I guess the other ingredients were OK. I would not have puked if it were not boiled rice and that coconut oil. I lived on a diet of snacks for the rest of the visit with banana chips heading the list of favourites. I vowed every single recurrence of the nightmare away with promise to my stomach that biryani in Kerala was a thing of the past. It was only after much cajoling that my stomach recovered from the psychological and physical trauma it underwent at the hands of the Calicut biryani maker.
Back at Hyderabad with my system well in control, I slowly got over the Kerala experience. My wariness at any suspicious biryani was evident when in Madras one smart cookie tried to pass off his speciality as Hyderabadi biryani. My early warning system was up in a trice with blaring sirens and I waited patiently sipping soft drinks until I spotted one fellow customer who fell for the bait. It was just as I suspected. The biryani was no biryani. Merely ash. My stomach rumbled and grumbled in pain at what the eye saw and the nose reported. I had to look away to stop any further damage. The customer however being of non-Hyderabadi origin seemed to relish the ash and went his away, burping loudly. The experience left an indelible mark on my mind. I could not sleep that night. Something must be done to educate these poor unsuspecting people. Nothing Hyderabadi could be biryani. I went home planning to start a 'Know Your Biryani Cub'.
Back at Hyderabad, long discussions took place among various biryani lover groups and plans went right up to making a public issue of our organization shares. I walked away after I was curtly voted out as chairman of the movement because I stuck to my basic intention of educating the masses. My alleged biryani activists have since opened a chain of biryani restaurants in faraway places and have been reportedly doing a very good job at convincing people that this is the real thing.
I have not spent much time worrying over biryani eaters after that. You get what you deserve, Caveat emptor. Sufficient years down, I bumped into old friends in Clucutta. Being surrounded by fellow Hyderabadis of the college chum variety, we all were on a roll of indiscretions. We swaggered in to this neat little restaurant on Park Street which had a turbaned chap ushering us in. Everything seemed nice and above board. Cool evening, good company, bonhomie, good cheer, Beer flowed and the young painted thing crooned sexily reminding us of our college flames and first romances. Sufficiently softened, we did the typically Hyderabadi thing to be done. Led by our hearts with no trace of the head being involved in the decision ( I had totally forgotten my earlier experiences for the moment), we ordered biryani.
The steward looked like a nice chap, and his face betrayed no trace of what he would subject us to just a few moments later. He came smiling at us and we smiled back not fathoming the venom behind his smile and moved the cutlery and adjusted our napkins. After biryani that day, our group meetings have never been so lively again. They are always marked by a sense of the tragedy we all shared in Calcutta.
Recently, I advised my wife against the danger of trying biryani in Bombay. She argued that Hyderabadi biryani culture is a trickle down of the great Bombay Irani café culture. She told me that I was like all men Didn't want her to enjoy life etc. I did not want to face a domestic quarrel, so I let her suffer the biryani. Her mother told me that she had been a healthy child all along and had fallen ill only once in all her life. The doctor tried everything including treatment for food poisoning. Later on, in retrospect, I felt that it could have been something to do with the psyche. I should have gone to the psychiatrist. She's back to normal and has even come back to eating biryani without a care in life. One good thing that came out of it was that she has being taking my advice seriously these days. I am now well past succumbing to wily charms of these fake biryanis. It happened to me and I remained disillusioned for a long time.
But then, hope makes the world see morrow. After a long time, I came back to Hyderabad recently. Finding some free times, I called up an old friend and we agreed to meet for lunch and probably see a movie later just like the old times. I got to the rendezvous early, out of habit and found that nothing much had changed physically.
It just took me longer to get there and I was dirtier than I would have been a few years ago, but once I got there, it did not matter much. The parking was no more on the main road these days, so I parked to a side and waited. And watched the entrance to our restaurant. Every now and then, burping customers would walk out with expressions that epitomize satisfaction. At each opening of the door, a whiff of biryani would tease my nostrils.
My friend came by and we went in worldlessly and ordered a biryani each, knowing that we could always speak to each other later. Biryani came ina traice. These guys beat an Udipi restaurant or Goran Ivanisevic hollow any day when it comes to fast service. The aroma acted like no appetiser could ever. No pretences like cutlery etc. The process from here has been what has been going on for ages, so follow carefully all ye who are not familiar with this heavenly experience.
We get a plate each, and a bowl filled to the brim with biryani. On the table, you have two little bowls of raitha and what is called 'giravy' by the waiters. Once this stuff gets on to the table, forget manners, culture, civilization etc. Just let go your basic instincts. In a few minutes, you would have stripped the chicken/mutton to the bone and there is no trace of anything else left. The stomach is purring happily and the mind has gone on a vacation. Follow the biryani with a hot cup of tea. Sweet, hot and soothing. Don't ask for the bill - the waiter just pockets the amount and hands you the change. The time has come to move your drowsy body over and out. Most can't resist burping and patting stomachs. Don't resist. Grab a paan and a cigarette and your meal is complete. I mean, your biryani experience is complete. Or better still the 'biryani trip' is complete, because at the end of it all, you are gone beyond the highest clouds. Totally stoned.
This is what happens to all who pass this way. And it happened to the two of us friends again after all these years. He - back from the US for a short visit and I from a self-imposed exile in the remote corners if India. We rediscovered a hidden bond between us. Silences were comfortable. We were beyond the petty and mundane. We experienced the biryani together.
This-the biryani we grew up on. My friend got emotional and said that this was like realising a dream-this is what makes one want to come home. I nodded. Words can never describe some things.
It's an ad maad world
As this subject influences every living being on the planet, I decided to call upon some alien friends of mine to conduct a study and find out if human development is headed in the right direction. The aliens opined that the study ought to be restricted to the most critical factors influencing mankind's development and they went about identifying the factors in their own alien way and found one single factor affecting everything and everybody on the planet. I inadvertently accessed the draft report produced by the alien team on my PC and I must confess that I found the alien findings quite perplexing. The report apparently made for universal reference, explains commonplace terms in a manner easily digestible to the universal reader.
"Almost everything on planet Earth known to human beings (HBs), allegedly the most intelligent beings surviving the Earth, is influenced by a humanly developed tool called Marketing and advertising (Maad). The tool is invisible but omniscient, intangible but with a deadly effectiveness. Maad is professed to be the ultimate enricher of life (Life as defined by humans is the span of time between birth and death and all that happens between these two events). Even as we write the report, Maad is the subject of much discussion among various intellectuals (intellectual HBs are those who are certified as being more intelligent than the ones who certified them). The tool is highly popular despite not being openly embraced by all categories of humans. Since it is intangible, invisible and is vapid to the extreme, it is best understood by way of a comparison of human life before and after Maad."
Marketing and advertising! My favourite subjects. I never could have imagined that they had such effects on mankind. The aliens' explanation of Maad makes it out to be rather complex - probably a perspective problem. And as for the intellectuals, they discuss everything, don't they?
"During a normal lifetime, normal human beings (HBS) basically survive by indulging themselves in eating and drinking a variety of food and drink. On satisfying themselves with food and drink, HBs, by virtue of conditioning and precedent, turn to clothing and unclothing their bodies to suit the climate. They are operating all this while out of private shelters called homes which provide them a feeling of security. Older HBs develop an irrepressible craving to engage in the act of coitus at the drop of clothes or at the drop of a hat (if all one is wearing is a hat), which is basically for procreation, but which has wide-ranging uses as a recreatory tool. The craving for coitus takes up a major portion of the older HBs' thinking life forever.
Activities related to the above areas consume 99.99% of a human life and nothing much else was required or aspired for by these simple beings. The direct result of coitus with the other sex are young HBs who exhibit qualities very similar to parasites in flora and fauna kingdom, and they live happily in a home, together with equally happy parent HBs till one of the specie dies, and so life went on and off….
The alien perspective of human lifetime much to be desired. Rather too simplistic. What about feelings, emotions etc? Are these sublime characteristics mere rubbish? Don't they mean anything to these aliens? Come to think of it…..
