The Social Network

Alfred Borden: Everything's going to be alright, because I love you very much.

Sarah: Say it again.

Alfred Borden: I love you.

Sarah: Not today.

Alfred Borden: What do you mean?

Sarah: Well some days it's not true. I like being able to tell the difference, it makes the days it is true mean something.

_________________________________________________________

Like most ordinarily built Indian women, the teacher stood at five feet and four inches. She was an attractive woman in her mid twenties. Given the circumstances, it's only understandable that she felt like a giant. She had come to class I A. And in that class stood I, in the sparkling new outfit dad had helped me get into, as a little lad with a rather large head. Fifteen years have passed since that day but I remember this one certain detail: The teacher, being bored - understandably, as she was surrounded by twenty-three clumsy midgets - gave us an assignment. She said, "Open your notebook and write down the name of your best friend and the reason why that person is your best friend."

This also happened to be my first day in Indian School Al Ghubra, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman. It was also the first co-ed school I attended - my first school being Baldwin Boys', Bangalore. So, it is probably understandable that curiosity got the better of me and soon I was writing - "My best friend in Avantika because she sits next to me." I don't remember the girl's face; just her name.

I look back at that day in quiet amusement: how easy it had been to choose a best friend! As kids, most people who we get along could very well qualify as our best pals. And as kids, we have only two choices about people you meet: you love them or you hate them. There's no concept of secretly hating your friends, harbouring envy for your neighbour's superior penmanship or secretly admiring your enemies. I only wish the world had remained that simple.

That was a world where words and diamonds and gifts weren't the only ways of expressing love and affection. That was a world where a smile or even a knowing nod was a reassuring testament of love without warranting the three words, which have been debased by overuse; a world where friendship was a bond of blood and where there was understanding even in silence.

Life is, after all, not about immense networking and keeping in touch with as many people as possible. One would think it's about staying happy - with few people you will be happy with. Only then can words still carry meaning and promise. But we don't live this life: we live in a world where every acquaintance expects to be loved, to be greeted with hugs - which aren't really hugs - and kisses - which aren't really kisses. You can be held culpable for not uttering the right words when the 'moment' comes - the depravity of it all!

I can say one thing for sure - I will fall in love several times in this life, but there'll few I'll ever call my 'best friends'.

Ten Greatest Fictional Universes Ever

Sometimes, this life doesn't feel enough. It's fun, it's beautiful and all that... But once in a while, we wonder if there's a better place, a better life, waiting for us somewhere. Well, I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but these are the ten worlds I'd love to be in. Ten greatest fictional worlds I've come across:

10. BERK:

Who wouldn't want to live with big burly vikings, drink yak milk and pillage villages for fun? Here, I can sail. And I can fly!

"This is Berk. It snows nine months of the year and hails the other three. What little food grows here is tough, and tasteless. The people that grow here, even more so. The only upsides are the pets. While other places have ponies, and parrots, we have dragons!"

Watch the movie.

9. COLLECTING DRAGON BALLS:

It's my life's ambition to meet a real-life super-Saiyyan. That, and Piccolo's makankosappo (or Special Beam Cannon) means that Goku, Bulma and company find their place in the list at number nine.

Come get me!!

8. WITH THE JUSTICE LEAGUE:

Yes, more superheroes! While Bruce Wayne's Gotham alone is worth experiencing, one finds the city devoid of The Green Lantern, J'onn J'onzz and The Flash. So yes, wherever the JL go, I'd like to go with them.

Note 1: Superman is gay: the only eyesore in an otherwise perfect universe.

Note 2: More than offsetting this problem, we'll have Wonder Woman. And she is...

7. ARDA:

Being one of the most elaborately designed worlds ever (the Mahabharata isn't really fiction), not wanting to live in Middle Earth and, later, Valinor should be considered a criminal offence! Silmarils, rings and legendary swords... I'm probably doing Tolkien grave injustice by relegating the world to number se7en.

6. AS A PGW CREATION:

As a matter of policy, I dislike God-interference. Some plots become murkier and murkier until one stage a solution seems impossible, when Presto! An impossible ending is conjured out of nowhere and all is well. These story-lines just don't make sense! However, there are two exceptions to this rule: 1. My life and 2. A Wodehouse novel.

Jeeves is a genius.

5. HOGWARTS:

Even though I consider Rowling a highly unoriginal author, I'm a sucker for this world. Come on! 'Wands and Wizards' - there's no way in hell I'd say no to that! Besides, house-elves could do all my work.

(For the record, I prefer elves who tall, beautiful warriors to the sycophantic elves.)

4. HERGEVERSE:

Blistering barnacles, of course! Tintin, Snowy and the cap'n almost skipped my mind entirely... I'd love to gallivant Borduria, Sydavia and places as far away as the Moon. This one comes above Wands and Wizards!

3. THE MAGIC FARAWAY TREE:

Moonface, Silky the fairy, Dame Washalot, Mister Whatizname, Saucepan Man and the Angry Pixie... Need I say more? What worse could happen to me here than missing the hole back to the tree! Enchanting, yes! And one of the happiest worlds I've lived in as a kid.

2. LONG LONG AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY:

Light sabers. Need I say more?

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no death, there is the Force.

1. CENTRAL PERK:

A quintessential Friends group and the bittersweet symphony of Life. The most real, happy place I've ever had the fortune of coming across! Thank you, David Crane and Marta Kauffman for redefining happiness and laughter.

I'll be there for you...

'Cuz you're there for me too.

One Last Breath

Greyness descended upon him even as his vision blurred. Colours seemed to fade away, as grass merged with dusty earth, in a cold steel grey. The pool of blood appeared black from where he stood. Once again, he crouched behind the makeshift wall to protect himself from sheets of savage arrows. Faces in the wall were a grim reminder of the dead who now constituted it: once his comrades and brothers, they now stared back through empty eyes. With swords in arms, they had all perished in the front-lines and now, in death, they protected him. They would not get a decent burial but dishonour and indignity are rarely felt by the dead.

A man enters a battle in fear, charged with adrenalin... but by the end, he is drained of energy and of tears. And he is fueled by unparalleled courage.

