In the Rains …

The monsoon is here in all its glory.

Pearl shaped raindrops hit the earth with a gentle splatter. Their rhythmic pitter-patter disturbs the long settled dust, sleeping across the city. Everything is fresher now. Everything is green. And the air is scented with the delicious aroma of roasting corn.

Tempting you from every street corner is a monsoon-drenched cart. A tiny man in an oversized raincoat smiles at you from behind it. Pointing knowingly at the neatly displayed wares on his cart, a tidy heap of lime green butta.

As the skies open out, you run up to the cart and huddle under a dripping umbrella, watching tiny puddles gather to life in a circle around you. You peer through the curtain of raindrops at the tiny man. He smiles, a friendly smile, and strikes a damp matchstick to life. And with these tiny strings of fire, he lights his small coal stove. Instantly little bits of charcoal glow awake, angry red eyes glare at you, from inside the stove, like a monster waking up in a dark fairy tale.

As the stove turns into dots of red, the tiny man picks up a butta and then two, without once disturbing the heap. He rips off the bright green coats they wear and lifts their soft brown velvet veil. He casts a disapproving glance at the flame, not impressed by its progress, he fans it furiously, egging it on to rise. And rise it does, suddenly the air is full of slivers of fire dancing around fat-sparkling drops of rain; the coal is now bright red and the corn roasts to a golden yellow.

After a series of twists and turns, he lifts the golden yellow butta off the smoky hot stove. Yes, it’s perfect, hard enough to bite, soft enough to chew. He smiles. And proceeds to dress it in a melting coat of butter. He adds a touch of namak and a dash of mirch and then to this delicious mix, he adds the final touch, a generous splattering of lime.

You hurriedly grab the hot cob he hands you and greedily bite into this spicy-sweet monsoon delight. And you don’t stop till you rip off every bit of corn from cob. And somewhere between the first bite and the last a thought enters your head, ‘Should I have another one of these?’

And there in the background, stands the tiny man, still smiling, as the bits of coal shut their growling red eyes again.

Running Late

She’s late.
She grabs her bag, haphazardly throwing in all she needs. Wallet. Book. Scribbling paper. Pen.
She steals a glance at the clock. Shit! She’s going to miss the bus.

Eight minutes left.

She gulps down her tea. It’s burning hot. It scalds her throat as it pours in.
She needs a whole minute to put out the burning flames in her throat.
She has no time for this!
She slips on her Osho chappals. And hurries out.

Six minutes left.

She calls for the elevator. Damn! Where is it?
Forget it. She runs down the stairs and rushes out.
She glares at her watch. It’s hard to tell the time when you’re on a trot.
The hands keep jumping nervously around the dial. Is it 8:10? Is it 8:12?

Five minutes left.

The sun is trailing her.
Her shadow is at her tail, goading her on.
The sparrows chipper loudly, taking bets on her chances.
The old grey crow thinks she’ll make it.
The pigeon says she won’t.

Four minutes left.

Cars pass her in slow motion.
So do people talking their morning stroll.
The world moves on at a lazy pace, mocking her urgency.

She doesn’t notice the wrinkled hawker coming from the other side.
He spreads his cart carelessly in front of her.
She halts.
Ouch! Her shadow painfully bumps into her.
She really doesn’t have the time for this!
Panic is setting in.

Two minutes left.

She brushes the cart out of her way.
And then she smiles for the first time today.
She can see the bus now.
She is almost there…

She smoothens her hair.
She straightens her kurta.

One minute left.

She steps into the bus.
There he is.
His fingers are drumming a panicked beat on his laptop.
Where is she?

And then he sees her.
She smiles.
He smiles.

The engine roars to life.

A Football Match and Other Things

In other earth-shattering events this week was the game between Italy and Australia. After chasing the ball around for 89 dull as an empty saucepan minutes, four men stood up to the challenge and made the game ever so slightly interesting. Suddenly stretching yawns snapped shut and drooping eyelids lit up in absolute attention. Ah, how a dead game can be brought alive with a little controversy.

So this is how it plays out, this poor (metaphorically speaking of course) Aussi player, Lucas Neil, stumbles and trips over the last thirty seconds of the game. As Lucas falls, a smart (or maybe just plain lucky) Italian, Fabio Gross, who has been wildly chasing Lucas around these dying seconds, trips over him, and over the last thirty seconds now lying crushed somewhere under Lucas, and also falls.

