Exactly!!

My cell phone brrrrrrrrd softly, flashing it's light - as Ajit "Loin" of Yaadon Ki Baraat would have said - "On" "Aaff", "On" "Aaff". I picked up and said a "Hello" in my usual "voice" (gruff, deep, threatening whatever - I have heard comments about that!) The voice at the other end was soft, polite, gentle and female and it said "Good Afternoon"

My eyes strayed to the bottom right hand corner of my laptop. 11:56 AM. So I replied "Good MORNING" with an eXXtra emphasis on the second word. She fumbled, she mumbled, she hemmed and before she could haw, I said "It's 11:56, it's STILL morning. Who's this?" Who it was, doesn't matter - but she did come back with a "It's 12:04 sir".

Blame the Virgo in me for being such a pr*^k and an a$$*&le

Some little time later, that same afternoon, I was on my way to a client, driving, the radio playing along. Some good music, nice soft & melodious songs interrupted by too many, far too many advertisements. I usually "switch" channels when that happens (you too, don't you?) and happened to catch the RJ announce "The time now is exactly 2:03 on the studio clock" - my digital clock on my dashboard showed MY time to be exactly 1:59. Frowning, I checked the time on my cell phone. Synchronised well (a Virgo cell phone, after all!) it showed 1:59 too (it BETTER!) My mind wandered to my school days when we used to have an implicit, unshaken belief in the "Time" as announced on BBC radio or VoA. There I was, shaking my head regretfully and switching over to another FM channel and - I swear, I am NOT making this up, sheer COINCIDENCE - the announcer says "The time is 1:57 and in a short while you will listen to the voice of ... who will be with you till 5, till then it's bye from me"

A couple of days before that, a very good friend of mine had been to meet a client - this, on a festival holiday, mind you - down in Colaba. A 11:30 AM meeting. Only, when they reached the clients' office the person who had called them was not in yet. He came in, "slightly late" at 12:15. Another team, from another company, who had a prior appointment with this "gentleman" was called in first. My friend finally was granted an audience well after 1:30.

Typical, isn't it? We are so careless with time, whether it is our OWN time or whether it is others' that we squander... and yet, the number of times I have heard people say that in Mumbai time is money!

A couple of days after that "Good morning/Good afternoon" thing happened, I went to a bank near my office - needed to deposit some money. I'd just finished lunch, the time was close to 3. I wasn't too sure whether the banking hours were over. The clerk was polite when she told me that the bank accepted cash till 5 PM. I filled in the paying in slip and stood in a queue. Have you noticed, banks have become quite mechanised? There was a man ahead of me, only one cash counter was open - he had handed over a large amount of cash. The teller, a lady of around my age (OK, OK, an OLD lady, yes!) accepted the bundles and one by one, methodically, placed each bundle in the Currency Note Counting machine behind her.

The machine WHIRRRED and in seconds digitally displayed the number of notes (94) and the denomination (Rs 500). Aunty took the bundle, frowned at the machine, frowned at the bundle, looked at the customer in front of her, a rather quizzical, puzzled, confused look and she smoothened the edges of the notes, shifted the rubber band a bit and placed the bundle in the machine again. Again the machine went WHIRRRRR and said 97. The customer (not me, the guy at the counter) shifted nervously while Aunty went through her motions of frowning, shaking her head and all that... repeat procedure (edges, rubber band, etc) and again WHIRRRRR and magic!! A Tendulkar number, 100!! She kept that bundle aside and took up the next bundle - there were 5 such bundles, various denominations - a bundle of 1000, 3 bundles of 500, and one of 100. Almost every time the WHIRRING machine displayed "multiple choice" questions while Aunty did her frowning, Customer did his fidgeting and Uncle (that's me) went from patient watching to fidgeting to wondering whether I should come back tomorrow to finally enjoying the sheer relief of seeing a second teller open her counter (after lunch, perhaps). While my deposit was processed (thankfully in a few seconds) the other guy remained there still... 

 What struck me was this - by what logic does the teller keep repeating placing the bundle of notes back in the machine till it tallies with what the customer wrote on his paying in slip? Beats me. It seemed to me to be about as "Exact" as the time on the FM radio channels...

