The Fate Driver

My black-and-yellow Indica was parked in its usual spot under the green canopy of the trees lining the black tar road. The time was Dusk, a time when the colours of the world are rendered black, white and steely grey. It was that time of the day when your eyes, weary after another long day in the sun, delight in whatever little colour there is on offer. And that is why I remember her so vividly.

It wasn't her dress which caught my eye, for it was as black as the night which was about to fall. No: although it was very beautiful and made her look perfectly graceful, almost poignantly beautiful, it wasn't the detail which captured me. I remember her because of her skin - the most beautiful bronze in a black-and-white world. Alongside her walked a young man, modestly built, who I have driven around town a few times in my car. I'd seen them together several times in the past, as they walked up and down the same lanes with such brightness in their eyes that you'd think they discovered new places every single time. Sometimes there would be carefree laughter, possibly spurred on by nothing but the beauty of the evening itself, and at other times, there would be a quiet understanding. But this evening, they seemed different.

As he held the door open for her, she slid into the car wordlessly without the usual smile she would afford him as her body brushed against his outstretched arm. As he took his place beside her inside the car, I noticed that an immense chasm separated them, a space so wide that my car seemed to have split lengthwise into two distinct pieces! It is one of the abilities I have developed in my years as a cabbie: to judge people and the spaces between them by just looking at them in the rear-view mirror. Nothing tells a story as clearly as a rear-view mirror.

They didn't say anything as there was a deafening lull inside the car, in stark contrast to the chaos that pervaded the streets outside. I didn't ask them where they wanted me to go; I understood that they only wanted me to drive. But as soon as I put the car into motion, I felt the man's hand touch my shoulder softly. He told me where they wanted to go and I nodded quietly. I then saw him turn towards the girl, as if to say something, but then he didn't speak. He sank back into his seat and stared out at the garish windows and billboards which sped past.

The pain in his eyes was clear, and when I looked at the lady seated in the other corner of my car, I saw her small, pretty lips curve in an expression I can only term as feigned-indifference. She wanted to care less about everything around her, but quite apparently, she couldn't. I switched to the highest gear and stepped on the gas pedal until the speedometer showed one-hundred. An oncoming car, whose driver seemed visibly drunk, swerved out of my way although there would never have been a collision even if he had maintained his initial course. I know this much about driving! But the near-accident and the speed at which cars were bursting past the windows suddenly brought my passengers to life. People seldom want to start living until they are reminded about the end of their lives. I accelerated further.

I admit unashamedly today that I adjusted my mirror in order to let me follow the happenings in the back-seat, for I didn't not watch them for the voyeuristic pleasure that one often derives from the lives of others. I watched them with genuine concern; I almost felt like a protector that night! I felt like I mustn't let the two wonderful passengers endure even a single evening of melancholy.

In my mirror, I could see them steal uncomfortable glances askance at each other, but only when they were sure that the other person wasn't looking. The gentleman, who sat behind me, was clinging onto the window with his hand, as if he was unsure about what he'd do if he let it go. The girl still sat, cold and rigid, as beautiful women so often do when they are upset. I looked ahead and realized that the destination was approaching fast. I would soon be powerless to affect their lives, which were suddenly two separate worlds separated by an ocean. So, I decided to close the gap.

I banked so hard to the left that the car skidded a few feet in the process, to the horror of a few passers-by. The man who was seated behind me, already close to the door, remained in his place even as the lady was thrown towards him by inertia. There was momentary horror in their eyes for they believed that the car was careening out of control, and the girl stretched her delicate arms to brace her fall. And then came the moment for which I had attempted the reckless stunt, endangering the lives of people around me: without even turning, he caught her instinctively, almost as if it was the most natural thing he had ever done. As their fingers  intertwined, I turned my rear-view up, in order to see the road again. 'Whatever happens now is their own business,' I thought. 'My work here is done.'

As I dropped them off at her house, I was glad to see both of them leave the confines of my car. This time she smiled as he held the door open for her. I lit a cigarette and watched the two of them fade away slowly in the distance. I gloated in the new nickname I had coined for myself - The Destiny Driver.