Clearly there is no foul play here, there’s no space for any dying minute drama. And right here, perfectly on cue our little twist makes an entry. The referee blows his whistle. “PENALTY!” he screams out. How? Where did that come from? Hello? And awards the elixir of life to the Azzurri. The football-loving world squirms, boos and jeers. But really, as bad as it was, I don’t blame the poor referee. Come on; put yourself in his worn out hi-end shoes. Imagine trotting around this hopeless game for almost 90 deadpan minutes. Just the thought of thirty more, will bring the whistle flying to your lips and your finger, pointing to the penalty spot. And the referee is just as human.

Now, getting back to the game, Francesco Totti takes the kick. Scores and Italy are home. It is this kick that has me all bewildered and speechless. This, is my earth-shattering moment. See, all this while, as the game was crawling on, I was fighting battles of my own. I was violently chasing sleep away from the corner of my eyes, and in the midst of it all I failed to notice Francesco’s boring new hair cut!

Why in the whole world would (Ah! How's this for alliteration?) you chop those stunning locks off? WHY, PRAY TELL ME, WHY? Why would you trade this absolutely yummy look for a downsized just-a-really-good-looking look? I’m baffled. This has left me more perplexed then the referee’s bizarre decision. That I could figure out (read above), this I just can’t.

Plain is Perfectly Fine!

They’ve done it again.

Blasphemy, I say.

Why would you take something perfect and tarnish it with change?

This is my war cry, come gather around.
It’s time to save the best snack in town.

This saviour of bad cooks.
The road to instant salvation.

It’s ok Mum, if you step out.
I have my plate of Maggi. I’ll be fine.
With a full stomach soon I’ll be satisfied.

But now I hear whisperings of sabotage.
I sense foul play.

First they put wheat in it, and now it’s sambhar.

Don't insult my taste buds.
I deserve more then that.
Leave my noodles alone, plain and nice.

Fruit

Sour grapes are my favourite fruit.

Karma Strikes Back

Himesh is what happens when you tempt karma and lose.

Love you o Sayonee,
Love you o Sayonee,
Koi shaak?
Wassszzuuup?

Bloody crap!

The Day Order

You know how some days just work out better then the rest? How certain days make the cut, while others simply fail? Well, I call this the Day Order, a standing of the best days of the week to the ones that need to try harder.

To give it some semblance I start with the top day and continue in the flowing order. The ranking of the days are not necessarily in that order.

Thursday
Yes, we start with Thursday. King amongst days. Thursday is full of hope and joy with a Friday riding on its back. No matter how screwed you are, you can always bask in the shortcut of an escapist weekend being just a few hours away. How can you fault such a day? I so love Thursdays.

Rank Order: Bestest day of the week

Friday

With Thursday leading, Friday can’t be far behind, can it? They'll tell you it’s a whole working day but if you negotiate half of it, you're almost there. Hit lunch, press snooze and look forward to two and a half days of the perfect life at your disposal.

Rank Order: Second bestest day of the week

Saturday
It’s Saturday, it’s time to party in abandonment. After all Saturday comes with the knowledge of a clockful of hours still left to indulge in the sweet caress of laziness. Inspiration so great, that your Saturday smile can rival only Thursday.

Rank Order: Rock solid spot number three

Sunday
Oh god, what a bittersweet day. It’s the day for laundry. It’s the day for dusting. It's the day before a whole new week begins. But still it’s hard to fault a day that wakes up so luxuriously only after the clock strikes noon.

Rank Order: Low down the pile at number five

Monday
First the good part, Monday means new, a start afresh. And Monday kicks into action only past eleven on the clock everyday. But Mondays are dangerous. They should come with an injurious to health warning. After two and a half days of doing very little, how can Monday expect you to operate at full throttle? Don’t fault your body for revolting on this day; there is a reason the blues hit only on a Monday.

Rank Order: A crappy number six

Tuesday
Tuesdays. Tuesdays. Tuesdays are evil. Tuesdays are vile. Tuesdays mockingly remind you of the weekend gone by. Tuesdays taunt you. Tuesdays torture you. Tuesdays stand for the long stretch left to conquer before you can reach a happy smile. Tuesdays. Tuesday. You’ve just got to hate Tuesdays.

Rank Order: Worst day in the world

Wednesday
Wednesday is the equator of the week. Wednesday stands in the middle. It's an equal distance between the last break and the one coming up. Wednesday is cool, it swing both ways. Wednesday is when the week begins to look up. Wednesday is when the week gets brighter.

Rank Order: At number four, not to bad, could do better

And this brings us back to glorious glorious Thursday. A day when life gets good again.

Void Trenches

Did you burn midnight trying to keep the light alive?
Did you stretch each strand to meet at the end?
Was the walk uphill long and lonely?
Did the path curl around longer then it promised?
Did mediocre, strictly ok and my dad is a rich man pass you by?
Was it hard to accept these naked truths of life?

Did the platter taste bitter and vile?
Did the wallet heavy fiend steal your light?