Finally, while most of my professional friends and colleagues in the insurance business have been going crazy with hundreds of thousands of renewals to handle, I've been leading a rather more relaxed life these few days. SO much so that I thought I'd spend some time doing some statistical number-crunching, digging deep into the web-site of the insurers to see the various performance parameters. And so, since the insurance regulator has made it mandatory for insurers to display critical information on their web-sites, the data is available.

Oh yes, it IS available - provided one knows where to look for it. Clever guys, insurers! They know how to display this data while keeping it safely disguised so that it does not come easy to the layman. (You wanna know more? Ask "Uncle", I'll tell you!!

Anyway, the final point here is this - of the many insurers' data that I've accessed so far, only ONE insurer's data appears to be CREDIBLE. All the other insurer's data, accessed on their web-sites, are so patently inaccurate - errors in totalling, errors in carrying forward figures from one quarter to the next, errors in terms of a complete mismatch between what is shown in one form not tallying with another form and so on and so forth...

One would have thought that at least when it comes to submitting data to the regulator (mind you, all this information that I accessed IS filed with the regulator) the insurers would have taken the effort to check and double check. Bah!!

When I left office around 7 this evening, as always, my eye fell on the "scoreboard" outside the Indian Institute of Population Studies, (a deemed university, mind you!) - they have a display board (see pic) that shows the population of India as on the previous day.

Today's score was something like 124,78,93,114 or so... as on 29th March 2012.

How exact!! Sure..... 



I saw her, again, this evening. Around 8 or so, perhaps a quarter past 8 - she was there, in the same place that I had seen her earlier. Which was 2 evenings back. Which was when I actually noticed her for the first time - for all I know, she might have been there even earlier but I noticed her for the first time 2 evenings back.

And then again, yesterday. And today, as well. Three consecutive evenings, more or less at the same time - between 7:30 and 8:30... which, when you think of it, is a coincidence brought on by another - coincidence, I mean - 3 successive days, at that same damn spot (you know, where the road coming from Mankhurd to Ghatkopar meets the Eastern Express Highway) I hit the red light and stopped.

What caught my eye was the fact that the OTHER lady was trying to sell flowers to passers-by. She was (the other lady, I mean) perhaps in her mid 20s looking much older as only poverty can make. Haggard, derelict and dirty. This girl, though, barely 8 or 9 years of age, despite the dirt and dust that coated her face like a pancake, had that look....

she had THAT look which belongs to the street children of Mumbai and ONLY to the street children of Mumbai... it's difficult to describe THAT LOOK but here's a go at it...

it is the look that says "Hey, ain't I pretty?!", or that says "Bindasss rehne ka! Main mast hoon, na?!!" or that says "Kya, bhidu, apunko kya samajh ke rakhela hai?!" - a saucy, happy go lucky, no regrets with life, "today is IT who gives a damn about tomorrow" look... I know, I still haven't got it "just right" but, hey, YOU know what I mean, don't you...

So, THIS little girl, the thing about her was - while the other lady was trying to sell her stock of flowers, this little one was busy gazing at her own reflection in my window glass, preening at herself, totally without any self-consciousness. While the light stayed red, she looked into my glass, at her face, and, even as I was looking at her, she remained totally glued to her own reflection... and suddenly SMILED, a great, BIG, oh-so-happy smile.

Through that glass that smile travelled instantly and I found myself grinning in indescribable joy - and, as the light turned green, I moved on. She remained there while travelling with me in my thoughts and in my smile.

That was 2 days back. Yesterday was another story - or, more truly, a non-event. She was there, somewhere behind my car where I had stopped at the red light again. Luckily (?) the light turned green in seconds and na-da, nothing, zilch...

Today, on a hat-trick of red lights, she (for the first time) made eye contact with me and lifted her tiny arm to show me the flowers that she was selling. A small string of mogras. I slid my window down, not intending to buy anything but just to get a chance to see her smile again. Barely 3 minutes later I was hanging 4 strings of mogra inside my car. "Kitne ka hai?" I heard myself asking. Impishly she smiled and replied "Sab le lo na Uncle, 20 rupya ke liye". "Kitna kum karoge?" "Chalo Uncle, aap ke liye 15 mein" While she counted out the change for the 20/- that I gave her I asked her "Naam kya hai?"