No, that just didn't sound right! According to me, there is nothing called Destiny - nothing in the world can control where you will be. Your final position is a result of the choices you make, nothing else. However, the choices and opportunities which you are provided with are so often not in your control - like the cab-driver that night in the lives of the two young passengers. He was Fate. Even after he banked the car, they had a choice in front of them. Only decisions transform these opportunities into things which are more meaningful.

'No,' I said to myself. 'I am The Fate Driver.'

The Girl In Black

The girl in black was very pretty. Her long curly hair tumbled off her shoulders and fell down the back side of her chair, but that's all I could see from where I was. All the same, it was enough reason for me to take the long route to the coffee machine, passing by her chair, a few minutes later. Yes, she is pretty. Especially when she laughs.

You know nothing special is going to happen by simply walking past somebody's seat, but it's something most of us have done. And as stupid as it sounds, the walk usually ends with a contented smile. Worryingly enough, it's not something that happens to me too often. I know quite a few lads who can end every single walk with that smile and sometimes I envy them.

I've often wondered what it is which brings those smiles to our faces: is cuteness a function of how people look or is it more about the little things that they do... What about the other aspects - how can someone I find irresistibly attractive be somebody else's Jane Doe? How do we each arrive upon an entirely different set of parameters? It's a completely different story that the solution to your complex set of equations is probably not your answer but you're always looking for that solution, aren't you?

You won't settle for anything lesser than that. You will not consider it. She has to be pretty and she ought to have done a lot of things you consider cool. She needs to make you laugh, but you want her to cry every so often. It's no fun otherwise. You want her to be all ladylike and still be completely awesome when you're together in a bar with your friends. She almost doesn't exist. It's probably why I don't want to get close to people I consider nice; I'm afraid the glass will shatter.

The problem is only exacerbated when you've lived like a nomad for your entire life! When you really don't belong to any one place, what you need is the empathy of a fellow Bedouin. You start finding some things your old pals say rather inane... And some other things, you simply don't understand! You've not become any cooler, or smarter for that matter. You're just different. You're a bit like everyone and yet no one is like you.

Tomorrow, I'll walk past her seat again. And then, I'll say something to her. Maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon. It scares the hell out of me.

Maybe I should stop drinking so much coffee.

Arabian Knight - Part Two

(Read http://konfessionsofageenius.blogspot.com/2011/09/arabian-knight-part-one.html first)

Part Three: Great Gig In The Sky

Scheduled to land in Mumbai at 2030hrs, my plane reached ten minutes early as if by magic! Clearly there's a greater force dictating all this, I thought to myself, as I pulled my rucksack out of the overhead cabin. Sadly, in India, no one respects another person's urgency - everybody is in a hurry, you see - so I had to wait in line to deboard the plane. Running the length of the Mumbai Domestic Terminal, I reached the spot for International Transfers. Another baggage check and frisking later, I was on the bus to the international terminal. It was 8:45. The driver told me that he could reach the airport in twenty minutes if he drove fast. I reminded myself that the flight would take-off at 9:15. If I ran, I could perhaps make it.

At 9:00, we were at the international terminal and Jet Airways had the decency to send someone to pick me up from the bus. The lady in blue began helping me fill out my Emmigration Form, when her phone rang. She nodded twice and then looked at me in the eyes. "I'm sorry sir," she said. "You won't be able to make it."

There was a thunderous silence, which was only broken by the ringing of my cell-phone. Ismail was on the line. I didn't pick up. "We'll put you on tomorrow's flight," she said. I nodded meekly.

SLB HR has a weird way of hitting you when you're on the ground already. So, I should have expected their call next. "If you're not in Abu Dhabi by tomorrow morning, we might have to cancel your training," said the sing-song voice on the other side. Brilliant.

I begged and pleaded with Jet Airways once more until they finally gave in. "We got you a seat on a flight to Muscat, sir. Then you can take Oman Air to Abu Dhabi. The flight is in one hour; so hurry up with emmigrations..." Suits me, alright!