"Until recent years, this was the normal course of a lifetime of an HB. HBs were cruising at a comfortable pace in life deciding for themselves and using their own information and intelligence. Then Maad happened. Maad is a deviously simple concept. It is all about the quality of life - i.e. it's all about offering options to everything and thus giving one the right to choose. It divides the whole of the HB population into two clear segments. There are "Marketers" who offer and there are 'suckers' (a term coined at the first global conference of markers), who suffer the offer. The process grows complex as options keep increasing with increasing competition among Marketers and more and more features are added into offers to differentiate the offer. In an ideal situation, the sucker is an intelligent and discerning individual and this is what is generally presumed by the Marketers, However, we found that in most cases, Marketers, without doubt, seem to be more intelligent than Suckers.
I found myself increasingly identifying with the latter group. They seemed like a bunch of guys I knew and could relate to. This chapter was followed by a whole chapter psychoanalyzing the psyche of the Sucker in reaction to the use of such slogans.
Alarmingly, the report mentioned that "the intelligence of Marketers has spawned myriad options which cause immense stress on the Suckers' already debilitating brain, causing the S'er to behave irrationally. For example. We shall cite the case of Marketers enriching life thought an underpant (crude pieces of cloth hidden under pants to cover roughly 5% of the body.) Today, the underpants are offered as wearing an attitude, creating a mood, by weekday, by holidays, by days and by nights, by ambition, by defining and redefining sexuality (a complex subject), by in life, by dreams, by careers, by your girl friends and so on and so forth. Options such as these are available for every part of your dress. In exercising the choice, each Sucker believes that he is making a statement. Many Suckers have made the cardinal mistakes of choosing different statements by attire and have ended up in a bad way due to a clash in the personalities of the clothes. And this is only one aspect of an inconsequential underpant - you have everything else in the world to exercise your choice upon!"
It left me quite confused. I was half crazed by the time I figured out that I had committed the cardinal sin myself. However, I calmed myself and read on….
"It is not known clearly whether Maad has its roots in the ancient cultures of the East (almost everything in the planet is plagiarized from ancient cultures from the East), or if it were merely the discovery of some uncertified intelligent HB. Maad is now known as a philosophy only, but it is known from reliable sources that it may even become a religion very soon. It is so popular that all new buzzwords in the world (a buzzword is a word which certifies intelligence by merely spouting it) like capitalism, consumerism, open markets, liberalization et al have their roots firmly embedded in Maad. Maad's beginnings were humble - it began with a two - word definition called need satisfaction and has now grown into an intangible life-force which dictates the world's needs. And if any human being is foolish enough not to know his / her own needs, it shall also educate them on the need and proceed to fulfill the needs in every way."
A sinking feeling overcame me. This was gross distortion of facts. But they left me a bit uneasy also. A macro - view of Suckers offered me some solace.
"Suckers develop into smart suckers (which automatically disqualifies them from being a sucker ) over years of suffering offers as in the case of advanced areas. In these select geographical areas, the Marketers influence on them is negligible - with a mere flicker of an eyelash, the sucker can discern between a can and a con Marketer (Ref: Suckers guide to Marketers'). An important development here is that these categories have expressed their desire to go back to nature i.e. the old way of things. Hence, all Marketers on the planet have now turned to the Suckers in the 3rd World (a name given to the biggest Suckers on Earth). These Suckers, also called the newly crowned kings (NCK's) are a big mass of living beings quite happily close to nature's basics (which is where Suckers of the advanced areas now want to be) Now, under the full glare of the Marketers' attention, it was observed that the newly crowned kings more often than not suffer from the Maad delusion - a status that affects everyone of those who are overexposed to this hypnotic tool initially. One who suffers from the delusion starts believing that he/she is what he/she is eating, drinking, wearing, riding, writing with etc. It leads to behaviour which is not typically normal to the person, and in most cases, it has a permanent effect. Also, some Suckers suffer from an acute inferiority complex by the real, enriched life projected by the marketers that they consider themselves deader than the dead."
At least, I was better off. I don't suffer from the Maad delusions or complexes luckily. Come to think of it, why did I change my… well.. I was strangely elated when the study also found that the Suckers of the world had a few activists championing their cause.
"Some Suckers are known to have voiced apprehensions that some features of offers have no relevance to the offer's function, but the sheer pressure of peers who are crowding sales outlets has them wondering if it is better to buy it now than when prices increase and voice apprehensions later. (In fact, one particular Sucker activist had bought a ceiling fan because it has a band than matches the color of his air conditioner, immediately after a sucker rally.). The fear of missing out on good things have let many with a lot of offers which will enrich their lifestyle. Most of them are trying to figure out how these ingenious offers will enrich their lifestyles, but luckily for them they have bought the stuff when the prices were low and the models cheap".
The poor aliens know nothing of the way the market works. They would be quite surprised to know that the sucker activist is not the only one to buy that fan. If they lived here, they would queue up too. I was quite happy to find out that the aliens had included some thing about feelings in the last chapter…
"HBs are showing definite signs of having been affected by these Maad wars. Now they have even stopped dreaming - instead they have options all the way. Imagination and fantasy of our educated intelligent Sucker works perfectly well for the Marketers. All that is to be done is that dreams are to be dreamt up and then relate any offer to the dreams. Sucker feels that by using the product, he is living the dream. Marketer feels that he has improved the lot by supplying the dream. Marketer feels that he has improved the lot by supplying the dreams and associate products. The Sucker who has understood the need aspires to reach the dream. There is a vast section of Suckers who do not understand why their life needs to be enriched, but still do it, so that they don't miss out on any good thing."
So much about kings and their lifestyles. The conclusions were pretty obvious. The aliens indulged in a suspiciously congratulatory tone towards the end of the report.
The report, I concluded, was a total disaster, and hence discarded it. I hope the aliens don't put the information to some bad use.
I found a small note from one alien to another at the end of the report that made no sense to me something about telling the emperor about his clothes.
Jidar Dekho Udhar, Bas Dhamkianch Hai!
Is it possible to be courageous and philosophical at the same time? This is a question that troubles many from the land of the Musi. Because, on the inside, they are seething with lava, the fuel of the brave, ever ready to erupt in a volcano, but in the eye of the storm you have the heart of a philosopher - wondering if it is all worth it (a situation that Emperor Ashoka was familiar with).
Despite these introspections, the Hyderabadi displays his quick temper ever so often and, as one shall discover upon close observation, also has a predictable routine of displaying aggression. The routine is much like those practice matches which are conducted to hone these fine budding skills for the big games. But how can such volatile flares of temper be labeled routine one would ask. If one were not familiar. But one who is familiar with the wars of Hyderabadis merely watches amusedly at the rhetoric that follows and makes quick notes of any minor improvisations in techniques.
You don't require much to get under the Hyderabadi hide (the denizens are of fragile emotional balance). Even a harmless stare (kya ghoor ke dekh ra re??) could be fraught with danger sometimes and commence a major display's of aggression. And it was must that my baptism with fire began. Then, as a young kid, I found the sport of starting at shop windows laden with sports goods very amusing. And at this busy mall on the fateful day I was caught staring at merchandise which I would've owned if I were Imelda Marcos, when I sensed a figure at my side. Upon a quick mental recap I realized that this figure was posted in front of the very window that I have been staring at, ever since my arrival, chewing what could have been cud by the way he moved his jaws. Anyway, I never cared much for guys who chew cud harmlessly but when they look upon you with the clear cut intention of exchanging hostilities I think about the entire situation and act very carefully.
If I forgot to mention earlier, the loomer had to detach himself from a similar group of cud chewers who had struck postures totally signifying a leisurely bent of mind Some had rested their backs along the mobike seats, some were sitting on the pavement and dreaming against the sides of their battle worn scooters, some others were affectionately embracing their friends. All in all leisure seemed to be their motto. Apart from the fondness for leisure, another common feature of this herd seemed to be the tendency to build muscles on par with great wrestlers, chew cud and exhibit a demean our which suggested that they would not think twice before engaging in hostile action.
Anyway the loomer loomed and at a comfortable distance from me, struck a leisurely poser directly inline of vision of my object of desire of my object of desire which at this moment were snazzy pair of tennis shoes. I looked up shiftily at this disturbance mainly because it was not possible to avoid the gent and only a coward would have done a 180 degree turn and walked away at this challenge. Our man desisted from chewing for a moment, spat out some muck and began the pleasantries by asking me, a shade threateningly what I was staring at.