From his breastplate, he pulled out the shaft which had sought him out from behind the wall. The arrowhead smelled of his blood. He rubbed his wound; it did not hurt. He was alone and Death was near. He had sliced and cut his way here with his bloody broadsword before he had been sapped of his strength. He was alone in a losing battle now.

What is fear?

He picked up a fallen bow, instantly recognizing it, but thought not of its previous owner. With a final burst of energy, he sprang up from the dirt. With his one bloody shaft, he armed his bow. He could kill one more man. Through a cloud of approaching arrows, he spotted the chariot. A deep breath filled his lungs, as last breaths often do. He steadied his arms and squinted through the blur. The arrows descended upon him and they sliced through his chain-mail. Blood flowed freely now, even as he imagined that they had entirely missed their target.

He managed a final chuckle and let the arrow fly.

The Old Man & The Pot

The mud track took one last turn around the hill, and a smile vanquished the last of those fretful lines upon his face. The boy, tired as he was, was finally nearing the end of his almighty quest. The meandering road had taken him through several villages and shanties, over treacherous rope-ways and some insanely beautiful scenery. But he was glad that it was all over now, for his legs: they were pumping acid; and his vision was blurring from fatigue. And thus, he threw himself around the bend with whatever energy was left in him, unconsumed.

Voila! The sight he beheld astonished him as much as it bewildered his senses, for beauty in its most consummate form can hold one in a trance forever; he held the vision in veneration and fear. The trees were taller than many mountains he had seen in his life and they were richer than the richest of kings. Snowflakes, like little stars, floated down through their almighty canopy into the bursting stream which ran down the hill. And in front of him was the most queer looking house, made of logs and bricks and stone - and yet it didn't look out of place.

He was rejuvenated by the glorious sight and he felt like he could run all the way to the house. For it was for the house that he had undertaken this perilous trip once again. Memories of his previous encounters with the wizened inhabitant of the house flooded his thoughts. It had been two years now...

* * *

"Welcome, welcome..." the old man had said, stroking his flowing beard. “What must I owe this delightful honour to? Not many lads come by these days," he had sighed.

"N… nothing sir..." the boy had stammered. “ I am merely an admirer of nature... and a lover of unadulterated beauty.”

"Oh, come now... Let me boil you some tea," the man had said, as he ushered the boy into his austere dwelling. "But you don't have to lie. I know why you have come. I know why all boys come!"

Then he had meticulously boiled the tealeaves in a large kettle and he had returned to the boy's beside only when he carried two mugs of tea.

"Sip on it when it's hot," he had commanded and the boy had obeyed. All of a sudden, he had found himself fully strong: renewed. The old man then posed the question: "Now that you are better, tell me... What are you willing to trade? I know that you have come for the Pot."

"Trade?!" the boy remembered himself faltering, shocked by the old-man's deduction.

"Of course... A trade! It's only fair, isn't it? And how is it you don't know about the trade?!" He had asked. The man seemed menacing now; no longer friendly and definitely not affable. "The pot isn't free of cost. What will you give me in exchange for the pot?"

"I have some gold...?"

"GOLD!" He had laughed, but without mirth. "You can keep that! It is worthless to me. I am looking for something far more precious."

The boy had stayed silent. The old man had played this game far too many times to lose at it. He always won. Every lad eventually gave in! They all knew that their lives would remain miserable without the pot. It was their only way out!

"You know what it is..." he said, slowly. “I know you lead a wretched life! You have nothing more than a pocketful of gold... You believe Life is unjust to you and you have come to me. But you have something I can trade the Pot for..."

The boy had stared mutely.

"Your dreams, your heart! Your soul..." The man went on. "I am willing to trade."

"My heart is mine to keep and mine alone to give. One cannot forcibly claim it. My dreams serve me as an infinite staircase to eternal glory... If you want me to trade that, you are fooling yourself sir. I might be poor, destitute, distraught and ill-omened, but I'm willing to walk back home empty handed. There will be no trade today. Now, will you give me the pot? Or must I walk?"

The man had then smiled, like he had smiled before. "Bravo, boy! Bravo..." He had cried, for never before had he listened to such words. People, usually, willingly submitted. “For you lad, free of cost!” And he conjured a small earthen pot out of thin air. "Just promise me that you will never trade. Otherwise you are not worthy of the Pot."

* * *

The boy was once again at the door of the strange tenement, and he stood on the threshold staring at the large oak door. He had once sworn to himself that he would never make this trip again. And now, he was here. He had promised never to trade, even for something he valued as much as the pot. His life had dramatically improved ever since he had sipped some of its magic. And Life had become fair and beautiful and lovely and grand. For two long years, he had ruled his world, but now he found his pot empty. He felt things would go awry once again. He was afraid: afraid to lose it all and return to square one. He felt now like it was worth a trade.

Suddenly, the door sprang open. But there was no old man this time: in his stead was a little boy.

"What do you want, friend," he asked to which the traveller replied that he had come to see the old man.

The boy looked sad now, and he replied: "You have come to meet grandpa! If only you had come sooner... He forgot to take his daily sip yesterday. I'm afraid he's no longer with us!"

The traveller stared aghast.

"Yes," nodded the grandson solemnly. "Grandpa used to sell Luck."

Senti Mental

Another lazy morning reminds me that the calendar has turned yet another page in what has been a semester of erratic fortunes. The mellow light filtering in through the dusty mesh covering my window reminds me that the newspaperman will be here soon with his pricy Hindu newspaper. I remind myself to go to the ATM to forage enough cash to pay him off; that is when yesterday's copy of the paper reminds me that I haven't done justice to it.

I lift it off my side table meticulously, without disturbing myriad other things which lie beside it, and I discover day-before-yesterday's paper below it. I chastise myself for my shameless habit of not reading-up current-affairs, only to discover that my wrath is ill-directed. For I'm not really angry at myself for not reading the latest on the 2G scam, but for the fact that I let these things lie around.

I remember my mom admonishing me as a kid, when I refused to part with toys of yore, "Throw them out, son!" But I did nothing of that sort. I used to secretly stash them in the corner of my shelf along with the other stuff I couldn't bear to part with - books, worn-out crayons, old clothes and other stochastic paraphernalia. I knew that mom would find them out one day and then destroy them all with one cold-blooded swipe. But that never really hurt me, as I wouldn't know about it happening, until it was all done. And after that, I could barely remember what it was she had thrown away. So all ended well.