Part Four: Check Mate

The emmigration queue, like all queues in Mumbai, is really long. But it moves really fast, like everything else in Mumbai. So, I prayed to God that everything would go well when my chance came. As luck would have it, I was sent to Counter Six, manned by a rather strict, bald, old-looking man. When I gave him my passport, I noticed that he looked bit like ACP Pradhyuman.

Everything had been moving smoothly until now - until the man said the words, "Kya bakwas hai yeh? Visa dikhao..." I showed him a copy of my visa. Scrutinizing it for a while, he said, "Main tere ko nahin jaane dega," and ordered me to follow him to an inner room (which resembled Hollywood's representation of a KGB interrogation room) where we met a rather stout gentleman.

"Yeh dekhiye sa'ab," he told his boss. "Inka documents sahi nahin hai... Mujhe nahin lagta inko allow karna chahiye." The boss looked at the documents and then looked at me.

"Sir," I told him, "The Emmigration Check is to protect unskill..."
"Are you teaching me my job??" he demanded. "What is your visa validity?"
"Well, my company got it for me. It's a short-term visa... I'm only going for training, you see."
"I don't see," he said. "It must be printed here on the visa, but it's not here." He was right. There was nothing about validity on the visa copy. Great.

So, I telephoned SLB again. "What's my visa's validity?" I barked.
"I don't remember exactly," came the prompt response. "But it's short."
"How short?" I asked.
"Well, the validity is printed on the back-side of your visa... but we didn't scan that side of the document."
You're a bloody genius, aren't you? I hung up. There was still one way out - my degree!

I waved the Provisional degree on his face and said, "Sir, this is a BTech from IIT... Surely, this'll help us resolve matters."
"Degree kahan hai?"
"Yahi to hai..." I said.
"Yeh Provisional hai... I need original degree. Layega kya?" said the smart man.
"That's not possible... Please tell me what I must do... I need to go," I pleaded with the unreasonable fool.
"Visa validity chahiye. Ask the airline guys - they'll have it," he said, after some consideration. 30 minutes to take-off!

I went to Jet once more, this time to ask for my visa's validity. They said that they'd need a few hours to search their database using some highly advanced queries. Murphy, you freaking genius...

But even Murphy get's it worng sometimes. Another official came up to me and said, "I'll tell you what... Try going to another counter. Try your luck again... It might work." So, he made me enter another section of the line.

Fifteen minutes left and the final boarding call was announced. I was summoned to counter 31 this time. On the other side sat a dark, young-ish woman who looked far more affable than the idiot at Counter Six. She took my passport, turned the page and winced. "Visa?" she asked. I produced mine.

"Validity?"
"Twenty days," I said. "Here's my return ticket!" I showed it to her, trying to look as pleasant as possible.
"I need proof, no?" she said, almost staring through me.
"Ma'am, my flight has almost left! Besides, I'm going to UAE to study, not for work!" I lied.

Thoroughly confused, she began saying something when my name was announced on the PA once more.

"Ma'am, that call is for me... It's all in your hands now. If you stop me, you'll damage my life forever," I said to her slowly. She looked at me once again and then reluctantly, she banged the stamp on my passport.

Muscat, here I come!

Part Five: Private Plane

I don't have fond memories of Seeb International, Muscat, as I associate it mostly with leaving the beautiful country in 1999. All that has been changed now.

At 0040 Oman Time, the friendly Omani at the boarding gate called me, not by announcement but by gesturing with his hands. Then he told me, "My friend, I have some news for you... You are the only passenger on the plane."
"What?"
"Only passenger... You understand? One only! Warahada..."

I don't know if I was flabbergasted, elated or anxious, but the next one hour was one of those special hours in one's life. As I entered the flight, I was greeted by both the air-hostesses, an Arab and a Filipino, who said, "Welcome to Oman Air. Choose your seat... You can take any one!" And they giggled.