In colloquial scripts the same words assume a tone which can be withstood only by men used to such situations or men who can look their girlfriends in the eye after standing her up. I was in neither category and worse, was a law abiding citizens, and naturally went cold in the heart, felt sweat on my brow which was also cold and smelt around me unmistakable smell of fear. To the question I answered manfully in a quaky style "What, what, what,… " The man listened patiently and repeated in a deliberately irritating slow manner the question. I decided to tell him the truth because no other option struck me. But truth sounds like truth only when told in a calm and authoritative manner. Authority, obviously vested with the loomer at this point of time since he had seized the advantage by making the first offensive move. Calm was the farthest state from where I was. What resulted was a pathetic stammer which was low in decibels and lower in clarity. Loomer was plainly irritated at my non communicative mode and thundered 'What?' at which I raised my voice and croaked that I was staring at the window and added that I did not mean offense by doing so and could be let bygones be bygones and laugh at this human error he had committed in thinking mistakenly that I was staring at his offensive jaw. Loomer said for the 5th time the one word that he knew to perfection 'What?' like thunder, only louder and that caused my heart to skip a beat, my temperature went colder that ice. sweat flooded my shirt. Tears were only more thunder away, my limbs refused to listen to my mind's advise to run off elegantly and naturally my voice got lost in this confusion. All was not lost however because at this crucial moment something miraculous happened which converted me into a believer. Curious onlookers, I noticed out of the corner of my watery eye, had gathered around us. I prepared myself for a fresh bout of humiliation from this crowd which I knew would soon be laughing themselves silly and cracking up like the cud chewers in the background. A long moment passed and there was considerable grimness in the air with which I had got very intimate in the last five minutes. It was broken by a voice, a man's voice (I mean a real man) which enquired simply what the loomer's problem was. Why, continued this brave voice, was loomer threatening me. Could he not pick on someone his size said the voice. It was obvious that I meant no harm supported the voice, so what was the loomer's problem. And concluded on that logical note with a notice that any further hostile action from loomer would not be taken lightly by the congregation of my supporters (I thought they were my supporters because they did not laugh at me yet.) One of my supporters looked at me sympathetically and wondered why I remained mute at loomer's necessary aggression. I looked sheepishly at him while blinking back the tears that had crept on precociously. At this moment the great realization struck me as to why distressed damsels fall into their saviors arms and sob uncontrollably (something that I thought was unnecessary until that time). Given a chance I would have emulated the act but then the rescue act was not over yet as the loomer was made of sterner stuff.
This, countered the loomer in supreme style, was a personal problem between us, so would the rest quit. I looked beseechingly at my saviour and looked to hold on hold on to his shirt tail which unfortunately was tucked in at his slim waist, and was glad to note that he thankfully was in no mood to agree with any one of loomer's view points. Loomer's associates by this time had spat out their wads and loomed behind lommer reserving only the most poisonous looks at me for being the cause of what they perceived in their immatrure minds was loomer's humiliation. I did try to smile in a patch up way but they would but buy it and instead spat out another wad violently. Loomer emboldened by this spate of spiting enquired from my hero whether he was concerned about his safety. Hero replied that loomer was in a delicate position to be talking about anybody else's safety but his own and also added that he had been watching loomer's activities for some time. These activities he opined were lower than the lowest. Loomer did not take this kindly this being rather personal, and told my hero to back off while the going was good on rise.
My hero did not entertain these vague suggestions and requested loomer to specify what he meant - or else. Loomer changed the topic suddenly and enquired if my hero belonged to Rajanna's gang and if so he (my hero) better watch out. My hero obviously better informed than Loomer replied that Loomer's gang was well-known to him and added as an afterthought that he (my hero again) was capable of burning up the twin cities so loomer better seek help from blisters. Loomer responded handsomely that he knew all that mattered and my hero would disappear into oblivion with a mere click along with his friends and relatives. At which my hero threatened that loomer's face would be beautified by some concentrated H2504 at the earliest and various another alterations would be conducted on his anatomy by a team of specialists, Loomer confirmed from my hero if he had the guts to actually do it, and hero said evenly that it was top most priority in life from now on.
Despite the growing intensity of the threats the picture was waning and I lost interest in their scripts. I found a way out of the crowd without anybody actually noticing me. For a few days I avoided the street prudently for fear of the loomer and his gang. Many years passed. I found myself joining many groups of such onlookers and their experiences taught me one thing. Violence is abhorred by these warring sides who merely exchange notes on the capabilities and intentions. Their restraint would have pleased a nun and they always say the same lines in the same mannerisms. The cases are diverse and range from one as seemingly innocuous as the one I suffered to bigger ones concerning loose change, love, traffic bumps, political difference etc. It must be mentioned that serious aggression come up when women, wine, money and power are involved and that is an entirely different head from what we discussed just now. Until then our bucolic warriors shall seize every opportunity to hone up these skills at oral welfare. These days I merely walk away from these practice sessions like a coach who has seen it all.
P.S: All conversations are in chaste Hyderabadi without the least bit of of corruption and hence could not be reproduced.
No-Win situation for DD and Cricket
It is with growing resentment that cricket fans across the country are talking in terms of taking up cudgels against one of the biggest threats to the game today.
Clinching proof has been gathered in recently concluded studies that Indian cricket fans who were subjected to watching the Indian cricket team play, suffered tremendous stress. This revelation is no great finding by itself. It is the second revelation that got the fans really cheesed off. It concludes that when the fans watched cricket on DD, they suffered stress 125 times more intense than the stress suffered by viewers who watched the same matches live (at the stadium) or on other channels. In mortal fear the fans congregated to settle the issue.
Discussions were rife in the meeting and no one needed to be told about the sort of harm that was being caused. Everyone had suffered at its hands even as recently as the Sri Lankan tour. The fans were quite upset naturally because they felt that they had suffered enough, watching the Indian cricketers. "What about our feelings? We have feelings too don't we", wailed some fans who had withered away into pale shadows of their former selves after watching too much DD.
"It is bad enough being an Indian supporter these days. We are under constant stress. The least we expect in the name of humanity is some sensitive handling. Not this torture of having to watch the matches on DD." There seems to be a point here, especially after what statistics revealed in the above mentioned studies. There was a guy who seemed to be a spy from the Ministry because he asked why everyone blamed DD. He said that DD was doing a commendable job considering that they were competing with evil foreigners who were infiltrating our culture. DD is patriotic, secular and a totally indigenously developed technology. In a world where Indians are being derided for not winning this was a great victory of right over wrong. The victory of Indians over foreigners.
Some belligerent fans almost beat him up. Some decided to hold him hostage to blackmail DD into giving up telecasting cricket matches. Some others said that they could use him as an envoy to convey their feelings to DD. It was proposed that they all list down some of their demands to DD irrespective of what they did with the spy.
A charter of demands was produced within minutes by the fans there. The gist of the main demands to DD read thus. "Do not telecast the cricket matches. Do not telecast tennis matches. Do not book time without thinking of the last few overs which are the most crucial. Do not show advertisements while something important is happening like people getting out, boundaries being scored etc. Do not use black boards to convey stupid messages. Do not use boring soporific guys to tell us what we already know before and after every telecast. Do not use cameramen who keep jerking the camera crazily. Do not keep going off for unexplained reasons between 1 and 2.15 in the afternoon. Do not think that viewers are idiots who have nothing better to do than change channels. Do not employ services of in-house experts to comment on the game. Do use better graphics."
It went on. This list was too big felt the elders. DD cannot comply with the list because by the time the authorities took cognizance and understood the demands, all the fans would be dead. It seemed like a Catch-22 situation. Fans started to come out with alternatives. Some fans decided to stop watching the game, thereby causing a fall in revenues in the long term to DD (for low TRP's). Some others said that a bandh ought to be called for protesting against DD. Some felt that DD should be booked under Sec. 420 for not showing the last few overs of the match. Some felt that DD and DD Metro should be sold off as a package deal to our enemies. Some felt that DD was a big scam by itself which ought to be hounded by the CBI and such.