Now I am not that kid. And mom's not around to throw stuff away for me. And it hurts. I find myself drowning in a deluge of stuff I really oughtn't keep! I look around to find innocuous immaterial collections of Airline Baggage Tags and Bus and Train tickets, weird stationery items like a first semester notebook or a 'historic' pen, clothes which I won't wear ever - like the T-Shirt my dhobi ripped through, sentimental reminders of what I once thought important including wrappers, labels, boxes and memory-cards, empty cans of deodorant and broken knife blades.

I am determined now to rid myself of this horrendous habit. And what better way than to throw out these relics of the past. And thus I proceed to my shelf to blast them all into oblivion; but then the newspaperman is here. And I need to pay him. May be I should throw the stuff out some other day...

My New Roomies

I brought food from home: a bag full of it. In fact, I took pains lugging it through Security-Check, proving to them at certain points that the sweets and savories weren't in fact plastic explosives and miscellaneous children of modern warfare. It was, of course, totally worth the effort. Home-food is, as you will agree, unparalleled in awesomeness. And one can never have enough of it.

And thus food from home found itself in S7 - Cautley Bhawan after a rather painful dry spell. It doesn't require Einsteinian IQ to figure out that one can't bring Vadais and Appams and Payasams all the way here, and still manage to enjoy them as food few days later if one isn't anaerobic. Luckily though, the same doesn't apply to sweets and savories. And one can never eat enough of them.

The ants dwelling in my room can't get enough of them either. I discovered today, with much alarm, that (not only are there lizards on my walls) I share my humble dwelling with myriad ants as well. I haven't ever bothered their sedentary lives just as they haven't interrupted mine. But today marked an end of those days of peace. Quite obviously, there isn't enough place for both of us! And hence I took to arms.

But then I faced the tiniest of problems. They were feasting on my 'handmade murukku' which I valued simply too much. So bashing their skulls in with the umbrella handle was out of the question. So, I calmly broke off a piece and kept it beside the rest of the stuff. And presto, within quarter of an hour, the ants completely forgot the packet full of murukku and went after the measly piece. I smiled. And then I threw the piece out of my window. And with it, my roomies.

It surprised me that all those ants went after one single piece of food. They forgot about the whole packet of goodies. And they'll never find out about the bag (mothership) of food. Somehow, I find their behaviour appallingly similar to ours!

ABC

Accompanying the cacophonous ultrasound of Light meeting Death, each note converting the spinal cord into a lightning arrestor, was the beginning of a captivating little scribble - creamy white on pitch black. Scrawny and ungainly in proportion, one could but scoff at it in distaste, if it wasn't for the creator of masterpiece. For it is considered rather inappropriate to chastise the dribbling toddler who has just managed to blueprint the first of his fertile thoughts.

The figure lay static, incomplete, with bunglesome protrusions demarcating its realm until the emaciated boundary line faded into oblivion. The clumsy representation thus remained an unfinished, semi-open scrawl yearning for completion. It took a long while but it did come - and in the form of stable albeit inefficient strokes. The newer portions of the art seemed to inherit atavistic knowledge from the ancient; it grew stronger, faster, higher and more profound. There was a sense of power which endorsed the firm slashes of the blade.

With the coming of age, the jagged juvenile edges were smoothed and the beginners' habits were discarded with disdain. He began to learn from himself and from his environs. There was influence and then there was pressure to perform. He adapted fast and learned to live. He watched his compatriots race and often he lost out on speed, although making up in aesthetics and skill. He learnt from each man who bettered him and soon his 'crosses' became a work of art. He fell in love with a girl and all he managed was to learn from her - he mirrored her works the way she mirrored her 'F's.

There were times of struggle and disagreement, where two conflicting powers would often try to establish themselves on the man's style. Neither could succeed while the other survived and feeble pacts were forged. But the blend of styles gave birth to genius. The 'Tittles' were no long dots but narcissistic micro-circles. The edges were no longer straight; there were curves all around. What once stood reliably erect now carried an enviable tilt. He walked with a swagger now.

He slowed his hand to grip the edge of the penultimate alphabet and he slid down with consummate ease. And then he finished signing his name, slaloming twice and then punching with precision. A Handwriting was born. But was it his?

The Photo Post: Campus Shining

Another one passes by and just like in three previous years, it went by so fast I cannot believe it has. Many have spoken the evergreen truth, but none more than yours truly, that Poly is in fact one of the most insanely unproductive occupations on campus. But being true to the 'Great Hypocrite' tag which I have won myself through persistent and determined industriousness, I decided to give Poly 2010 a shot, after having been egged on by none other than our pin(k)headed friend.

The past few weeks have allowed me to fully appreciate the definitions of a plethora of words: n00b, rookie, newbie, fresher, fledgling, idiot etc. After spending hours at night trying to distinguish the no-good from the competitors and the kings from the jackasses, only to rethink our conclusions the very next day, we were often filled with an inexplicable feeling of unbounded awesomeness which we sometimes confused with a lack of sleep.

The elections of 2010 have finally come to an end for most of us while it is just a beginning for those willing to go that extra mile in proving that unproductive hobbies can go a long, long way. And having exited from such a unique wing which threw in seven candidates for the title of 'Councillor', I end this post with the feeling that I came so close to saying - "Maine banaya!"

THE ELECTIONS IN PICTURES:

There were ambigrams and colourful banners sporting a gazillion names, but one of the most eye-catching posters was of this "Maslow"-esque pyramid.

I wonder if the bloke reached self-actualization?

Cartoons from my own wing-mate... Creativity reaches a new high.

Damn, we ought to have a lot more of these elections... And we can scrap the 'Fine-Arts' section.

The face which launched a million votes.

This was the rope outside the mess which was initially used to put up attractive campaign posters!

What ended up attracting us, though, was TOI's page 2.

Haha! Another punny one!