I got myself a wonderful window seat in front of the wings. With a scheduled departure at 0120, the main flight attendant, a middle-aged Arab, walked up to me at 0105 and said, "If you are ready, we can take-off... Air-space clear, you see?"
Here he was asking me if I was ready for take-off! "Oh, alright! As you wish!"
"But first, we shall instruct you," he said, and the air-hostess was by my beside once more giving me personal instructions. The flight attendant even showed me where exactly the life-jacket was under the seat. (I've never been able to find it until today) "In case of emergency, we have two exits in front, two at the back and four over the wings... Choose your exit as you please, sir!"

Soon, we were in the air, and Capt. Wilson made his announcement. "Hi Mr. Anirudh, this is your captain... Hope that you are enjoying your VVIP flight. I don't have the privilege of flying too many passengers alone like this; thank you for flying with Oman Air. In case you need anything, please feel free to contact Ahmed, your flight attendant or any of the air-hostesses. Hope you have a pleasant flight!"

A few delicious Arab bites later, my flight came to a halt at Abu Dhabi International. As I left the plane, I used one of the words I read in on the in-flight magazine. "Shukran!" I said, raising my palm to my forehead.

"Aafwen," they said together.

Arabian Knight - Part One

As an escape from the usual codswallop I usually have you read on this blog, I bring to you this story from the land of Djinns and Flying Carpets. Below is a true account of what happened on September 23rd, 2011.

Part One: Fine Print

Schlumberger's 'Field Engineer' job profile is one of the most exciting jobs available to any person who calls planet Earth home, so it isn't surprising when you get your visa around 30 hours before D-Day H-Hour. An oil-man is expected to have nerves of steel. So, even when the ticket arrived just a few hours prior to take-off, I hardly shuddered (much unlike mom, who was completely in a soup). But as I've come to understand, even the seasoned oil-man can be rattled every now and again.

What happens when you don't read fine print, you may ask... My answer: It all depends upon what the fine-print says. If it says "Ensure that your passport has an ECNR (Emmigration Check Not Required) stamp before going to the airport", it just might be worth paying attention to.

With packing half-done at 1230hrs and my flight scheduled for 1745hrs, I was cutting it fine already. That was when I re-read the informative email. I cooly reached out for my passport and checked it with an air of nonchalant ease; all was fine and pretty soon, I'd be over the sea and far away, I thought. As I turned to the second page, I was met by the following words:

"ECR (EMMIGRATION CHECK REQUIRED)"

As you see, the Emmigration Check is in place to protect the unskilled Indian labourer from exploitation in other countries, especially in the Gulf. It shouldn't be much of a problem, I thought to myself. Since I had procured myself a provisional degree from Indian Institute of Technology Roorkee, I couldn't exactly be classified as unskilled. And besides, I wasn't going to Abu Dhabi to work; it was just training.

All the same, when people around you hyperventilate, it sort of rubs off on you. Soon, there's collective hyperventilation, mass hysteria and pandemonium in general. Dad's contacts at the airport told me on phone that I had a fair 50% chance of clearing the EC. Dad getting worried, ordered me to zip my bags as they were and head staight for the airport. It was 1:15 pm.

Part Two: Telephone

Reaching the Chennai Domestic Terminal insanely early (at 1345 for a 1745 flight), I was met by a few officials who studied my passport carefully. They told me that there shouldn't be any trouble in Emmigration. In fact, if the flight was from Madras, they said that they'd be happy to ensure that I get through EC; however, since it was from Mumbai, they said that I'd have to talk sense into the officials there. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

My flight was scheduled to land at 1945hrs at Mumbai and the international flight to Abu Dhabi would take-off at 2115hrs. So, having checked my luggage straight through to Abu Dhabi, I relaxed over a coffee in the Chennai Airport Lounge. One never knows how time moves when you're in semi-sleep mode - so, after a while, I checked my watch again: 5:30. Why am I still not on the plane?

"I'm sorry sir, your flight has been delayed. It will depart at 6:30 pm," said the suave Jet Airways official who I wanted to punch. Controlling the impulse, I asked innocently, "Does that mean that the landing will also be late?"

"Oh yes," he said, happily.

"How do you plan to get me on your flight to Abu Dhabi then?"

"What flight?" he asked.

"Jet Airways to Abu Dhabi. It's at 9:15."