All the above options were carefully screened by the fans committee and they found immense strength in each single view ranging from satyagraha to selling it off. However the most suitable suggestion came from one of the senior fans. He opined that there was the possibility of a deadlock because of DD losing face. He suggested a simple way for DD to honour the sentiments of the fans without losing face.
All DD has to do is to take up a stance that it will not telecast any foreign sports. It simply had to ban all leftovers of the English Empire in the 50th year of Independence. Now this line would appeal to our politicians and there would be considerable uproar in parliament while this historic decision is being made. DD can go back to areas where it specialises. Areas where no foreign channel can challenge it despite the best technology etc. Areas like agricultural inputs, light commercial music, national disasters, UGC etc. This is the domain where DD's cameramen are most comfortable. These programmes never go beyond a certain time and even if they do DD manages some miracles. No one advertises on these programmes so no stress for viewers.
Everything about this proposal was great. Except for one thing. The spy felt that the fan was getting everything and DD was getting nothing in return. The elder fan came back with another simple solution to this. He said that the fans would add cricket in the list of the things that the Queen is going to apologise for!
Of Moody Telephones And Cranky Clerks
The dreaded notice was back I knew enough of it by now to know what it said. That my telephone connection would be cut just like that. Like a prematurely dead sidey who dies for no fault of his in a classic tear jerker. No fault of his. No fault of mine either. But the department of telecommunications told me in no uncertain terms by way of the notice in my hand, that it was no fault of theirs too. I was not worried about the department's ugly tone, being in no way intimate with it. I was not even worried about accusing telephone sympathists pointing fingers at me and whispering to the masses-"He is responsible for cutting that lively, innocent connection. How it served him day and night, how callous". No. I am only worried about my poor telephone which I knew was very sensitive to such uncalled for hostilities.
I have many associates who share my view that the department of telecommunications should be sued for behaving so heartlessly and terrorizing these little instruments of joy. How my telephone would hurt when it knew of the notice to cut off its connection, its very life! So I had got the line reconnected but then telephone are like mirrors which tend to get cracked. Once they get disconnected they are never the same again. There is a deep and permanent scar on their psyche: They do not ring in that carefree tone anymore. Now their ring is hesitant, reluctant and wary. And the more the reconnections the more they tend towards being moody. And this elementary fact eludes these insensitive guys at the department who keep pumping in mail offering to cut up our connections, my telephone behaves quite unlike its regular gentle self and turns very unpredictable. Sometimes it rings, sometimes it does not. Sometimes its rings only once. Sometimes you can hear, but the other side cannot. Sometimes the opposite happens. Nothing beats a moody telephone, nothing but a cranky clerk in the telephone department.
I knew the routine well. I picked up the file of telephone bills and quickly went to the concerned bill which the department had found to be listed in its unpaid ones. I had already done this once before and the lady there had smiled and given me my reconnection with all the grace of a queen. This was the same bill again and I shook my head in exasperation. Yes here it is. But wait a minute! The receipt, where was it? My heart went icy and my mouth went dry (like dry ice), my nose and forehead went wet while the knees went weak. I went through the file carefully page by page. And came up with the finding that all the receipts for 15 years prior to the one in question were intact and in good shape. The one in question was not!
If I were part of a management team trained to meet disasters while eating breakfast I would have been normal. If I were the manager of the West Indian Cricket team I would have taken it coolly. If I led the coalition government everything would have been fine. But I was me. I cannot tackle things out of the ordinary. Ordinary would have been to find my receipt in its place. Disaster to me is receiving a notice itself. The current situation was definitely beyond me. The last time I visited the department I was scared, even with all my receipts and papers. How can anyone face those narrow eyed, thin mouthed clerks who are so busy that they will not acknowledge you for at least 7 minutes after you get there WITHOUT THE RECEIPT?
Search, search and search and 12 hours later my house is ravaged. Crawling through it I found its resemblance similar to the house turned inside out by a gang of burglars smugglers who thoughts the diamonds were in here. Books lay strewn, cupboards were turned inside out, clothes hung listlessly, mattresses and pillow slit open cold-bloodedly, furniture askew. Yes, everything had been gone over with a fine comb. I could not bear to look at the telephone which rang innocently then It still had no idea of the disaster. But how long could I hide the fact from it? I had no option but to do the dreaded thing again and my hair stood on end at the though.
There was no other way. I spent a long night. In my nightmares I dreamt that the mean looking peon at our section was laughing at me and brandishing my receipt at me just out of my reach. When I almost got it he pulled it away laughing raucously all the time. It was terrible!
In the morning, I dressed carefully, no offensively colored T shirts nor my Lee jeans which would cause a fresh wave of antipathy. A half sleeved white shirt worn outside a grey trouser which rode up my ankles and chappals. This dress code would not offend these sensitive souls, I decided. Another look at my poor telephone and I set out like a man on a mission (which was what I was).
The ordeal began with the unfriendly chap at the parking lot who was not satisfied with the position of my vehicle and insisted, amid frenzied whistle blowing, on minute changes on the x and y coordinates. Sadist! I went up the paan stained stairs holding my life, carefully avoiding the walls which sported freshly spat red paan. Also avoided a lot of people who were loitering around with the look of those with lost connections. As I turned the corner, I felt a growing apprehension, a bobbing Adam's apple and a whooshing sound blocking everything else in my head, I trudged manfully on. 'Don't loiter in the corridors' warned a sign in bilingual. But the corridor was full of people who either found them more conducive to conduct business or did not understand either of the languages.
After wandering around for a while. I managed to find the section. I went up hesitantly to the accounts office. My voice generally is deep and booming and my demeanor is also generally confident but these assets of mine undergo a sea change in the presence of these all powerful people. My voice went soft and squeaky and my manner extremely pliable and meek and it was thus that I presented my problem to the AO, " Sir…this notice…sir…I have paid the bill…sir…receipt appears to be misplaced…sir…please help…sir' I said in a shameless exhibition of one who has kept self respect locked up at home. Satisfied with my tragedy the AO took a minute off from his busy schedule and peering at me through thick glasses asked me my number. My heart pounding as this early success. I whispered apologetically and directed on a faraway table, busy discussing various domestic problems.
My moment of truth. I thanked him profusely and went onward.
I sidled up to her carefully trying to mingle with the background so as not to upset her delicate swings of mood. When she finally glanced at me after a long while, I began my rendition of impending tragedy and how she could save me from it, on the lines of Mark Antony's speech. She heard me partially and comprehended my problem. 'Now we are computerizing the system so there are many problems. It is possible that you may have paid the bill. But without the receipt we cannot help you. You have to atleast give me the details of the cheque number and date. Or else you may have to pay the amount again and we shall adjust it when you find the receipt's,' she said putting forth the departments point of view. I told her that the bill was one and a half years old and that I cannot to pay it twice like that because I cannot afford it, that I met her just last quarter regarding the same problem, and that the department should be able to tell me if it has any record of the transaction at all. She shrugged and said she can't help it. Blame the system, Blame the society. It is the way things work she said. I dived into a rousing speech again and even managed a few tears in my eyes. She likes tearjerkers I knew. She sniffed and pointed out a bunch of registers to me and said 'Look through those records. They are daywise receipts. Try to find your payment details there'.
Daywise receipts and had to look at one and a half year old records' What was that thing she said about computerization again?
You wouldn't believe it but overjoyed I was. Here was a chance to save my connection. I settled down in a corner and began my task when the register banged shut. A short, squat, mean looking gorilla looked me squarely in the eye and spat venomously 'Kya hona? Department se hain kya? Yahan kya karein?' I shook my head meekly and truthfully and he ordered me to get out. I looked at the lady helplessly. She looked at me helplessly. I told gorilla that I was sitting there upon her advice and gorilla told her she would get into trouble with this sort of thing.
I asked lady if gorilla was her superior. She told me he was the peon. My self respect landed on the bottom with a thud. The lady at the next desk, a narrow eyed, thin lipped one and a real supercilious thing looked at my sympathetic lady and screamed loudly 'Why are you showing him our records? Let him get his receipt. Otherwise let him pay. Simply wasting or time' she spat vehemently and my dream of salvaging the situation crumbled in from of my every eyes. I thought that maybe the second lady had mistaken me to be there son of the man who murdered her ancestors or something.