A Train Story

Waking up to new company has been a phenomena I have increasingly got used to owing to the immense variety of people I've been rendezvousing over the past fortnight. But even this sort of experience would have counted zilch if I hadn't remembered the happenings of the night prior. And Cafe Leopold.

Having got up in a room whose co-occupant was a certain Tiger, for the second time in my life, and being a few rooms away from the Blob, wasn't as disturbing an experience as the one prior but the headache was a lot worse. For people unfamiliar with the happenings of 'Wake Up : Episode #1', a brief summary would say that I had to un-'lock' my belt and scrape toothpaste off my face. But I also remembered that morning, that it was the first time I had got drunk on Beer. Haddu, Chatu, Chirag and Monkey were the other champions of the Colaba night.

But as dark secrets often do, this story too will let the night fade into the same darkness which enveloped the majestic Gateway that night. But the barley hangover won't be forgotten that easily, for waking up will a heavy head and a topsy turvy world isn't all that hard when you are in familiar environs. But when you realize that you have to traverse half a Mumbai to reach the far-off haven...

And thus I took the trusted local and went to the extent of affording myself the agony of having to change trains in the process - to reach my Navi-Mumbai home. Desperately yearning for that liberating coffee which so often is the antidote to many a headache, the protagonist of this tale crawled through the empty midmorning train and found himself a seat.

A few stations later, I arrived at a hamlet called 'Mankhurd' - one not many would notice if it hadn't been for a drizzle like none other I have ever witnessed. The rain seemed to be falling upwards. As the train gradually pulled out of the station, the rain started getting heavier and the drops larger. The small tenements gave way to a plush green; there was a green of every shade starting out deep and getting lighter with distance before finally fading into the grey-purple hills on the horizon. The cumulous formations seemed to have descended from the heavens, teasing my outstretched palm as I reached for the grey firmament. As the train burst through the greenery at immense pace, I found myself reaching out for the open doorway.

It was then that I saw the clear blue bay hurtling towards me through heaven's cataract. The Mumbai - Vashi bay is a beautiful sight on most days and nights. But this sight was one few are permitted. Plush green, faraway hills, a magical sea, an overbearing grey sky... And the land on the other end of the bridge bathed in golden sunlight unaffected by dampness. I leaned out of the compartment and the first few drops struck my forehead. No longer was there pain. It was pure bliss.

Warning Storys

A traveller will travel. And if you place this wanderer in a city like Mumbai, he will wander. There is no dearth of places to visit - be it relics of medieval history, shopping malls, restaurants for every budget, bars, cineplexes, beaches... And the wanderer is all the more astounded by the variety the city offers if he hails partly or wholly from a semi-urban background - like 'R-men' do.

However the city poses one major obstacle in his path. His unquenchable wanderlust is brought to a screeching halt by the daunting task of having to traverse enormous distances to reach his final destination, or worse - having to travel short distances for long intervals of time. The latter experience is one every Mumbaikar will be familiar with - Travelling a couple of kilometres in an hour! Why we don't walk, I don't know... But that's probably because there is no space left to walk.

Nevertheless, these difficulties are minified by the awesome train system - which leaves the traveller astounded as to how an arrival time like 21:39 can be maintained! But travelling in trains is as difficult as it is brilliant. While you experience the real Mumbai life, you also end up with your bag strapped in front of your chest, with one hand in your pocket performing the duty of wallet-sentry and your head at an acute angle to the horizontal so that you can catch sufficient breath. But in the end, it is usually worth it.

After travelling to Jughead's in Powai to catch the Oranje win and returning by the midnight train, I decided that two consecutive days of such travel will be highly hazardous to health. And life. So, I could only sigh in relief when they said we'd be watching "I Hate Luv StorYs" at a screen nearby. After all the advertisements and being part of the naive junta, the prospect of watching the Sonam Kapoor and Imran Khan show excited me almost as much as the fact that I'd be back in time to watch Germany versus Argentina.

There were signs. First of all, the people I was supposed to go with left without us. Then, one autorickshaw guy after another refused to take us to the mall. We finally got one at the same time the movie started. It was raining and we were getting soaked too. Stubbornly ignoring all these forebodings and omens, we went. Once inside the mall, we behaved much like rats would once you drop them into a large box. We ran. We ran in all directions. Getting split up in the crowds was no longer a bother as each of us wanted our money's worth. So, when four of us found ourselves inside Hall#3, we didn't bother about the others, for a while. But when two minutes passed and then five, and when we still didn't understand any dialogue in the movie and since there was still no sign of both Sonam and Imran, we started worrying. Just about then, I asked Pulkit, "Dude, is this the movie? Are you sure?"

And then we left the Marathi film which we were trying to follow; we entered the real thing - an oxy-moronic flick which starts off with copycat HIMYM scenes and proceeds to copy the entire series. Only later, after the interval, do the HIMYM references and shameless lifts end; but there ends the movie too - turning insipid from plain empty. I took respite in the fact that I didn't spend more money on a larger popcorn-combo! I'm sure that Marathi flick was better.

This post is a warning.

P.S. I feel bad for Ms. Larissa.

Of Ticks and Triple-Stripes

There aren't too many things which can conjure up such great prominence in such a short span of time like a simple check-mark, an innocuous M or a half-eaten apple! I wonder at times whether one could have ever foreseen this present day world even as recently as a decade ago. 'Free Enterprise' - the Americans would call it; socialists would denounce it as a diabolical plan to ruin mankind - but the bottom-line remains that Capitalism has come to rule the urban world.

Now, let us not fool ourselves here. India is not a mixed economy; even if it is now, it won't be in another decade. Our leaders have embedded their faiths in individualism and competition almost as firmly as Uncle Sam. While Obama is being denounced as anti-American for telling his people the positives of community-service and selflessness, India's demagogues talk about economic equality of the people while pushing through deals for one mall after another. Where is the scope for equality when you ask the Indian pushcart to combat an International Retail Mammoth? Of course, you will give me the argument that greater competition leads to a pursuit of excellence and hence a better India. We could continue this debate for a while, if it weren't for a fact that this isn't the point I'm trying to make!