Was this the way the script flowed?
Is this how it always goes?
The rich man takes his place.
The strugglers wait their day.
When money talks nineteen to a dozen,
Talent cowers, unhinged by burden.

And in this mess of names the void ever grows.

Play Red

Once upon a time I used pity football referees.

Poor guys. They make a living on the sidelines of action. Almost-ran ageing men scampering around with whistles and tiring lungs. They huff and puff and try to catch up with the ball and where it'll be sent next. Is it football? Is it theatre? Complex questions to be answered throughout the game. It’s a hard job with lousy returns. Eye-full of spit blobs from disgruntled players. Boos and jeers from rowdy fans all over. No part of the glamour. Not even the paycheck. It’s a job that no sane mind would willingly take.

That was then. This is now. A change of mind was always on the cards.

Today I understand the equations. It's crystal clear. I recognise the most powerful men on the field, I envy these red card-totting devils. The players might have the glamour but referees hold the strings to cut short their fame. Piss our men off and oops there goes your next game. Talk out of turn, roll around a little more, take your own time, stick your elbow out of line. Challenge fate. Bring out the colour red. The whistle blows and out you go.

The biggest names, the richest players, all at the mercy of these card-wielding outsiders.

Give me that kind of power any day. Let me be the outsider in this game.

A Birthday. A Book

I have a young cousin, an offline version of Wikipedia. The more I meet him, the more certain I am of having accidentally missed a few crucial years of basic education. This super smart kid turned a year older recently. And the onus of buying him a present to match fell on my muddled shoulders.

Now here's a kid who lives for science and logic. For strange mechanical things he calls toys. For gadgets and computer games. None of these are words from my world. What do they mean? Where are they found?

I was stumped. Stumped till a timely bout of panicked inspiration hit me. And in his world, full of 101 questions, Pokemon and Midtown madness, I planted a magical tree.

If you've read the Far Away Tree Stories, you know just what I mean. I read this book as a kid and I still remember every twig in the story. I remember walking around trees, wondering which one was the magical one. Peering up in search of magical lands floating by. And waiting for strange creatures to show up and take me on a tour of their homes, hidden on the branches of the tree outside my room.

That's the beauty of a book. It's so much more then just a book. It's a whole lot of brilliance bound between the covers. It's a window that opens up to the past. To what life was before the arrow keys and the space bar. I suddenly had the urge to prise the old window open. And let the fresh breeze flow in. To let it drag me out of these four-cornered rooms of logic we are caged in. And to jump out and explore again. Those strange strange worlds of childhood. Did we live in those worlds or did those worlds live with us?

Let’s go back to the old times. A world of magic and wonder. Let's dump logic in the background of reality and get carried away in a swirl of make-real.

Instead of furiously clicking at an immobile mouse, your finger chases a crawling string of words that push each other endlessly across yellow doggy-eared pages. And your mind stretches and unwinds as little by the little the story unfolds.

Day One Disaster

The first showers hit Mumbai yesterday and the word of the day was panic. The streets were flooded. Drains were clogged. Trains stopped mid-track. Traffic was crawling. Networks were down. And people were angry. All this just on day one of the four month long monsoon season. Maybe it’s time we outsource the city management to private players. At least then we’ll be able to enjoy a break from the sun without breaking out into a cold sweat every single time.

Right of Way

I really don’t understand the brouhaha around extreme sports. What’s the big deal?

In India, it’s a part of our everyday existence. Every time we experience a blood rush, we just hail a rickshaw and hold on for dear life.

Rickshaws aren’t for the faint of heart. Or the weak of stomach. These three-wheeled monsters rip across the streets with scant regard for life. On the street. Or in the rick. It’s a simple equation. Hold on. Survive. Fall off. Oops.

The rules to the game are easy. A driver who can’t drive. A free for all on the roads. Every outrageous overtaking manoeuvre earns you 50 bonus points. For every run-of-the-mill overtaking move you lose 20. While at the wheel, no rules exist. Survival is victory.

Say a prayer and let the game begin.

That Kind of a Day

On some days you wake up and you just know.

It’s as instinctive as not swallowing your tongue while you sleep. You open your eyes and there it is. That empty uneasiness floating around your first blank stare. And that’s when it hits you.

Today is that kind of a day.

At least if it were PMS, there’d be a reason. And that's what makes this so much worse. Days like this have no right to go wrong and yet they shamelessly do. What do you do when nothing’s really wrong, except that it’s just all wrong? The sun is shining. Shining too brightly. The train is moving. Moving too slowly. People are breathing. Breathing too loudly.

If only I could pull the sheets back over my head. Then I could turn the other way and start afresh.

Trendsetter

Is Pink Panther the original Metrosexual?

