I UNBOUND

Pic: NH8

She has lost much of her muchness. She was much muchier then. She, being a motorcycle, never leaked oil. She just marked her territory. She used to move souls on two wheels, while the monsters on four, moved soulless bodies across empty streets. It didn’t happen in Philadelphia. It took place right here. When he went to college. And she held his hand. Then things changed. The Japanese walked in. Fixed her leaks. Snipped her curls. She got a new heart. New clones. And she never leaked oil again. But by that time he had moved on. With a new friend, who brought in new responsibilities. She also brought with her a brand new monogrammed trunk to pack all those responsibilities in. He wasn’t satisfied. One night he brought home a four-wheeled monster. She hugged him. He opened the door of his garage. Wheeled out his old friend. And gave the monster a home. Next morning he called the scrap dealer. Dealt his old friend a sad blow. Her heart leaked a little. And then told his wife that he was free. On weekends they took the four-wheeled monster for long drives. The sun was shiny. The mood was fine. He felt safe that she felt safe in the cocoon of four wheels. But there was a catch. He liked the windows open. He loved the wind in his hair. On his face. She frowned when he did that. She had long straight hair. And the wind unsettled its straightness. He understood. Once upon a time he had loved her hair. But it had lost its muchness. He rolled the windows up. He missed his old friend. He felt soulless. Soon after, the stork flew in. He felt much happy. He remembered his father. And called him. Nights fell fast. Cries of his child woke him up. Days passed by. His father died. One more shackle shattered. One more wrinkle etched. His child grew up. Scrapped his bicycle. In came a motorcycle that the Japanese sold. It didn’t leak oil. It didn’t break down. My son will feel free on this, he thought. But the son had friends. And friends had cars. He loved his son. And his son loved cars. Seasons changed. He lost his son to college. His wife lost her husband to the stock exchange. Fun was lost and funds were gained. One day, his son called. He wanted Ralph Lauren. It would free him from peer pressure, his father thought. The trees lost their leaves. Winter set in. Out came scarves. His wife wanted Hermes. It would free her from the cold, he thought. They were driving to a party. His wife had her Hermes. He had his Scotch. But their car didn’t have airbags. And the oncoming truck its patience. The scarf was lost, the Scotch was gone. His wife left Earth. And he became alone. His son cried, got a new job, brought home a new monogrammed trunk and a new friend. This time, the burly Germans got in and got them a brand new monster on four wheels, airbags et al. He felt old and wrinkly and asked his son to drive wisely. Summer passed. So did autumn. And one fine evening, he left home. The desert lost its muchness fast, the plains didn’t do much either. He travelled far and wide till a friendless mountain, as old as him, brought him calm. He stroked his new friend. An old one on two wheels. He found it much muchier. As much as her muchness.

Going, going...gone

Pic: Corbett

Crossed my 30th year last month. Okay. I lied. 31st perhaps.
Had thought that I would write here on that day. But time had been teaching me lessons.
We go through life with most of us thinking that we aren’t getting enough done or we aren’t achieving anything substantial. I do tend to think like that.
But sometimes, when I look back at my life I realise that so many things have changed. Among them, perhaps the most important and interesting change is the change in me.
Yes, it is true. It is like soil erosion. Time, without fail, manages to sweep away layer after layer of confusion, love, hate and all the knots that a human mind acquires, ironically, over time, itself.
For instance, I have understood that bowing down to someone or something is not an act of weakness. On some occasions, it can mean that the person who accepts defeat has immense strength. The emotions that spur this action can be worth looking into, but I will leave that to time, who else.
Acceptance of you, which comes with the action of backing off, can be the first step towards maturity. And can make you feel really good, about yourself.

What I meant to say

John means a lot of things to a lot many people. To my parents it means a son. It means hope. A glimpse of their younger days. To my lovers it means promises unkempt, yea, dishevelled. It means a piece of their lives. It means expectations. Responsibility. To my bosses it means a guy with potential. To my credit card company it means a client who never pays up on time. To my friends it means the consequence of my actions from my past. To my teachers it means a sepia-tinted picture of an ever-smiling kid whose eyes spelt mischief. To me, it means a friend I know from a very long time. That friend needs a little help.