"Reshma" she said and concluded "Kal phir se le lena, OK?" that last bit in stylish English... with a smile, thrown in for free....

I tell you.... I am SO sick and tired of hearing people speak of the "spirit of Mumbai" but when I see the spunk and sheer positivity of Mumbai's street kids I find myself really, truly, believing in that mythical thing.

"I had a dream"

With due apologies to Martin Luther King, I had a dream - that's a lie, I have had many, many, countless many dreams, each one strange, stranger than fiction, stranger than truth...... for a dream lies in that half-real world that exists yet does not.

So, a couple of days back, there we were, four friends - who shall remain unnamed - we were holidaying in Tahiti, which, for the purposes of THIS dream was an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the coast of Western Africa instead of being where it truly is

A fabulous beach, spakling clean,  crystal clear waters, mild weather, a perfect holiday. And, my friends and I, enjoying our time, happily chatting among ourselevs - as always about insurance, yuck!! - and people we know. Across the sea, a few miles away, another island, Fiji, this one too, miraculously "transferred" from the Indian Ocean to a few miles away from the African shores. Walking along that beach, a good friend, once upon a time a customer, now a friend.... we get to talking, we can hear each other despite the distance, no cell phones, thank God!

He is upset with something - some wrong advice, some loss that seems to have been lost in the fine print of his insurance policy. In a fit of anger, petulantly, he stomps on the beach and the waves rise menacingly and come racing like a tsunami across the miles between Fiji and Tahiti. On THIS beach the four of us scrmable for higher ground while, away on Fiji my friend laughs at our plight. Suddenly he dpesn't look all that friendly, no more!

We scamper, running as fast as we could, reach the hilly slops and climb.... and climb.... and climb until we're at the very top

From our vantage point we look below, behind and realise we've just managed to escape death and destruction. On the other side, behind the hills, there is a road, looks familiar to two of us. We walk along the road as it curves to the right and, in minutes, we realise that we've reached Mangor Hill, in Vasco da Gama, Goa, India! Sheer relief, having reached safety and our own country! And, Goa, after all, is Goa - carnival time, carnival country! Gargling our mouths with Kings beers we now walk into THE casino, for, when in Goa one must life life large!!

So, there we are, in a small, seedy looking hall, redolent of the smells of beers and sausages, sorpotel and vindaloo.... it is "early morning" yet, just around 11 or so. A few tables, desultorily occupied by a few hard-core casino junkies, playing - yes, I joke not - playing CARROM! Not baccarat, not poker, not blackjack but carrom with Cashew feni on the side.



My friend decides to play because, as he solemnly explains to me, he was a junior national champ in Table tennis and carrom is a table game too. Perhaps its the beers that we gargled, but the rest of us agree and help him along. So, pretty damn quick there we are, rooting for him as he splurges all his cash away, cheering him every time his striker goes into the pocket! "Ace!", "Ace!!" we cry lustily, all the while the bored board man sweeps our cash right into his bank.  

All of a sudden the beers lose their gargle effect and we wake up to the realisation that our man is losing us our money! We remember that all of us had given our wallets to him for safekeeping back when we were still in Tahiti before the tsunami. So now, that "bored banker" has suddenly become our Enemy - and all hell breaks loose. Goa has never seen a gang of insurance goons on the rampage before and before you can say "Vasco da Gama" we've broken a few heads, taken ALL the cash out of the counter and are sauntering our way back to our official quarters at Hill Crest Apartments at Mangor Hill, Vasco da Gama, Goa, India....

I woke, silently convulsed with laughter, shaking with mirth. My wife mumbled, grumbled and peeped into her cell-phone to see the time. "It's 5:15 in the morning!" she chid-chidaoed, "Go back to sleep" she said....

Isn't there something, somewhere, about early morning dreams coming true???? God Forbid!!

An "Identity Crisis"

Remember all those "politically incorrect" jokes - many of which are, usually, grounded in sadly unavoidable reality - about Negroes and/or Chinese who look all alike? (I wonder, when a Nigerian comes to India, do WE all look the same to him/her?? I guess we would - just imagine, Okolie Odafa, ex captain, Churchill Brothers football team - confuses Aishwarya Rai and Katrina Kaif, thinking they're the same person?!!!) To hell with all that, but just stay with that thought and remember all those politically incorrect jokes.... for a little while.