My telephone flashed before my eyes. I pleaded with everyone. I said 'sir, sir' softly to disappearing back. I waited patiently while women discussed soaps. I went sir, sir after the gorilla too. Finally I went out in despair. My telephone would get cut. Cut, cut. Cut.Telephone cut. Water cut. Power cut.
And suddenly something went click in my head. Had I not put a receipt in our letter box because there was a power cut and I couldn't find my file? Could it be the same receipt? Would it still be there? Would I be so lucky? Half an hour later I bounded up to my letter box and opened it amidst growing tension. My last chance.
And there I found a neatly folded, dusty bit of paper at the bottom. THE RECEIPT! I looked triumphantly at the telephone which began to ring just them. I had saved it once again. From computers, from lousy systems, from gorillas, from day wise records, from bureaucracy, from the heartless department. Tomorrow I shall sort out the details like a man. No amount of computerisation can save the department form doing some work tomorrow and absolving me of the cruel accusations of today. But then tomorrow is another day and who knows, with all this computerization going about
Guide to road users in Hyderabad
This handy piece of work is acclaimed as a master piece by social workers all over the world and has a great chance if earning the Noble price for altruistic behaviour. The guide's importance can be gauged by the fact that non-Hyderabadis have already called, faxed, mailed their greetings of gratitude, when they heard that such work has been undertaken by the author. The compilation of well written advise of this kind has been long awaited by all and sundry who have visited Hyderabad (even for a short while). While in Hyderabad, many simpletons have confessed to having remained glued to their host's place for fear of the roads. Death, they insisted is preferable under the wheels of the Delhi bound Rajdhani Express, swift and painless, to the ordeal of having to travel Hyderabadi roads. To mention a not totally unrelated direct response to the roads and traffic and as a direct consequence, psychiatrist's business has reportedly shot up substantially. Suffice to say that even hardened criminals when left in the middle of the road broke down in a couple of seconds out of sheer fear and confessed to all their crimes.
At the outset we meet Yezdi Yasin (YY) and Rajdoot Raj (RR) who have kindly agreed to guide us, being experts at this.
YY says that the non-Hyderabadi would first do well learn that there are traffic rules in Hyderabad. And that there is traffic behaviour. And that both are mutually exclusive. In such contradicting circumstances it is best to adopt what the dinosaur did not, the philosophy of survival. Your mission, once you are on the road is to reach point from A to B before all others get to you. Hence, it is imperative that before you start, remember to forget the rules as published by the traffic department. Remember that all we have to do is to survive.
RR being a more methodical man wanted to brief the newcomer (which would be longer that the briefer brief YY had given). RR says, 'before actually beginning our adventure, a quick look at the topography of the roads is necessary. All roads are narrow and dusty. At first glance you will see potholes or entire stretches of road, eroded, not by cyclones or twisters, but by regular rain and wear and tear. At times dividers appear, but it may not be fair to call then dividers because they do not divide impartially. They are placed at some four fifths to one side of the road and sway gently to the third on the other side as you travel giving you the impression that the one who marked the divider's placement was under the spell of a gentle liqueur. These dividers are torn to bits, and bits of these can be seen in broad daylight, hanging like mischievous school kids and swaying in the breeze. A good one meter from the pavement is left judiciously by hawkers who occupy the next two meters. It is left presumably for collection of rainwater, dust (and for relaxing in slack times). Thus three meters on either side of the road plus the one meter clearance in the middle, for the wildly swinging divider renders optimum utilization of the road's remaining space which is not much after netting off. Most times autorickshaws, cycle rickshaws and such park alongside the hawkers waiting for their daily bread. Pedestrians who are forced to walk the inside of the road hazardously are another very visible feature. The pedestrian can't walk on the pavement because the pavement is full of the above mentioned and also vehicles belonging to the shop owners who believe they own their part of the pavement too. Now with this understanding of the road, we are more or less ready to hit the road. Check for insurances and proper nominations now".
YY stopped RR short and said that, 'the brief was not a brief but a full fledged lecture. He was keen to get down to the basics of practical road use. In a jiffy he was off - start vehicle. The only way to enter the main road is from the by-lane. Keep a sharp look about at the corner of the gate for young lovers who find such corners ideal to express their love for each other. Other hazards are municipal vans their personnel which are parked at all the wrong locations, salesmen and bicycle riding kids. Avoid them all because they pose no competition to you and are merely hindering your progress out of ignorance. Change gear and zip into by-lane. Avoid the motor driving school's car by a meter clearance (if lady at wheel at least 5 meter). It a lady is a at wheel and there is no 5 meter clearance, stop the vehicle and shin up the nearest tree until she has passed you by. Avoid college kids on 100cc bike by 2 inches if he is alone, and by 12 inches if there are three of them in which case they are likely to be carrying articles protruding out from the sides. Weave past stray buffalo peeing in the middle of the road preferably from behind because, they say the buffalo only makes fast movements forward and not in reverse. Watch out for the old man on the TVS because he is likely to get confused when he sees you and begins to wobble before he stops by falling off (a replay what you have done with the lady drier). Go any way you please except the center with old man because that is where he is bound to stop. When you are 200 meters from the main road, stop the vehicle and take off those Raybans and squint', he reeled off. I made notes in shorthand.
YY asked RR to handle the rest including legal angles. 'Look for tell tale signs like stationary two-wheelers parked oddly on the road and two or three two wheeler owners carrying documents reluctantly. This is a sign of the traffic police earning their daily bread. Go up to the signal cushioned behind heavy vehicles or behind girl riders on Kinetics or even old men as these tend to fall easy prey to the traffic cop. Follow the heavy vehicle carefully because sometimes these guys just vanish in a burst of heavy horsepower and leave you totally exposed the traffic cops. If caught by police show license. Plead guilty, beg forgiveness, give constable his daily bread and go on. If an upright police officer confronts you, beg forgiveness in vernacular (never in English) and insist on a Rs.20 fine, pay up, take receipt and proceed. In the meanwhile, it is possible that heavy trucks filled with unauthorised dangerous explosives are cruising along through the red light moving down tens of thousands of people right in front of your eyes but then these traffic guys are very focused. They will insist on first come first served and any move you to divert their attention to the truck will result in
(1) hiking of fine three fold
(2) seizure of vehicle or documents and worse
(3) delivery of standard lecture which is painful, so refrain and hope that God is watching.
At this point the irrepressible. YY took over again, 'Overtake the bus legitimately from the right because the chap may swerve left suddenly into the bus stop or may stop where he thinks is safe for people to alight. This spot is generally bang in the middle of the road, the left of which is full of bus commuters alighting and boarding and the right of which has swinging dividers. While you move up to the side of the bus, watch out for people spitting or puking from the bus from the corner of the eye on the road, for potholes or sudden erosions of roads due to rain which may be fatal for the driver. If you find any, swerve to avoid the same but NEVER STOP. While on the main road keep a sharp look out for autorickshaws which are very maneuverable vehicles and use this feature excellently. A good 2 meter clearance is advised here. Slow down when you sight the young couple ahead on the bike, because there are bound to be abrupt halts to their journey thanks to lovers tiffs and sensitive necks' he smiled and seemed a mite embarrassed revealing a very sensitive side to his gruff nature.
Seeing YY go into his reverie RR figured that he was incapable of further intelligent conversation and took over 'SETWIN buses are highly dangerous because they are never visible from behind due to powerful black poisonous emissions which propel these vehicles to move forward. These buses also have a history of falling off on their sides, so be careful because their carrying capacity is on par with Noah's Ark. Watch out for hands which are stuck out of cars which does not mean they are turning anywhere. It only means that it is the posture of the driver. If the hand obstructs your movements ahead, push it gently but firmly back into the car. Sometimes hands wave out of other windows in the car. If the hand is female, slow down immediately because the car is bound to stop suddenly. If masculine proceed safely (no one gives a damn to the male point of view). Slow down when more than one hand waves out of the three other windows of the car in different directions which means that there is a difference of opinion about which direction to take. Don't give any importance to indicators which flash crazily by themselves. If you have to do something tell the driver to switch it off while passing the vehicle which he promptly will,' he rounded off neatly.