I hardly care for the 'Is capitalism correct?' debate if it wasn't for the fact that it causes so much pain. There was a point of time when people actually cared about service quality, product calibre, durability, return for money, warranties etc. Nowadays, these are thrown to the winds in exchange for one simple thing - a logo.

It is truly disturbing that someone should choose shoes with three stripes on them knowing only too well that they are greatly overpriced when an equally good pair, if not better, can be bought two stores away. Why doesn't one squeeze a few oranges instead of piercing a pack of Tropicana? Why do you buy a McBurger for nearly a hundred rupees when the Tikki at a Nescafe joint tastes a million times better? Why are people desperate to show off a Macbook when it's quite apparent they are rather incapable of understanding Apple's OS? Why does logic fail?

If only everything can be solved in a completely intellectual manner! But proving a point to society and flaunting expensive useless accessories, sadly, are beyond the realms of intellectual pursuit. Brand loyalty is for morons... I'm not saying the concept of branding is useless as a whole; but I'd have it limited to where it makes sense. This has plagued me for a while now, as I find myself being sucked into a hopeless struggle against myself. I would like to think that most people today recognize this problem but are afraid to admit it, even to themselves! I wouldn't have written about this today, if it wasn't for yesternight's visit to HRC - Mumbai... An experience I am still confused about - for I am unable to understand if I enjoyed the experience or whether I thought I did!

Face Off

Burning red eyes in the darkness fix'd
A cold stare, unerringly ahead,
As if to shatter the air betwixt
Himself and wherever he looked.

His chest heaved heavy under the breath
A cold dry draught hurriedly inspired
And as if to bring life to apparent Death,
The air was warm through a choleric fire.

In a brilliant blaze of magnificent wrath
Became apparent the scars of conflicts prior
- Evidence of battle and the tumultuous path
Taken by his Life, Fate and Desire.

His locks were heavy, dark and curled
Flaunting an air of immaculate power,
An intrepid heart and a spirit unfurled...
So mighty did his countenance tower.

His lips curled to suppress a smirk
As if to forget the gashes of ere
Seasoned in war, Past ne'er him irk'd
As if he kept only the Present near.

It was a deadly, menacing face
Like one never to be seen before
Or after. For not even the minutest trace
Of emotion seemed to linger on it.

And then came by a squeaky man,
Absolutely mortified by the sight
From which even the best men ran.
This visage was mankind's blight!

The coward crept up behind the face
And he made brave, though filled with cold,
So as to pull the mask to his own face.
Now he could terrorize the world.

Oh Great One, I Summon You!

A thousand hymns and a hundred names
Pleas for redemption, to allay pain
A prayer to smother the deathly flames
Of evil - in a soothing rain.

A promise to scale mountains tall
To negotiate with the Almighty one.
Or perambulate the temple wall
To repent for offences done.

A ritual invoking the soul within;
A quest to, body's depth, unearth.
- Tranquility crushes melancholic din
And serenity returns, if not mirth.

A passing peace, a diabolical trick
- Taking heart again before the fall
What hurt was once searing prick
Is now a saber - slicing all.

For prayers give you heart again.
The Believer begins to brim with trust,
Yearning for that eternal rain
Only to crumble like an Iron in rust.

He burns within in agonizing ache;
For worse still than drowning, is when -
At Death, he thinks there is a chain to take...
Hope is given and withdrawn again.

Wallowing in self pity and envious spite
He hates. He tires. He has lost. He's worn.
Oh Omnipresent Benevolent Light!
I hope you're glad. An atheist is born.

One Constant in Relentless Change!

It was dusk and the sun turned bronze from radiant gold, peeking out from behind the gentle Cirrus which was splattered across the eternal canvas. A cool wet breeze carrying the occasional grain of sand blew landwards purging heat and assuaging pain. It would be evening soon.

I saw two children being led carefully through the sands, as though being introduced to the Bay, by their grandmother – although it would be very lenient of me to say that they were indeed ‘being led’, and soon enough poor old Grandma had no control of the children as they boisterously somersaulted over each other and threw fist-fulls of sand at each others’ face. After feeble initial protest, the old lady gradually grew despondent and helpless, after which she swore (imitating the great Bheeshma) to the God of the Sea – “I shall, never again, accompany these two children to the beach, alone.” This seemed to work miracles on the impetuous duo and almost magically tranquillity returned to the shores of the Bay of Bengal. I smiled as I saw two guilty looking children and one exasperated Grandma departing, to catch an Auto, together.

As I continued walking along, I saw a group of kids in their later teens playing beach-football. This was not uncommon as beach football was one of the most popular sports played in these parts. Most passes were played in the air and the curl of the shot was often aided by the wind, playing diabolical tricks on the hapless shot-stopper. I looked down and I noticed no more fine patterns and designs drawn by the fine hand of the wind; as all intricacy lay mutilated - bearing testimony to the savage struggles for the football. I jogged past the kids who were bellowing as loudly as their larynxes permitted. Soon, I reached the jogging track.

I witnessed a melange of people here – the twenty year old whose life seemed all but directionless, seated with other twenty year olds who were equally lost, discussing the futilities and pleasures of life, pausing only to take in the occasional stunner; the young gentleman who ran incessantly down the track, wincing as his muscles pumped battery acid, all the while listening to music streaming into his ears through his new iPod; the middle-aged man who walked down the side-lane hand-in-hand with his new wife as they planned their new universe; and the young man or old boy who was madly in love with his hot girlfriend.

I was getting tired and thought of retiring to the nearby Barista, which offered ambrosial delights for a fortune, leaving the customer a few notes lighter… Or maybe the nearly awesome Food-Court called ‘Planet Yumm’ which was the favourite haunt of children of all ages… I paused ephemerally by the group of gossiping old men so as to tell them the time, only to almost be bundled over by an irresponsible pram.

By now, the Sun was no longer visible and the sea seemed to be the beacon of light. The surroundings began to drown me as various elements began to coalesce. The sky was blue, green and violet all at the same time. A distant ship twinkled bravely as the world around me began to succumb in a conflation of immaculate grandeur. I was so lost in the spectacle that I almost forgot who I was!

The infant in the pram, the child with its grandmother, the teenage footballer, the old boy with his new girlfriend, the young jogger, the middle-aged man with his wife, the old gentleman in a veshti asking for the time – were all one person. And I am Time.