"Oh, that! I'm sorry sir... You won't be able to make it. Why don't you take tomorrow's flight?" he asked me, as if he was offering me tea in place of coffee.

"No, no... I need you to get me there, somehow. Anyway, I've checked my luggage through to Abu Dhabi," I pressed.

"That's not an issue. I can get your luggage off the plane," he retorted, gleefully.

"I'd like my luggage to stay where it is. Get me there somehow... Make your other flight wait a few minutes for me if needed! Isn't that why I've booked myself into Jet Airways both times??"

He told me that it'd hardly be possible.

Seeing that an impasse was reached, I telephoned the ever-helpful HR hotline at Schlumberger (SLB) which no one ever picks up. As usual, no one picked up. After a few minutes of frantic searching, however, I managed to reach somebody in SLB who transferred me to the bilingual travel agent who had booked my tickets, Mr. Ismail.

Mr. Ismail was furious with Jet Airways for their callous attitude. "How can they do this?" he asked me, righteously. "I don't know," I said. Meanwhile, the Jet Airways official told me that he'd fly me to Bombay if I was willing to undertake the risk of missing the connection and being stranded in Bombay. He assured me that Jet Airways at Mumbai wouldn't be helpful (unlike him) and they couldn't care less about one more passenger being stranded in their mammoth airport. He asked me "Are you ready to take the chance?"

Next, I talked to Ismail again.

"How can they do that!" he yelled. "Main bhi dekhta hun aapko kaise chordke jaate hain yeh log! It is their duty to take you," he said. When I relayed the message to the Airlines, "Who is your stupid agent?" they asked. "Who books two flights so close together? He seems a little soft in his head," they said.

There was only one way to resolve this! I dialled Ismail's number and handed the phone to the Jet official and told him, "Talk." He picked up the phone and began talking. He paced up and down as they abused each other as politely as they could and I noticed that they were close to discussing the issue at hand. Five minutes later, at 6:17 pm, he ended the call, threw me the phone and ran towards the tarmac through the boarding-gate. "Hey, what did you guys decide?!" I yelled. There would be no response.

As a normal person would do, I called up Ismail to find out what decision they had reached. The phone was still ringing when the announcement came loud, "This is the final boarding announcement for Mr. Anirudh Arun for flight..."

Oh crap. Okay, I'll take the chance, I thought. To Mumbai...

(Read 'Arabian Knight - Part Two' for more)

Alvida

I entered this phase of my life as a sceptic - a disbeliever. I came prejudiced, constantly and repeatedly attempting to poison my mind with the words - "I shan't yield to temptation". Today, I stand a changed man. A believer. A sinner.

For these six weeks have given me some very memorable moments, ones I will cherish for a long, long time to come. I entered SLB wondering why they recruit people from the 'creamy layer' to perform tasks which any blundering idiot can also, with suitable training... Today I know that it isn't about the job as much as about the culture it brings about. Just like Roorkee, godforsaken that it is, has been able to develop its own quaint, unique culture, so has Schlumberger. And this, most disturbingly, has endeared it to me.

I recall those initial days when we underwent examinations which tested our safety training and safe operating practice knowledge. One particular exam required a minimum of 90% to pass and I can proudly say today, that it is the only test until today which I have failed. Four times in a row. Each of these times, there was this question which repeatedly occurred - "What is the last step after tool maintenance & check-up". I repeatedly dismissed a certain option the first few times, laughing my head off when I saw it pop up on the screen. I finally passed the test when I realized that it was, in fact, the correct answer - "Paint it blue".

These few weeks have seen me become a nomad, an epicurean, a spoilt brat, a romantic... I have come to enjoy a certain facet of life which I never knew I could - one involving the world of malls, movies, million-dollar houses, and more city. Somehow, I've also had the time to fall in love with any language which can make beautiful poetry - Urdu being the latest in this list...

I came to Mumbai happy that I was closer to Roorkee. Now, I wish I had more time here - Roorkee can wait. My blood seems to have turned a little blue and I know I have changed. I wonder if it is correct. Nevertheless, I find it exceedingly hard to separate myself from this experience. And I try to find solace in words:

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

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.