There I was, seated in the comfort of the drivers' seat of my aged and soon to become dilapidated (getting there - 1 lakh plus kilometres on the odometer) - somewhere in Chembur market, a few days back. A Sunday evening, for some strange reason the bitter-half had decided to venture into this unknown neighbourhood far away from her usual hunting grounds, in search of vegetables and victuals... my role, as a dutiful husband, being restricted (this, mind you, was a truly hard fought victory for me) to being a driver, I parked there, opposite Grand Central restaurant (residents of Mumbai, familiar with Chembur will realise that THIS, ALONE, makes me eligible for a Bharat Ratna - Sachin T, get behind me in the queue please) while the Mrs sauntered off in search of GKW (God knows what)
 

This is evening time, getting on to night... around 7:30 or so. The skies were darkening, the area teeming with a multitude of people moving about in search of GKW (I've explained, already) and I, sitting in my car, lost in the music of Mohd. Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Manna Dey and so on.. well, not exactly "lost" in that music, I will confess to keeping a sharp eye, looking out for comely figures (don't tell my wife this! - she's marked in on this mail, honestly, but, like always, she doesn't listen when I talk and she doesn't read what I write!)

Anyway....... sitting in my car, observing "life" (you know!) something "different" caught my eye.... (I won't use the word "peculiar", "odd", "strange" etc because someone may just decide that I'm being heretical and issue a fatwa or something, and that would be a wee bit tiresome, what, eh?)

There were these two, presumably young, women walking past my car. Dressed, from head to toe in a long black burqa, faces covered, just their eyes visible (such beautiful eyes, most women have, no?). I wasn't even LOOKING at them, seriously, just happened to notice them pass my car. And THEN, the "thing" happened.

Coming in from the opposite side, a man and (presumably) his wife, the latter also dressed in a burqa, equally black, equally simple and elegant, (the man, in jeans and a T-shirt, looking every bit the modern Indian, no signs of Islam - a beard minus the moustache, or a skull cap, nothing). The lady stops, greets the pair of burqa clad ladies coming in her direction, and the chat for a while, animated conversations, hands gesturing, voices raised in amused yet gentle laughter, heads shaking, eyes smiling broadly, and then, in a few minutes, they shake hands and move on....

..... while I remain, wondering.....

How, EXACTLY, did the lady figure out who the other two ladies were?!! I mean, go back a li'l while and read that opening paragraph of mine, that politically incorrect one..... if one Chinaman looks like another (or, if an Aishwarya Rai looks just like a Kat K to a Nigerian!), to poor old me, one burqa clad woman looks just like another, no? I mean, come to think of it, wasn't that the whole POINT?!!!!!

Or what?

I was still thinking this, pondering it, WONDERING about it when, off in the distance, a few hundred metres away, in the crowd of thronging people I spotted the wife, returning. I sat up straight, rolled up the windows, switched on the engine, turned on the A.C, and git ready ......... (driver) duty called.... from a few hundred metres away, even in the looming twilight darkness, I could recognise SHE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED..... amen.

MLAs "Privileges"

The only "golden rule" that really applies is "Don't Get Caught" especially on camera. Go ahead, do "it" but remember, don't get CAUGHT. THAT is unpardonable....

........ and a fool is not someone who does not make a mistake, a fool is someone who does not learn from the mistake...

So, barely (and I use the word "bare" with intent) a month after 3 MLA's were caught watching porn in Karnataka, we have another story of 2 MLAs doing eggjactly the same, this time in Gujarat. It is purely coincidental that on both occasions the "culprits" belonged to the same party - I wonder when (as surely one day it must) will MLAs of other "holier than thou" parties will be caught with egg of their faces.

Remember the "dignity" of the Governor's bungalow in Andhra Pradesh, courtesy an "evergreen" ND Tiwari?

What "crime" has Suresh Kalmadi committed? Or an ARaja? Poor Sukh Ram, he made the cardinal mistake of getting cuaght...

Remember that gentleman, Bangaru Laxman? President of the BJP, and that too not too long ago..... but I don't blame you, what with a fresh, brand new, breaking news scandal virtually every other day, keeping track of "The Daily Shame" is getting to be "mushkil nahin, na mumkin hai"...