YY recovered from his romantic interlude and continued in an aggressive tone. "Don't bother about two wheelers who tend to entangle themselves in the traffic and who drive under your front fender. Alternately if you are on a two wheeler don't give a damn about four wheelers. These guys deserve to die (if two wheeler driver - under the front wheels and if four wheeler driver - by lynching by irate mobs). Push ambitious cyclist aside by running him over their divider and ditto with their rickshaw puller. If Maruti tries to overtake you threaten by swerving slightly - the guy will run miles. Stop at their next red light only if you have to. If you do stop roll up windows and ignore guys who want to clean up 2 square inches of the bonnet and expect a fortune in return and those who want sell newspapers and bad polishing material. Inch forward without any mercy when their slightest gaps arise until the amber goers on. Pressurise the flow of traffic which is so reluctant to stop by surging ahead into the middle of the babes on the Kinetic and force them ahead. Hoot with laughter and quickly go ahead because they have a horrid vocabulary. Never scrape the milk scooters. Their owners are well built and know how to recover their dues and the opportunity cost which they tend to estimate highly. Similarly avoid stray chickens, vendors thelas ,auto rickshaws where the result is likely to be similar,' YY tapered off sighing presumably thinking of all those timers when indiscretion cost him a heavy price.
RR cautioned 'Stay off the road when army vehicles come on them. These guys don't know how to drive and are extremely dangerous. They can't even be taken to court I am told. Ease up near schools, mandirs, airport where large crowds gather within seconds. Don't take your eye off the divider specially where high ones are erected because people are bound to be practicing pole vaults on them and landing up in front of the car like Jaikishen in a box'.
He continued 'heed casual pedestrians who are walking across the road by looking the other way and merely holding up at hand you. Stop before you hit them'. YY interrupted, 'If you have a shot gun get down, walk up to the guy, tap him on the head with the thick end. In the absence of the shot gun kick yourself hard or bang your head against steering wheel'. RR looked sharply at YY and told him to control his primal urges and continued. 'When longish lines of traffic appear to be forming, take alternate routes if possible because there is bound to be a VIP passing by in the next half an hour. Somewhere around this time you might have arrived at point B and if you have missed it, make a blind U turn and screech to a half. Any other method is extremely dangerous. You make take a bow. You will feel like if.
So saying RR & YY donned their leather gloves and jackets, goggles, helmets and with a roar vanished form my life. I have decided to dedicate all that I may earn from the proceeds of this piece to these noble men of experience and wisdom.
Every vehicle owner in the twin cities of Hyderabad knows this scam only too well. In fact, recently, there were a series of traffic scams which left the vehicle owners poorer probably, by thousands of rupees each and I should think that their situation Is something like the investor's position after the securities scam. Everybody has lost their money and everyone knows where it is has gone but no one says a word. Mum is the word.
On being questioned, stoic silences are maintained and stony faces look out into the distance. These are the people who, having suffered due to the traffic scam, have hardened their souls. They will utter no thoughtless word about the scam, I know, because they are skeptical about exposing the scam (and as we all know, doing that will only cause further problems).
But I - I am not as hard a soul as these guys. I will not keep quiet - I will scream form the roof tops and protest against the injustice I have suffered, loudly and in bold print.
I remember a time when I was an adolescent and harbored dreams of riding a two wheeler to college. Sometime during the second year of my Engineering course. I engineered a coup at home and managed to be gifted a Bajaj Chetak (year 1986). I learnt to drive on a learner's license and went through the legally bound procedure to become a licensed rider of the two wheeled geared vehicle. I shall relate to my fellow driving fraternity, the atrocities I have suffered since then, in the hope of raising the proletariat's voice against these scams no one likes to discuss these days.
I had a healthy respect for the system in those days and accordingly only waited until I reached the minimum age prescribed for riding the same 2 wheeler. I know you will understand my agony each day now, when I see the roads swarming with 8 year olds zipping about on their Kinetics. 10year olds on mobikes, 11year olds in Marutis and 13 year olds burning the rubber of the Cielo (and my soul). Correct me it these are my hallucinations, but to date I have not seen a single one of these juveniles being hauled up by the alert constable who derives so much pleasure in pulling my keys out and stomping off when I am 6 inches adrift of the stop line.
There was a time when the state government felt that there was no match to the Telugu 'Head' and that the TH had to be protected at all costs by helmets manufactured by approved manufactures. I wonder what sort of statistics went into the report which was approved by the state government and made into a strictly enforced law instantly.
One fine day as I nipped down on my bike to buy a bar of soap from my friendly neighbourhood grocer who is situated roughly 3 minutes away from my house. I was apprehended by the vigilant eye of the traffic law for endangering my TH. Penalties were imposed and I had no option but to fork out my lunch money for two days. 'Better save your head than fill your stomach' seemed the attitude.
During that scam I bought two helmets and lost another one, owing to the fact that it so tough lugging them everywhere. More people seemed to fall off bikes and injure their THs trying to put the helmet on while in motion than due to any defect in their driving skill. By the time someone decided that the TH was not worth protecting with a certified helmet, I had spent some thousands of rupees for minor offenses of not wearing prescribed helmets and such. My head is intact still and I would like to know the percentage of heads saved by this law as against the heads rolled in this era.
Another traffic scam was the regime of white lanes. While lanes ruled the day in those times, when every road was divided in to three lanes on each side - riff raff (cycles, rickshaws) on the left most lane, the middle class ( 2 wheeler and autos in the middle lane) and the express lane (cars, buses, scooters, cranes, excavators, low flying planes etc, on the right most lane.
The width of the average Hyderabadi main road would probably measure about 5 meters. Yamaha 350's struggled behind dilapidated Suvega's, Mercedes Benz owners studied the gently swaying back side of the crane or the road roller rolling ahead, and the worst affected was the population of cyclists and rickshaw pullers (and wheeled vendors) who tangled themselves into intricate messes trying to stick to the confines of the white lanes. (Because hefty fines were reserved for those who felt that he would like to proceed at a pace faster than a road roller).
Naturally, I too contributed to this cause. It is a tale that underlines the fact that the law is not only long handed but also possesses excellent eye sight. I was heading homeward in my lane breathing in lungfuls of noxious fumes and carefully avoiding the dreaded white line by watching the shapely backside of an auto in front. At a signal, I was hauled up by a belligerent cop. I pleaded innocence and even got my neighbouring Yezdi to corroborate my story that my coordinates indicated that I was in the legally acceptable lane. The cop showed me a distant point sometime back in my past and indicated that he had observed me flirting with the white lane there. I had empty arguments against the cops unshakable belief of my offense and shortly had an empty pocket too.
The lane system however served as a great equaliser. Due to pedestrians occupying the left most lane for lack of pavements, the cycles and others whose lane it was, spilled onto the middle lane, whose legal occupants had no option but to spill into the express lane. The cops could not fine cyclists who were usually economically lower placed and rode the symbol of the government in power, so the next easily accessible offender was the two wheeler class which I represented.
For 4 wheelers it was punishment enough to drive in those lanes and hence the kind traffic cops let them by. My sympathizers will sympathise with me when I say that I have no proof that those white lines ever existed because the lanes vanished with the roads!
I get very irritated when I see those fancy number plates. Just yesterday I saw one which had the message 'Blacksmog' or something like that on it. I thought that maybe the RTA ran out of permutations and combinations of number and alphabets and that words are now the in thing. When I got closer, I realised I was mistaken, for, in fine print below the fancy Blacksmog was the official number of the vehicle (probably owned by a lawyer who knows the fine print aspect only two well).
It is not that I grudge this artist inside the lawyer emerging. Indeed, I am all for it. My irritation stems form the fact that I belong to an era of which testimony is borne by the 4 inch letters and numbers on my number plate. Yes sir, there was once a scam on the size of the numbers too! In fact I had to spend quite a lot of money to change the number plate in the front because it was not the prescribed size. As fines began to be imposed, most people, like me, went running to the 'number paint-wallahs' numbers. I'm sure, many painters have since retired in luxury. No, when I see the fine printed number plates, I feel sick in the stomach.