Till I'm No One Again

It was around four in the afternoon on a rather warm day and he sat there on the Persian carpet, in the middle of the hall, he had managed to soil will generous amounts of plasticine. He was enjoying a post-Siesta chit-chat with his kid brother about why he felt the Cobras were always stronger than the G.I. Joes, while he positioned his Deep-Six action figure next to the tub they had filled up to the brim.

He was still feeling drowsy, the way one feels after a very heavy meal, as he had hurriedly eaten his idlis on the School-van back home so that mom or dad wouldn't find out... It'd have been rather unpleasant if mom found out once she got back from work, especially because she tended to be in one of those moods. His little brother was still eating his hot Top-Ramen which dad had made, slowly separating each noodle strand out meticulously first. He egged him on sincerely hoping that he wouldn't have to use the Microwave to heat the food again! He was the only one allowed to operate the Microwave when parents weren't at home... Li'l brother was still too little.

Mom came home soon and they both ran towards the door. The younger child threw his arms around her. They liked to have mom around, especially since they got into fights every so often. While the elder kid used his bigger size and superior strength as an advantage, the younger one didn't give up so easily, putting his nails and milk-teeth to good use. The routine 'What-happened-in-school-today' session followed while mom made herself tea and the kids Bournvita.

Soon, they were both off to doing their homework. They had been told to do it early in the afternoon, since they'd be completely free once that was over! Homework took them around half-an-hour to complete. In neat handwriting with a Natraj HB. The younger sibling's best handwriting however could be described as scribbling, at best. The zealous duo then raced down two floors to the play-park where they could get together with other expat kids and play the sport of India - Cricket. The elder kid played decent cricket strokes while his brother didn't care much for the game. In fact, he'd go out of his way to get bowled, so that he could go back to thinking about the new star he had learnt about in Encyclopaedia Brittanica, the previous day.

At quarter-past-six, they rushed back home and threw themselves into the shower. Those were days when the showers could be shared. After a quick hot bath and some bath-tub squabbles which mother had to mediate, they ran out to the one thing they'd never miss in their lives! Scooby Doo was on air, everyday at 6:30. They had watched enough of it to predict every single dialogue, but they still loved it. 'Which Witch is Which' was being shown that day - their most favourite episode! Scooby was the only cartoon character which could pip T-Bone and Razor, the Ninja Robots, Johnny Quest and Centurions, all together! Cartoon Network was God's gift to mankind and they made complete use of the time it was on air, until TNT showed up in an almighty explosion. Disney Hour and Mahabharata (yes!) were good,but no comparison really!

The nights were often the best as Toblerones for dessert were closely followed by the greatest story-teller of all time, save for Grandma, 'Enid Blyton'. The elder sibling often threatened to spoil the Pixie and Brownie tales for his kid brother by telling him the ending when he had just begun! Mom often used to spank him for that. Sometimes dad would tell him to stop too, if the noise they made disturbed the attentive evening news listener. So, generally he would lie down quietly in his bed and read Famous Five all by himself, trying to solve the puzzle before even George did. The only time the two of them read a book together was 'The Magic Faraway Tree' which he was reading for his third time.

Soon dad would come into the room telling them to switch the lights off and they'd run hurriedly to kiss both parents good night and then tuck themselves in. And then silently, they'd slip into sweet oblivion.

Today I got up as a twenty-something year old.

Chequered Flag

I do not understand whether it is with the jubilation of accomplishment, on the completion of the omnipotent list, or the fear of humiliation from actually making this a blog-post that I begin typing at an unearthly 0445 hrs, a phenomenon which is becoming all too common lately contributing wonderfully to my languishing battle against the mighty seventy-five. But today is special. I checked the last Bhawan off my list.

Many before have dreamt of making the magical number Nine, but people have fallen aplenty... While most battle valiantly and end up just two short, there are a few (who are not-so-few in absolute numbers) who get to see the chequered flag. And since not everyone can garner the trust of Chief Wardens and acquire passes, people resolve to a magnificent array of novel-tactics. Some even get committed (this tag has been removed for the author's safety). Others, of course, have sections where it is a deplorable crime to not invite family and kinsfolk; exile and banishment are rewards for declining aforesaid invites. A few, of course, get invited over for a number of varied reasons which GenPop isn't able to comprehend yet. But they all do arrive with unsolicited punctuality, dressed impeccably in Armani, Versace, Nike and Petrol, to sweep their maidens, who might just feel a few kgs heavier and a few inches thicker, off their feet. A few however have the dubious distinction of being invited over, wanting to go and then choosing chicken over everything else. After all, Winner winner, Chicken dinner! Who can argue?

A heartwarming sight did greet me in MI-254 at 6:30 p.m. when the India-quiz was attended in full-strength; LitSecTM never fails you. While I had all but submitted to a strange fate, of ending up with so weirdly with Eight-Bhawans, before anything began, harboring but a tiny notion that someone would, in fact, call me - the call came from the most unexpected source. Battling words of discouragement (which I was later told- was secret envy) and those goading me to attend the event in Shorts, I ambled along to SB in grossly inappropriate attire, with Career Launcher getting free publicity. Add to that my maddu inability to dance (swinging arms and shifting feet simultaneously, and that too synced to the music, is something I will never pick up) and presto, the clown for the night! Oh well, leaving aside the gruesome details and the fact that women ranged from gorgeous to garish to ghostly, and the fact that you might presently be concluding that I am a chauvinist, the night went off well... With the benefit of hindsight, it's something I would never have missed. After all, I've mastered magic number 9 now!

The Quill of a Narcissist

My blog is largely a personal diary. It's strange really; the way I put into words some of my most latent feelings here, by simply imagining that this is some private space - much like the loose bundle of faded A4 sheets relegated to the corner of my very cluttered drawer or like the back page of my shiny-new semester-old "Renewable Energy" notebook. While, all along, I know that this is all but private; throwing my mysteries wide open to the very public I so meticulously hide them from and giving tangible form to certain cerebrations which I try desperately to hide from the cognitive part of my brain. It is something I simply can't avoid.