Happiness is....

Happiness is driving from your office to meet a client all the way across town, with just 30 minutes left to reach destination and....... getting a string of 8 consecutive green signals all the way!!

Delight/ecstacy is reaching the destination with 5 minutes to spare AND finding a parking slot too, in a normally congested part of town!!

Law, Crime and Punishment

My morning newspaper, the Indian Express, has been front-paging a story about a "radical muslim cleric" based in London who wants to start an agitation/movement to make Islamic Sharia law compulsory here in India. Among the various statements he has allegedly made by Anjem Choudhary are such gems as "I do not believe in Indian law so there is no question of seeking permission from the authorities there".

At a purely "pseudo - intellectual" level I would have simply laughed this whole story away, pehaps shaking my head in mock disbelief. Sharia? In India? Bullshit! I would have also shaken my head to wonder, doesn't the Indian Express have any better stories to carry/run instead of fanning reactionary protests from all around.

Ok, honestly, I'll amend that "I would have..." and actually confess that I did both. Stupid cleric, stupid Indian Express, damn them both.

Two pages later, tucked away somewhere on page 5 was this small little story of 2 six year old girls having been raped. I went cold with rage - yes, RAGE is not an intellectual or a pseudo intellectual state. It is raw, gut wrenching, it is pure savagery, an emotion that craves for action, release, relief.

What kind of an animal would even think of venting out his depraved sexual urges on a 6 year old girl? Look around you, in your neighbourhood, in your pretty fancy colonies and apartments. Our 6 year old daughters, daughters of our neighbours, looking like such lovely angels, getting ready to go to school, playing little childrens games, laughing, smiling, telling stories, such animated faces that give birth to a smile..... how can one even begin to understand why such little, innocent kids get raped?!!

It was worse... of the two girls that were so brutally victimised, one was even burnt with cigarette marks all over her body.

I think we could do with some dose of Islamic law for crimes such as these. Damn it. The perpetrators should not be allowed to serve 2 or 3 years in jail for THIS!!

ADDENDUM: Someone very "kindly informed" me that according to the Sharia Law, a woman who accuses a man of rape must be able to produce 4 male eye-witnesses to corroborate her statement; failing which she can be prosecuted for adultery and sentenced to death by stoning.

Is this true? Or is it just one more cooked up Islamophobic story?

Bemisal - Missal Pav

Once upon a time, long, long ago I was a young man, from Madras (before those white shirted, dark goggled lungiwallas changed the name to Chennai) who got "posted" out to Nasik in Maharashtra via a short sojourn in Jatland (Faridbad).

Most of my Madrasi colleagues (Madras is the worderfully ambiguous region that comprises 90% of peninsular India, for those of you who are from "India") found it tough, adjusting to the food challenges that life suddenly threw at us. No more home cooked idli - sambhar, or masala dosa for breakfast. And, for lunch and dinner things certainly went even further awkward. Chapati, roti, strange unfamiliar vegetables called "tinda", "shepu", dishes with absolutely unappetizing NAMES - "pitla", for instance, managing to look even more unappetizing than its name!

Thankfully, I had no such problems (barring the fact that, for a brief period, during my OTHERWISE glorious bachelorhood - sigh! - I sacrificed filter coffee for masala chai!) and, by and large, enjoyed my culinary adventures without too much trouble. Which is not to say that I did not have "fun" with my dinner dabbawallah, had more than my fair share. But, not just looking back but even as I was opening my tiffin-box at night I would be laughing at what fate had served up :)

But, truly, this mail is not about "food" in general. I write to celebrate a uniquely Maharashtrian dish, a culinary marvel that, by rights, ought to be legally sold only in the vicinity of fire stations.

"Missal Pav" or "Misal Pav" is the rather non-descript name by which this item goes. It is the culinary equivalent to someone letting off an "atom bomb" right behind you while you were busy doing something else! A pungent tongue burner, the missal pav is supposed to be a breakfast item that is guaranteed to clear blocked noses (it can give Kiwi Dranex a run for its money), soak your hand kerchief and generally make you remember fully 24 hours later what you had for breakfast the previous morning.