The Problem with Football Fans...

I am not an expert on football and these few paragraphs can be forgiven as being written by a mature n00b who is just getting to know his way around the beautiful game. And since it is a fact that I have followed Joga Bonito closely for but the last year and half, I shall not profess to know much more than you, which in all probability I do not. But I shall also take this as a chance to be vocal about my abhorrence for all other people who have grown into football pundits overnight!

I had never given much thought to the lines I first came across on Murty's blog - "Opinions are like feet. Everyone has a couple and usually they stink." During this time of the year, the odour is particularly putrid and rotten. This is the time of the year you hear the - "How can you watch this World Cup dude? There is no Brazil or Argentina..." And then the chums chiming in - "There's no Messi! How is this a football World Cup?" And then, it get's worse. If the football were made of ferromagnetic material, then Messi's feet are two magnets; this doesn't necessarily mean these magnets did anything great in RSA! So it makes me want to puke when someone shrieks - "OoooOOoh! Messi... Whatta player... What a shot!!" - when the little master has barely touched the ball.

These are men and women who snigger at you when you shout at the top of your voice, exulting when a goal is scored... Or when you curse the ref harshly and desperately throw up your right arm as though the referee, on seeing you from inside the TV, will dish out a few Yellow cards! On the other hand, I find people trying desperately to learn Mesut Oezil's spelling in German (with the umlaute) by rote only so that they can make a witty comment about him at a lunch conversation the next day! I don't mind it that much really; if only they managed to keep it at this much wit. But then they soon start correcting you. Wrongly. Fernando Torres invites more and more insult as days pass, while it is quite clear that even the great David Villa cannot play in that central striker's position profitably for Spain; he needs to drift in from that left-side. I shall refrain from saying more as it will be an act of egoistic hypocrisy.

And it isn't because of profound soccer knowledge or detailed statistical analysis that I make yet another prediction, but because I feel that I can do most of what an Octopus can. And since I'm riding on a wave of luck, I shall make as bold as to say that Spain will win this World Cup, in spite of making the task a million times harder than it ought to have been for them. And to all those out there who have never watched a game and yet shoot your mouth, "Shut up."

P.S. Yes, Holland deserves to be in the Finals.

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!

Mumbai meri What?

Almost six years ago, on a summer night, Mom, Aashrai and I alighted the Konkan Railway service and headed to Appa’s outstretched arms, who proudly said, “Welcome to the city that never sleeps!” It was my first visit to the commercial capital of the country, or as the indigenous folk calls it – Aamchi Mumbai. Half-dozen years ago, I thus spent my vacation in Andheri, opposite Leela Palace – where Dad used to work, in a rare apartment building (in those days, at least) complete with Swimming Pools and a Sporting Complex – hardly something one expects in a city like Mumbai!

But a few days and an Amoebic dysentery (courtesy: Juhu Vada Pav) later, to say that I absolutely reviled the place and was dying of claustrophobia would be an understatement. I wanted to get out and was glad when I finally did.

I returned to the port city today after risking my life in one of the fastest landings I have ever experienced. The pilot, being absolutely reckless, hit the ground hard enough to sink Mumbai a few feet into the sea. The air hostess smiled at our alarm and said, “Welcome to Chattrapati Shivaji Airport – Domestic Terminal”. I would be lying if I said that my initial feelings of apprehension were subsiding.

I was welcomed, however, by one of the most beautiful overcast skies I have ever seen. The airport having undergone a major face-lift had me standing in awe in the middle of the pick-up bay. The cabbie from Schlumberger told me that I would be going to a Thane guest house. And so we left…

I have seen a lot in the past hours: the winding road around the Powai Lake, the scenic Hiranandani gardens springing out of nowhere, shanties and malls juxtaposed, rather friendly people and a young lad by the slums with no shoes leaping through the puddles in dazzling blue Samsung – Ballack number 13… Even if all these didn’t influence me, the fluent Hing-lish conversation I had with my Tamilian driver did!

I sit here on the 24th floor now, wondering if I’ll have to revise my ‘Favourite Cities’ list real soon…