Personality tests jeer at me as they tell me that they are unable to place me as an 'Open' or 'Closed' person. 'Extraversion' is a greatly pursued quality and I'd be a terrible liar if I told you that I don't admire the kind who can do just about anything without giving it as much as a moment's thought. These are men and women who don't mind opening their lives out to the world and can remain all so comfortable despite all those prying eyes. These are the few who will not shirk a responsibility, shy away from hardship or run away from problems or even run around them. Head on - that's how they'll be taken down. These are people who can talk to anyone, anyone at all - be it a beggar, policeman, colleague, salesman, lecher, mayor, professor, lawyer, thief, boss... I hold these people a cut above the rest.

While there is no name which comes to my head when asked 'Who do you hate the most' and a very few come up as answers to the question 'Name your loved ones', I wonder if I really have the emotional capacity of a soap-strip! 20 years and only a half dozen names?! Now, really! But then, a quick revision allays these fears and gives birth an alarming number of new ones - Ones which makes my world a living purgatory. Because the outside world is left dancing blithely to the joyous tunes of a spring afternoon while the insides are tormented by the most vile and vicious wraiths; ghosts which will not leave.

I've often been told I think too much. I perform the process of thinking several times over, each time slightly varying a hypothetical stochastic variable, before the process of rethinking begins. In the end, the results are largely desirable. No one gets hurt. There is absolute control. There is no impulsiveness. The meagre changes which happen in life are feeble and they decay. But in the end, no one is hurt. One thing I can't bring myself to do is - hurt. To the extent that it often requires holding back desires, impulses, drives, urges, thoughts, dreams... While it hurts the self, no one else is hurt. And that's good.

I can talk to pretty much anyone. I can talk within that cage I have constructed for myself, with new bars apparating every now and again as newly formed barricades. I can open myself up to the world and be as extrovert as you want me to be - but you'll never really know me. I will detour around a possible threat and get a job done. Mind you, I'll do the job... even if it requires traversing a hugely convoluted path! And I will never let anyone know that I love someone or if I hate them, least of all myself. No wonder the damn Personality Test is confounded.

I've rambled on enough already... And even though I'll probably look at this and laugh tomorrow morning, I've decided not to think too much for once. I'm hitting 'Publish'. Cheerio.

B(e)ards!

1. There has been an alarming rise in the amount the rhyme-intake I have suffered in the past two weeks.

2. I have been kept away from my blog for far too long.

1 + 2 = (the following)

And it began with a great Big Bang,
Spluttering and spewing rocks a-tonne…
The heavens roared as the rocks soared,
Leaving us – the third rock from the Sun.

And then came the chivalrous TRex,
While Thunder-lizard still gnawed on tree.
The Ents grew and Archaeopteryx flew;
The Earth had sprouted, Life was free!

Ever since then, there have been Bards;
The Beedles and tree-tied Cacophonixes.
Be whatever type, a poet’s figments are ripe
Unravelling Life’s sundry paradoxes.

And today we shall go forth; we shall
Attempt to consign, categorize and classify –
These rhymes and schemes; their crimes and dreams…
Into Ballad, Tautology, Death and Lie.

There are many forms and kinds of verse
Much more than there are kinds of any other thing!
Ranging from terse to plainly morose;
The wisest pen, as does every ding-a-ling.

In a world so vast and wide…. and weird
I try, desperately, to analogize…
But then Hey! Just a letter ‘E’ away,
I find ‘bEards’ closest to my prize!

‘Beards’ and ‘Bards’ have more in common
Than letters – two incremented thrice
A Bard for a season; a Beard for a reason
And vice-versa decidedly applies!

There’s the modern clean-shaven man
As unremarkable as his shaving blade.
His verses are blank, but intelligent prose does rank
Among the best poems ever made.

The stubbled gentleman is beyond salvage
For a cynic, a disbeliever is he.
With no time to save; no wonder – no shave!
His rhyme: A troubled Ode, Suicidal Plea.

Then, there are French-bards. Vive!
They are romanticists to the core
Fair maidens blush; while wading mush
Every line attempts to hit your heart for Four.

The rugged Mountain-men are a rarity these days
Their unmistakable ballads resemble holocausts more
Than love stories; or Vampires on trees
Though unpopular now, they’ll go down as folklore.

The Goatee is the most plebeian form
As he attempts to take conquered ways.
As different from the rest; as a joke from jest
He bleats out ‘rhymers’ at alarming pace!

Then there’s a motley collection of twisted forms:
‘Soul patches’, ‘Mutton-chops’ and untrimmed ‘Art’.
Harder to explain, is the Women-poetry strain
Which I shall save for ‘B(e)ards’ – 2nd Part!

"I didn't steal it!"

After a spate of serious posts, I have to break off! And what better time than when Christmas is around? Apart from the promise it holds in the form of cakes, goodies, Saint Nicholas and well... mistletoe, Christmas tales have always held me rapt with attention! From Christmas Carol and ol' Ebenezer "Humbug" Scrooge to 'Home Alone', I've found them all rather interesting. Here, I refer to the greatest Christmas villain of all time - The Grinch (who stole Christmas) - Thank you, Dr. Seuss. Thank you, Chuck Jones. Well, I happen to think he wasn't that bad after all!

The boys and girls of the world
Have all heard about the Grinch
Through the lies, which have been told;
Tales of evil which made them cringe.

“He is Green! And he is mean!”
In his town, they cried, aghast
They ran away when he was seen
And they ran really, really fast!

But this li’l boy called Grinch
Had problems, few too many
His heart was small, by thrice an inch
He was green; he looked real funny.

He was shunned, by one and all
The brats hated him real bad
Finally, he ran away one fall
His eyes were moist; he was sad.

Running up the hill, to his lonely dwelling;
(A shack, high up amidst the mist)
With his books, he sat there thinking
For few knew he was a secret Environmentalist.

‘Tis where the terrible lie starts
The tallest stories ever told.
They called him a loner! Unbelievable twats!
They said his heart was small and cold!

Today, I'd have them put behind bars:
(1) For ridiculing physical handicaps
(2) For perpetrating such abominable farce
(3) For introducing into the society- Gaps.