Essentially the dish is a bowl of sprouted, boiled lentils, chopped onions, tomatoes served with crisp mixture/farsan soaked in blood red, pungent, spicy gravy. And, of course, pav (unleavened bread) on the side.

For me, it was love at first sight! (A silent "Thank You" to Aba Samant for having dragged me out of my comfort zone in a red, rickety ST bus at Igatpuri all those many years ago one August in 1987 and made me sit at one of the dirtiest canteens that MSRTC operated back then - I'm sure it's got even dirtier now!) The moment he ordered "Missal pav", just HEARING the name of the dish, I made up my mind that I would not like it. I looked around, grime everywhere, seedy looking waiters, weary passengers, a rainy Igatpuri August, slush everywhere and I was all set to tell Aba to go "efff off" when the waiter plonked my dish before me. As I said...... it was love at first sight!! "Spicy" is an English word, so totally unsuited to describe this humble item. It looked like something Count Dracula would have woken up to after years of fasting. Pure blood, pungent as hell, oily (cholestrol? Who cares!) and mind-blowingly delicious as only HOT food can be.

The love affair that started back then has stood the test of time. Since that wet August morning I have sampled countless missal pav plates at nameless corners across Nasik, Igatpuri, Satara, Sangli, Kolhapur, Jalna, Dhulia, Thane and Pune. Lately, Pune... a couple of days back, in fact. Pure joy, sheer magic, spicy, spicy, spicy stuff...

and hence, this mail..... for all that Mumbai (which, before all the topiwallahs went and changed the name, was Bombay) does not appear to be a part of the culinary map of Maharashtra. Even those Oh - So - Typical Maharashtrian joints such as Aaswad, near Sena Bhavan, do not serve that genuine fiery stuff. At best what one gets is a mockery of the original, madrasi mixture soaked in sambhar!! Sheeeeeshhhhh!! How absolutely YUCKY!

So, the next time any of my Thackeray fan friends speak glowingly about Amchi Mumbai, I have this simple, humble request - please add to Mumbai's Maharashtrian aura by setting up an honest to goodness Missal Pav centre!!

Jai Maharashtra (excluding Mumbai, for now!)

Explain this, someone!

Sometime during the week that went by, I was driving up from Powai towards Andheri, a nice, sunny but pleasant afternoon, lots of breeze, the waters of Powai lake being rippled into small waves....  as one approaches the flyover at the L&T junction, just as one begins to make that little climb, you see the top of the L&T Infotech building.

 

 

That bit of cloth flying up there is a sight. All across the city, and elsewhere in the country too, one encounters many such bits of clothing - sometimes hanging limply, sometimes fluttering bravely. But THIS one piece caught my fancy, made me wonder. The Indian FLAG, when it flies like this in a gusty breeze - WHY does it make one's heart quicken when flags of political parties do not? Look around - the Congress, the BJP, Shiv Sena, RPI, NCP, CPI you name it and they are there, jostling for space. And, amid all, an occasional Indian flag, standing proud, just makes one sit up that little bit straighter, square one's shoulders and brings a quizzical smile.... thank you, Naveen Jindal! Why does THIS bit of cloth appear special and different from the others?

 

 

 If it is "patriotism" - in some undefined, vague form - then, I ask myself, what the hell happened YESTERDAY?

 

Reaching home around 8 pm, plonked in front of my TV I watched the Bangladesh team carry out a brutal execution, demolishing the Indian bowling - and, I found myself actually laughing, laughing out loud, at the look of puzzled despair on Irfan Pathan's face. Praveen Kumar, for one over, flattered to deceive while Dhoni remained, unruffled, ice cold and in control of his emotions till the very end.

 

Where did THAT emotion vanish? Had this been an India - Pak or an India - Australia match I guess I would have been a mixture of anger, frustration, depression, tension etc. I don't need to describe that - YOU know it as well as I do! But yesterday, with every ball that went screaming over the ropes, Mushfiqur Rahim and Shakib Al Hassan simply waltzed their way right into my heart - guys, you just have to hand it to them for their sheer audacity, the attack was blunt, brutal and brave. And I enjoyed it so much - this, despite an overdose of cricketing defeats in recent times. 

 

Patriotism, someone said something?    

 

Sats

One year and one month ago I learned, through a personal bereavement, of the existence of a crematorium just off the Eastern Express Highway, at Vikhroli. The ten odd years preceding this, I must have driven past the location countless times. 