Another time, there was an announcement in the kingdom of the Telugus that promised to instantly reduce the pollution levels in the state. Those were the days when the words 'ozone layer' and 'flouro hydro carbons' and 'green' were fashionable words. Environment conscious governments concluded that the issue would be solved by this, and stop the sky form falling through the thinning ozone layer. On the said date, all vehicle owners were to get their vehicle certified for passable emissions. Instantly the hoi polloi queued up in long lines in reverence of the law of the land and got themselves certified as environment friendly. I went too, spending a day and a half of causal leave for this worthy task.
Anyway nothing much happened after that. A couple of warnings were issued, and a few people fined too. I support the environment and believe that it should be protected. But then I see no way that it can be done by harassing owners of piddly two wheelers, while letting their bigger offenders go free. Waiting behind an RTC bus for the light to change at a signal yesterday. I found I could not breathe at all. SETWIN buses can rarely be seen form behind, as each one seems to me to generate enough pollution each day that would be roughly equal to what a single two wheeler would generate in its satire lifetime. Diesel engine Ambassadors and such vehicles are also as bad. The reader will surely empathise as he too would have had to suffer the indignity of a brusque constable telling him his vehicle was 'unfit', when you knew very well that your scooter was way bellow the emission levels. Naturally one would be excused for being inclined to scream today.
My latest contribution to the traffic collection was when I was recently held by arm and led to the 'Star' standing like God to a side. My crime? I had overshot the stop line by 2 feet and stopped a bit late when I saw the red light. I pleaded guilty, but pointed out that I had stopped upon seeing the red light while two others behind me scudded through the oncoming traffic and the red light too and were let off without as much as effort as to bring them to book. I said that I deserved to be let off with a warning. No way, said God and made me pay Rs.20. And while I paid up, a huge RTC bus went right through a full fledged red light at 60 kmph. I looked at the officer who looked the other way.
What about half blacked lights? And parking tickets for parking where you have parked for the past twenty years and where there are no signs to inform the innocent parker of change in status? There are many such stories that escape my heated up brain right now. These scams were real, weren't they? We paid hard cash didn't we? We stood in long queues in the hot Sun did we not? What for? And how can I recover my money? You guys can keep quiet. But I will scream, yell, shout, kick and curse until I am led dragging away. How else will the future generations know of the great traffic scams?
Culture recognises love as a refined emotion. Hyderabad is culturally rich place. Two disconnected statements, but ones which throw up an amazing lot for those with the heavily weighed right side of the brain, those logical souls. We will refrain from cynical arguments on what exactly we mean by culture in Hyderabad.
The rich culture of the era of Nizams etc when everything bore refinement, our detractors are bound to point out, has long gone and we now have a culture that bears no resemblance to that rich culture. However, the author reserves his right to classify Hyderabad culturally rich in whatever culture that is currently available and that is the end of argument. As the impatient reader will be happy to recall, the culturally rich are bound to fall in love easier than the culturally depraved.
It is no secret that the refined emotion afflicts all and sundry without bar. For the one who was missed the gist, love is universal, even in Hyderabad. However the behaviour governing this noble emotion is most certainly categorized alongside peculiar in its Hyderabadi flavor, even when in its most subtle state. This behaviour, to some is more interesting than the emotion itself, though in the days of refinement such studies of behaviour regarding love were forbidden.
No wonder then that when a revolutionary poet Mehboob focused on the above behaviour in his work 'Peculiarity breeds love' he was immediately sentenced to death. However, Mehboob with the intrinsic survival instinct of a Hyderabad, bribed the hangman and got himself hung by an elastic rope witch catapulted him to a faraway land (which was coincidentally called Fame).
Peculiar behaviour is fine with all those who live in normal families, but then really peculiar behaviour ought to be informed in documented form to the masses. We shall now examine this peculiar 'love' behaviour which affects all and sundry, but for certain reasons we shall restrict ourselves to the most easily affected category - pimply adolescents. Pimply adolescents thankfully, were found abundantly all over Hyderabad and most of them responded positively to our questionnaire which was all very encouraging.
However, after interviewing a few, we found that the methodology adopted was similar from Old City to New City. We were told that the methodology followed by pimply ads (adolescents) in Hyderabad was the same all over and improvisations answer sealed their lips of pimply acolescents. Our heart rending pleas brooked no response, 'Why' we mulled would the methodology be the same for such a personal and noble emotion. Would not variety be the stuff that stole her heart away? Was not being different the fantasy? Perplexed, we withdrew and concentrated our efforts on finding the model pimply adolescent who would enlighten.
We found him pinching a blackhead outside the hep fast food joint which was under siege from many of his like. Many male pimply ads were found moving like electrons waiting for their quantum jumps yet were held back by sentiment. They would move around their place of sitting, go to the counter, go back to their crowd, laugh loudly, start their bikes make a lot of noise with them, go for short rides in threes and fours and were committing such other forms of accepted behaviour among them.
The female of the pimply species restricted themselves to giggling and holding each others hands every now and then and at times making loud exclamations which seemed to provoke the male ads. This behavior excited us and we were spurred into coaxing our model pimply ad. With promises of some imported hair styling gel and after shave, which he reckoned would improve his chances, we coaxed the lad to spill the beans. We listened in awe to the prodigious youngster for the next half an hour.
"The methodology", said the pimply adolescent addressing the question right away, "is similar because, all adolescents were so used to copying. Copying in their exams, copying hairstyles, copying opening lines, copying copies etc,. so that they automatically copied the methodology too". We were stunned by the creativity of it all.
In fact our model ad found the word methodology very amusing and doubled up in his mirth while and flashing at us a few stained incisors and canines. The process we were told was commonly known as "lighting" which probably originated from the way the afflicted persons face lights up when he/she beholds the one he/she loves. "Lightings", said our expert, was what made the world go around in an introspective mood and these words of wisdom have since become the winning slogan for a light manufacturing company.
Chewing stylishly on a matchstick, our expert said that "lighting" naturally requires a lighter and a lightee for any meaningful lighting to take place. You cannot for instance look in the mirror and label it lighting however much you may love yourself genuinely. The process is interactive, social and in conservative cities like ours, between the opposite sexes. The afflicted shall henceforth be called lighter and the object of the lighter's attentions shall henceforth be called simply the lightee.
Now all the lighter has to do is light (as in a verb and as in a noun) for lighting to commence. At this he spat out the match which he had chewed soundly, and of which only fine splinters retained similarities to the wood, and wiped his pouting mouth with his sleeve in a fashion which made us feel like we were out on the ranches in Texas. Then the pimply adolescent looked furtively aside and took a couple of paces away from us. He held something in his hand at which he glanced for a second and returned refreshed. Lighters generally were boys in the old days but these days we are not so are. He acceded to the fact that perhaps boys are branded as lighters because they are the ones who just can't seem to hide the fact that they are in love.
He pointed to live examples a couple of young boys who he said were not first timers in love which we found hard to believe. These well built studs were in fact smiling coyly and secretly to themselves. They were obsessed with mirrors and in keeping every lock of hair in good discipline, spoke in falsettos and behaved in a manner which was socially quite an embarrassment to all. Pimply adolescent brooded over this unfair predicament pimply ad boys were singled out for while pimply ad girls got away despite being in love with the most in practical men in the whole world. At the mention of pimply adolescent girls our model ad's face turned dreamy and he sang in a thin falsetto "pimply adolescent girls are what makes the world go around". An obvious contradiction (refer para 5) if we ever heard one and one which caused us to wonder if we could take anything said by the youngster seriously at all. The pimply adolescent model felt that he was digressing from what he actually meant to be an objective discussion and cut short his ballad. Another furtive glance at what seemed to us was a piece of paper, and he reeled off in a pedantic tone the lighter's survival kit.
"First", he said "any true lighter ought to acquire a paid of white shoes, a silver belt, a maroon or yellow figure hugging pant, purple to mauve T-shirt, flashy goggles, leather jackets, sneakers (Preferably ones with lights in them) a thin yellow comb for the back pocket, a silk handkerchief with initials in red and the familiar sign. "This is the basic attire which has the stamp of seriousness in lighting" said he. Hair gel and aftershave would be quite handy he submitted with a toothy grin to move up the weekly rating so lighters sponsored by our light company. We looked around and were amazed to find most pimply adolescents dressed out similarly.