Poor Grinch didn’t like trees being chopped
Nor did he permit animals slain
He cried out loud when plants were topped
To eat only vegetables, he did train.

He was Green, as the World’s never seen
He’d have made Copenhagen* proud
But they said that Green was Mean;
And a Villain, they proclaimed him loud!

Then came the cold; December and fests!
(There were no Room-Heaters back then)
What the brats did next, you never will guess
For these boys were savage, wicked men.

‘Global warming’ was a concept, new
But alas, these kids had learnt of it!
To use it, they proceeded – these few
And with axes – the trees, they hit.

“They’re for Christmas,” they said, at ease.
(Only you and I know what they’d planned)
Robed like Claus, they chopped off trees
Causing in Winter, warmer land!

What’s worse? To celebrate this feat,
The scoundrels demanded gargantuan meals
Featuring dressed-Turkeys, head to feet
And Chicken, Caviar, Crabs and Eels.

Our Green hero, no doubt, alarmed
Set out for Town, down the hill.
He didn’t want his Nature harmed;
He would save them from the kill!

Dressed as Claus, he rode at night;
As his companion, was his dog
He then slid, into their chimneys, light
And climbed out with their Christmas log.

One by one, he did each house
And calmly, meticulously cured the town.
Then – silently, like a mouse
He ran the hill, up from down.

Morning came and obviously, tempers flared
They spoke about “The Grinch who stole Christmas!”
Charging up the hill, they said, “Do you want your life still spared?!”
“Return our trees, then… without a fuss!”

“But… Christmas is about the spirit,” said Green,
“It’s about sharing, caring, joy and all!”
“Oh! Cut the crap! You’re just jealous and mean
You green creature!” retorted all.

“We all know it’s about trees!
It’s about cakes and pastries and wine!
And the turkeys – minus their fleas…
Just return the trees. And we’ll do dandy fine!”

This is when the story hits a rather abrupt end
An enigma – so unfortunate, is it not?
We’ll never ever know what really happened!
Was our Green hero ever caught?!

But let him not be known from here
As a criminal, but a martyr great!
A Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year,
Together, let us all celebrate!

A Tale of Two Cities

Aeroplanes amaze me. Three hours and bang! Everything has changed. The gradual change of climate is simply done away with, the intermittent linking cultures obliterated and landforms simply restructured. All the while, you are sitting unawares wondering why that simple Vegetable sandwich cost so much.

I am home now; and I am glad. I have accomplished the task of enduring a day of wandering through the length of our country, only to find myself astonished yet another time by the immense diversity of our nation. While Gandhi employed the steam engine on his tour around the land to comprehend the sheer magnitude of cultural wealth India possesses, I am sure he would have been far more bewildered had he taken a flight like I did, thus highlighting these stark contrasts. Here is a tale of two cities (I omit the town) which I encounter, three hours off each other; each time I take the ride home.

The massive cash inflow into the DDA’s coffers is only apparent in the speed at which the pillars rise. The Commonwealth Games have given Delhi’s development a mammoth boost which, all going well, must give the Capital infrastructure close the World’s best cities. The weird aspect however remains the fact that the mighty Mughal capital has waited until 2010 to grow into a global city. I have often wondered what Delhi-ites were doing prior to their magic-Metro. With an abysmal bus-service which is known to kill more people than it transports and immensely congested roads inhabited by colossal vehicles, I’m amazed people even worked!

On the other hand, the land of the Tamil people has been rather supportive to its growing population. With an impeccable bus-service and omnipresent autos, albeit charging exorbitant fares to the unwitting Northie, coupled with much less clogged roads as compared to any of the other Big4, it has never been a problem to traverse the lengths of the seaside city. Another fact is that each area of Chennai is more-or-less self contained, something I never saw during my ephemeral life in Delhi. Call it Boon – owing to lesser travel necessity – or Bane – as each man sees so much less of his City, it remains an intrinsic fact.

With mighty pillars, strong and bold, each overpass seems to underline that power which Delhi so much wants to flaunt. Malls rising out of every nook and cranny; retail chains spreading like Virus; and more asphalt, steel and cement, only make apparent the Capital’s urgency to let go of those chains which restrain it. These, however are also those ropes which link Today with the past. Delhi is letting go.

On the other hand, the maritime city, 20^oC warmer, is hell-bent on holding on. The outlook is cautious; and though development will not be overlooked, no one seems to be in a hurry to shed the present image. Malls are few; the few stand tall. Anything built overhead is with miniscule pillars, built as excuses for Flyovers. Buildings rise, not as cement monsters but behemoths of steel and glass. Rayban, Ferrari and Gucci are taking their own time trickling down the rungs of society; much unlike 1000 miles away, where Connaught Place boasts of a mini Manhattan - people trying all too hard to don the image of the quintessential New-Yorker. But the cautious outlook down South borders on bourgeois, leaving me reeling in alarm.

While T-Shirts and Jeans have become unisex themes of Delhi, Chennai finds itself yet a melange of tees, shirts, saris, salwars, jeans, trousers and veshtis – maybe not the collegiate dream. While Delhi has jumped into hyperspace drive; still the temple of the Theist, Chennai somehow seems to encompass the past, present and the future, . IT corridors have slashed open the newest avenues of growth and the coast may soon serve as the Auto-hub of India, while Parthasarthy and Kapaleeshwarar shrines and the Santhome church will forever remain the heart of Chennai.

NCR is growing at light-speed, breaking every record it sets; but as a friend aptly pointed out – 75% of Delhi is well-developed, great; but 50% of its people still suffer for bread. I’m uncertain about the below poverty ratios of Chennai, but the far fewer less endowed settlements are evenly spaced out, clearly visible to the naked eye; not latent. However, the steps taken both here, and there, are encouraging. The Delhi Metro has me overawed, but I cannot imagine life without my beloved ‘29C’!

I’m definitely against Karunanidhi in his unintelligent calls for protecting what he calls ‘Tamizh Kalacharam’, but maybe there is something in me that wants to hold on. This is not a sermon, and I do not preach. Neither approach is better than the other, neither easier to accomplish. I shall terminate with Anthony’s great words – “Take thou what course thou wilt.”