Those slim, black, tall chimneys poking up into the sky - surely, I must have blindly "seen" them, and driven past, unknowing, uncaring, totally unaware. Just another urban structure dotting or blotting briefly, the non-descript skyline of suburban Mumbai.

10th February 2011, with my mother-in-law's moving on, changed all that.  (She always had a smile - except when talking to my FIL about his "language"!!)

Ever since, each time I cross that stretch of road, automatically my eyes look up at that pair of chimneys - quiet, forbidding, silent sentinels of our temporary existence. Some days, they stand simply. More often, though, I see the black smoke rising up through the top, a soul moving up to Heaven, perhaps. Somewhere, someone has moved on, again - leaving behind memories, people who live on slightly diminished. 

Not just at Vikhroli, it seems now that I can recognise these gateways to heaven across Mumbai - chimneys in Jogeshwari, Malad, Mulund, elsewhere, a clan of chimneys bound together in an unearthly function, each serving a neighbourhood/ Each driving home the point - no man is an island.

Where were you when......

So, it has finally happened. Enough, no more discussions on "Will He? Won't He?" anymore. Mind you, the capital "H" in "He".... He did it, today. A ton of tons from Sachin Tondulkar? The radio commentator went into raptures. Around me, at Horniman Circle, opposite The Asiatic Society about a 100 odd people, standing with that ubiquituous gadget - the cell phone doubling up as a radio - broke into smiles, looking more relieved than joyful. A few feet away, just outside Dena Bank, a temporary stage, erected by Shiv Sena, for some politcial function - and on the stage a man, dressed up as Lord Krishna or perhaps as Lord Vishnu holding a spinning "chakra" on his index finger, continued to gyrate his hips with an expressionless face.

 

Years hence, if someone asks me (unlikely, that) - years later, when I retell the story, "Where was I when HISTORY was being made?" (more likely, THIS scenario!) I guess I will remember, Sachin's 100th 100 and I was high-fiving with a total stranger who, sheepishly, shook hands later with me, saying "Chalo, ek baar ab khatam ho gaya! Abhi woh aaram se khelega Sunday ko!"

 

I didn't see anyone talking about the Union Budget (I understand Pranabda has made my whiskey costlier, has not granted any significant reduction in income tax, has quietly "stolen" money from my pocket by jacking up the service tax rates by a whopping 25%) - at this moment, at least, all focus remains on Sachin (I write this at 6:45, Bangladesh is batting, the results are still open. God forbid, if India lose THIS game, we will continue to hear - for years, perhaps - how Sachin scores only in India's losing matches!!)

39. Just a number, not even a unique number - perhaps nothing really magical at all about it. It is not a square, it apparently has no "magic" to it (remember 1729, the so-called "Ramanujam" number?) - it is not even a prime number.

Yet, 39 it was that leaped off the front pages of my morning paper and hit me with a double whammy.

At 39, Rahul Dravid announces his retirement. (One of crickets' greatest - let me not do injustice here by even attempting to write about the sheer joy of watching him. He deserves better tribute, from better writers)



 At 39, while Rahul retires, Akhilesh Yadav is set to take the reins of Uttar Pradesh, as Chief Minister.

For one, the number is a sunset, for the other it is a "Son"rise. Delightful irony that.

Dravid, known for his under-stated elegance and grit. I do not recall any ocassion where he could be "accused" of displaying his emotions the way most Indian (and foreign) cricketers now seem to do. Just close your eyes and imagine a Harbhajan or a Sreesanth or a Yuvaraj or a Virat Kohli..... and close your eyes again and try to see Rahul Dravid's display of emotions. You know, now, no?

And, in the two months that have just gone by, try, recall the TV images. A Rahul Gandhi (much as I hate to admit this, there was a time when I did believe he was sincere, genuinely different from the rest of the politicians - somewhere, deep inside, I still think that he IS sincere though, perhaps, as naive as I have been). Television showed Rahul, angry, demonstrative, vicious images of carefully rehearsed anger, exhorting the voters to punish the political parties of the last two decades (carefully stepping just these selective 20 years into history).

The TV showed Akhilesh in better light - understated, positive, calm, speaking in a level voice.