The seriousness struck us to be quite admirable. You are bound to get noticed with the prescribed attire, it being incredibly striking etc. As for the attire of the female we did not ask our model knowing his penchant to go dreamy and break into incoherent songs. Next, he said find yourself a suitable place among the ones listed here in the Lighters guide and he reluctantly passed on to us what he had hidden in his pocket - a small concise book which seemed well worn. An original print he said authored by the ultimate guru of lighting - "Lighter Abbas" whispered the pimply adolescent reverently. At any of these places one is bounds to find girls and boys engaged in the process of lighting. They are likely to be dressed up similarly with a few designer variations and all of them look at each other silently expressing their love.
He said sadly that a major snag here was that lighter's tend to stick by to their own sex and occasionally break into nervous laughter for an entire evening and the only one to profit are the owners of those joints. We noticed that it was true.
So saying he got up. That's it sticking out his hand for his bribe. We were not in any hurry and said but the lighter has not even spoken to the lightee yet. This we protested was no love. Pimply adolescent grew exasperated and shook his head repeatedly, "Don't make me tell you maan," he sighed and sat down again. After a long silence he resumed.
"Some lighters finally do get to speak to the lightee after years of lighting. There are desperate cases where lighter follows lightee to bustops, type writing institutes etc to arrange chance meetings. However, rarely does the lighter connect with the lightee because most lighters are chasing the same lightee. This is a the sad truth. Lighters being a self respecting lot do not make awkward moves in public (any move made by lighters is awkward anyway) like attempting to speak to lightee for fear to public rejection which in addition to being a big blow to the lighters self confidence also reduces chances of further lighting. In places private, they succeed sometimes and face rejection or the eve teasing squads- sometimes both. You see, he explained. "Lighting is a passionate but dumb form of love".
"Generally the process of lighting goes on for anything like 6 months to 6 years. Only in 0.5% of the cases has there been intelligible conversation between lighter and lightee. In an infinitesimal percentage there has been the actual case of a happy couple forming out of lighting", he said with tears in his eyes. We were aghast.
But why we did not understand. You take so much pain and care and don't even express your love. All you her to do is talk. Pimply adolescent looked at us sympathetically. Lighter Abbas has written down here that lighting is the ultimate compliment to the lightee and we don't have to restrict ourselves to anyone lightee in particular. Our love is universal. There are many lighters in the world and not enough lightees. The economics just doesn't work. We aim not to grab, we merely wish to express although dumbly. The process of lighting is so much more enjoyable than to speak to a lightee, he said, just like the journey is more enjoyable than the destination. And he added we are too young still for commitment's etc.
We have heard that Lighter Abbas is working on the "Advanced Guide to Lighting" wherein, we have been told, there is an entire chapter on how to talk coherently to the lightee, he said hopefully. So saying model disappeared from our lives. And we returned, enlightened!
'How did we manage to lose?' 'Why don't we believe in ourselves?' 'Not again' And so on and so forth, goes the nation each time our national cricket team walks out to play. Wild celebrations, mindless gambling, depressions and suicides, We Indian cricket fans know no in between, only ecstasy and misery.
Ask any one of the 100 billion cricket fans in India and the many million abroad and they will confess after a couple of beers, that they have suffered more that what the fragile heart can bear. Like a fan said to me 'It is like the way I felt after my first heartbreak'. Only he did not feel a second heartbreak when ditched by a woman the second time, but as per his very own confession. 'with a cricket match it is felt so many times in each match and in every match'. Yes, Indian cricket fans have suffered much.
This episode is dedicated to the bunch of commentators who have been tormenting us all this while, adding injury to insult. Like another fan of the Over89 club said "If there is someone who is getting away with murder in all this madness, it is the blighted commentator. Yessir, he is your culprit and he should be shot". And I could not agree more.
Commentators are the culprits, expert or otherwise, and bad ones especially so. Fellow fans, I know you are with me. Remember not so long ago when our only source of live information was the radio, and the radio commentator was God. So many died young when these gentlemen shouted at the strike of a boundary and then quickly reversed the proclamation in the same breath because only a single was taken, (of course, by then it was too late).
Nothing not one thing they said was reliable, no even the score! Taking advantage of their position within the ground and the absence of a majority of the fans inside the stadium, they proceeded to give us shrill, awestruck, school boyish versions of the game in terrible English. Now, how these people were selected I don't know but then there was a good representation of senile cranks, over enthusiastic fans, self proclaimed experts and once even a lady commentator (who in all fairness was as bad as the rest off the guys), among them. These wounds do not heal easily because I remember the hurt and betrayal I felt at the deception when the commentator told millions of fans over the country authoritatively that the ball' has been driven firmly to square leg'(?!!!) when my very own eyes within the stadium confirmed at the ball flew off the edge behind point. Broke my heart, yes and I never switched the transistor on again!
DD came up with its narrow perspective of the cricket match. We fans made the mistake of relying on the commentators again since we could hardly see the ball on DD telecasts. It took us a while to get disenchanted with the technology and realize that the commentators on TV were the same guys who have been recruited from the local AIR station. A case of non stop verbal discharge and their they got into the act of brow beating us heartily. And worse, now we had to watch their smug mugs on TV also, which in most cases did ample justices to my imagination.
To add to the confusion, we had a bunch of local experts with opinions as fixed as the views of my granny's and thereby quite hard to digest. One good thing came up in these days and that was, when someone realised that these ex-AIR commentators and their ilk were not to be trusted with this sensitive job and therefore experts were introduced. And I liked their way the experts cut the babbling commentators short when they began their nonsensical versions.
Injured fans will remember the prim know-it all look of a popular DD sports commentator who would make a great advertisement for memory enhancement drugs. Most matches and highlights were preceded by long drawn lectures by him, in an unctuous and smug manner including the result of the day's proceeding thereby bringing the highlights to an anticlimax. I met one fan who roamed the countryside with sharp weapons in the hope of meeting this commentator. When last heard, he was headed North in search of the latter. "Anything to avenge the fans" said he, when I went to arrange some anticipatory bail for him. He (the fan) attempted suicide after hearing the Hindi version of commentary recently with melodrama, sentiment, violence, heavy dialogue and loads of gossip. The match sounded like a B-grade Hindi movie he said.
Satellite TV was a great gift in terms of technology and for the first time my granny figured out that cricket was played with a ball. We enjoyed the game also since we could see the ball and also some of the terrible things that our heroes did in full public view like scratching, grabbing, spiting, to name of few. Professional heavyweights from across the globe came in and commentating became quite technical. A far cry from the melodrama and soap operaesque script of yesteryear. In fact so technical that even some aspiring cricketers I know found the game too complicated and gave it up. They were not one dimensional at all and spoke of everything that the camera could film; fans, geography, history, food, drink, culture, superstition, last night's activities of other commentators, female fans in the stadium and their garb. You name it and they spoke about it. Even our own plane of experts jointed these guys and all these giants of the bygone era now got together and squabbled like school children in front of millions of viewers in myriad countries. Yes they squabbled, clawed, bickered over various issues from a simple opinion to their prodigy, like jealous housewives. And so on, they went and were bearable, as long as they did not squabble or come to the mike drunk.
In addition to the experts, we also have some non experts these days on the panel, with one voice calling itself the voice of Indian cricket. This is one voice that I have grown a healthy dislike for since he has no qualms absolutely about reversing the authoritative opinion he has just given as soon as the expert opines otherwise. Especially since all this words fall over each other for attention, there by making not much sense. 'Fairly boring' was the verdict of a fan I know who has since given up the practice of viewing a match with the aid of commentary, and, in the interests of the game I hope that he is pulled off the air soon.
Commentators have caused much suffering to the fans as these few incidents nights reveal to the unknowing fan. Protest, we must and exercise our choice (like our advertising fraternity advocates) and also express our irritation in no uncertain means. For the record, a bucolic fan has wished to form a crack team of Israeli commentators but then has decided to wait for a consensus on which one to target. We, shall discuss this, and other areas of discomfort also in forthcoming issues and until then watch this space!
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