The Sun and The Sky

May in Mumbai is like being caught between a revolving door. On the one side life moves at its usual a hundred miles an hour pace. And on the other the oppressive heat urges your body to slow down. The result, a drenched out slugfest between what your body wills and your mind dictates.

Everywhere you see the signs of life wanting to slow down. The mornings are overweight with a pronounced lethargy. The air breathes heavily. Birds sing with a miser’s reserve. Even the trees stand still, deferring the burden of movement to a cooler day. Only the city roofs stands up to the offensive glare of the sun. Throwing a challenge to the naked sky.

And like the city roofs stand the people who built them. After all economics does not understand the weather. As you step out into the open the stifling heat rushes to greets you. Wrapping you in a warm claustrophobic hug. Your body tries to fight back. It tries hard. It tries to put out the flames with a self-induced downpour.

But this is a losing battle. You can’t defeat the heat. You can’t will the sun away. All you can do is wait. Wait for the sky to pull out those seductive clouds from its closet and to drape up in that rich velvet darkness. Wait for the sky to twirl around, showing-off it's new tantalising coat. Round and round and round. And with every twirl there escapes from its folds, tiny drops of ice cold water. The first showers that kiss the burning earth.

A Matter of Taste

I was happy. I was unaware. I was moving along in life just fine, when a chance encounter with illness violently spun me off the track. And within a span of 48 seemingly simple hours, my whole life changed.

It all began in that vile hospital room. I was helplessly minding my own business like any other patient, when they suddenly unleashed the Nutritionist on me. No permission, no knocking, she just came stomping into my room and spat the fun out of my life.

As she stared at me, I could almost see the words swirling around her big cruel head, “Oooh this one looks too happy to deserve to be happy. Me wants to unhinge that little untroubled smile! Me wants to throw a spanner in that plate full of joy. Double double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”

And just like that gone were the blissful days of gorging on the unhealthy. Junk forcefully made way for nutrition. And after 24 years of persistently scorning the salad, I suddenly had to face it in my plate. The sheer trauma of the situation earned me two long weeks of bed rest.

I still haven’t recovered. In fact, things have gotten worse. These days a pocketful of pills and an evil diet plan constantly trail me from the shadows. And I am forever plagued with meal time nightmares. Each unnerving episode has the same story to tell. I am sitting for my meal when my peaceful plate is ruthlessly taken over by a huge, leafy green monster. And as I desparetly try to scamper away from it, the monster swells, comes even closer and mercilessly gobbles me up.

Burp.

In rhyme

Poetry is the art of ranting subtly.

Railway Chronicles - The Coop

Anyone who has been to Mumbai knows about the Mumbai trains. And for those of you not familiar with this phenomenon, here is a quick tutorial - The trains connect the manpower in Mumbai to the machines. In short, Mumbai runs on the rail.

And like everything else in the city, the train service has some classic rules. As and when a particular one bothers me, you’ll get to read about it. For example, today's grouse is compartment allocation.

Broadly speaking, Mumbai trains are divided into basic service second-class compartments and slightly less basic service first-class compartments. Moreover, since Indian men are an overtly chivalrous lot, we further divide the train into the general (read men’s) compartment and the women’s compartment.

The bee in my bonnet right now, is the first class women’s compartment. The powers who are figured that women don’t have to travel too much, at least not as much as the hard working, bread winning men of the city. So why waste an entire first-class compartment on them? They were however kind enough to spare us a chicken coop styled little carriage.

Ooooh gracious sirs, how considerate and large hearted you are!

Every morning and evening, thousands of women crush themselves into these chicken coop compartments and travel on a prayer. Survivors are decorated with crunched toes and elbowed ribs. Casualties are smothered by fat while attempting to snatch whatever little oxygen might be available.

But of course these are just selfish complains. Nobody has the time for little things like this, not when the nation is plagued with so many 'real' problems. So nothing is going to change. We will continue traveling in a body crush. And for at least a hundred years or so, me and I’m sure a thousand others, will continue to endure on a rant.

A luxurious prelude to the day. A fitting tribute to the day gone by.

Miracle drug

Is there any cure for parents?

A day at the office

11:00 step into office
11:20 start comp
11:30 comp comes to life, log on
12:30 prepare for lunch
13:00 have lunch
14:00 prepare to wrap up lunch
14:30 lunch over
15:00 report for new job briefing. servicing not sure of job
15:30 servicing still not sure of job
16:00 servicing still not sure, job on hold
16:30 regroup in the conference room, cricket match
17:00 game over, india wins, return to comp
17:30 kill more time
18:00 can officially leave, but hang around out of politeness
18:01 fuck being polite. just leave. tata.