Maybe there's more to Rahul and Akhilesh than just the coincidence of age? Am I being naive, again?

Rahul's already proved his mettle - and perhaps, at 39, life begins afresh.

Akhilesh..... was it the TOI that headlined "UP Proves to be Rahul's Akhilesh Heel"?

Time will tell....

Why men OUGHT to listen to their wives......

It was still quite dark, an early morning when Jignesh Chowrasia was getting ready to leave for work. He was in a hurry, today was to be a special day. He was to attend a seminar/conference where he expected to be given an award for outstanding achievement in his field.

Things, however, were not looking all that good. All night long his wife had been tossing and turning, talking in her sleep, recurring nightmares disturbing her. It seemed that she finally went to sleep just an hour before dawn. Her nightmares had kept him awake too and he was bleary eyed and fatigued. Even as he finished his ablutions, even as he was performing his early morning "puja" he kept mumbling, muttering to himself, grumbling about his wife's habit of talking in her sleep.

In a little while, his colleagues rang the bell. Opening the door, he welcomed them in and while he was still tying his shoe-laces, engaged in a little "shop - talk" with them. Excited though he was about the prospects for the day, he stayed careful not to display too much excitement.

Meanwhile, just as he got ready, Chetna came out to the hall. Looking tired, having had a restless night, she was not exactly in the best of moods. In a low voice she spoke to her husband - "Do you really have to go today? Can't you stay back?" Fighting back the urge to snap at her, he said "Don't you know? This is an important seminar. There's no way I can avoid this!" in as reasonable a voice as he could manage. Chetna apparently did not realise this and replied, unthinkingly, "Jignesh, listen to me, I have a bad feeling about today. You know, no, all night I was sleepless. I've been dreaming something terrible."

Unable to control his irritation Jignesh let off with "You and your stupid dreams! If I start changing my schedules every time you have a bad dream I might as well stay at home all my life! You're mad!!". His friends sniggered but tried to cover it up by coughing. Brijesh and Chaganbhai tried convincing her, "Don't worry Bhabhi. Nothing will happen. You take care of yourself, we'll take care of Jigneshbhai"

Chetna muttered, under her breath, "How can I explain? My bad dreams are because I don't trust you two." In a louder voice, though, she said "At least stay home till 9 - the time now is not auspicious. This is Rahu Kaal, leave after this is over!" Jignesh could not control his anger any more - "You and your stupid superstitions! Aren't you educated?!! You behave like an illilterate villager!! Bah!!" and picked up his briefcase and made to leave. Chetna grasped his elbow and said "Don't make fun of my beliefs. Leave, if you must, but first at least come to the "puja" room and offer a prayer"

Unheeding, Jignesh left, shaking her hand off, shaking his head. Brijesh and Chaganbhai left with him, looking back at Chetna, shaking their heads in quiet amusement, mocking her.......

On their way to the venue Chagan kept flattering Jignesh on his achievements, his deft handling of his wife's "sentimental foolishness".....

15th March, he had been warned even earlier by a "soothsayer" - "Caesar, beware the Ides of March"

(For Jignesh Chowrasia read Julius Caesar, Chetna as Calpurnia, Brijesh as Brutus and Chaganbhai as Cassius)

Kabhi kabhi biwi ki baat sun lena chahiye, hai na?? 

(For those who are clueless about what happened: 15th March was the day Julius Caesar was assassinated by, among others, his close friend Marcus Brutus - JC should have heeded his wife's advice and stayed at hame, perhaps?)

Introduction

Having been persuaded, rather easily too, by friends and "well wishers" (I hope that term is appropriate) that I have a "knack" of writing, that too after having subjected many many unwitting acquaintances to my many unwanted mails, here I am, finally, making my "avatar" on a blog....

In these here "pages" I shall keep posting "stuff" - my random takes on things that have "stirred" me enough to share my views. So, as I keep posting new stuff, I will also try and see if I can go back to my earlier "articles" and give them a fresh posting in this blog... pretending to myself about my "committment" to posterity....

Pardon me if I seem ignorant about the structure of a "blog" - if I do seem ignorant, that is because I am. Never done a "blog" before but I guess it's not rocket science. Will get the hang of it I guess, perhaps later rather than sooner :)

Sats