Rain

Pic: Me

My Internet connection is down. Nick is strumming through the tiny speakers in the laptop. I have a strong and strange urge to be melancholy. Feels like one of those days when everything is too right. Being melancholy gives me a room with walls that no one can see through. Yet that room has large bay windows. White translucent curtains billow in the pale wind that blows across the pine forests. The sun is lost in transit. Time stops, and the raindrops plough into my mind, kicking up a soggy dust storm.

People here, some there, like zombies in a trance. Walking around, smiling, frowning, hats in hand. I sit naked, look into the distance, and see nothing but the day unfolding in front of my eyes like an old sepia-tinted movie. I have been here before. Yet, the pale wind makes me shiver, like an old dog, cringing in cold rain.

Incessant moments in a frenzy, dancing around on the hours, stringing them together to make days that stretch across into a lifetime, I can almost strum on these strings. Can I hear a voice? Or is it just the pale wind across the pines. Or is it just a dead Nick. Somehow, I don’t care. I have been here before. With my dead-wood wind chime.

Most of them have stopped writing. I log in once in a while to walk by their blogs. And they lie there, moss covered, skeleton showing. Even I have stopped writing.
But that's not important.

Disclaimer

Yes, I understand. It has been a long time and you haven't missed much. ;)

But hey, in this short span of time that I have been away, learning came easy to me the hard way. I met people, walked away from some. Jogged back to old habits and picked up new ones on the way. Everytime when something or someone was happening to me, I felt the desperate need to let you know. But each time I lost sight of the turn.

But guess, someday I will be back for good. For now, it's Italy.

See ya around.

P.S. Disclaimer: There are some blog entries here that might not be for people with queasy guts. The entries are not intended to rip apart someone's perception of himself or herself. They just show a glimpse of the queer dark world I live in. The view is from my balcony, through my glasses. So, rest assured that you are the best this world has seen.

Strange

There's a time, you know, when you have that strange feeling washing over you. Strange because you don't know what to feel.

I have Land-ed

I did what it will eventually do. Sad but true. Went for a meeting, had lunch on the way back, parked it in front of my office, and slammed the huge doors shut. Bam! The parking attendant almost jumped out of his skin. 

In hindsight, there are countless other ways of extracting fun out of one of the world’s best off-roaders than by simply taking it off road. And it’s no sin in a country where owners don’t wince while tossing the keys of their Porsches to chauffeurs. But irony apart, the Landcruiser is no chick flick, especially when it comes to walking the tall talk. 

At 5 metres long and 2 metres wide, this juggernaut is not meant to caress the senses at all. It’s conventional, it’s butch and it’s simply overpowering. Just to give you an idea of the size of this brute, we parked a Maruti Suzuki Gypsy next to it. And we weren’t at all shaken up when it disappeared from view. 

The Landcruiser adopts Toyota’s “Vibrant Clarity” design philosophy.  “Vibrant” refers to the forward looking, vital nature of new designs, and their energy; “Clarity” stresses on the rationality element, the need to keep the design crisp, its functionality intact and its concept easy to interpret, according to Toyota. And this is where the Landcruiser scores over its rivals. 

For instance, the chunky door-mounted rear view mirrors not only add to the overall package but are extremely functional as well — drive a Mercedes ML320 and you will figure out the difference. Then, on the inside, the Landcruiser’s controls are simple, practical and highly efficient. The vehicle has an advanced four-zone air conditioning system with 28 outlets, which was a breeze to operate. But while trying the same in the Merc, I got a bit flummoxed with all the sophistication dripping from the centre console. Even the cigarette lighter in the Landcruiser was slim and easy to hold between the fingers, though I am not sure whether it’s an offshoot of the “Vibrant Clarity” concept. (Smiley)

On the go, this Toyota proved to be a genuine tarmac scorcher. It was 11.30 am. And traffic in the Capital was at its worst. We had to reach Gurgaon from Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg (35 km) in roughly an hour for an important meeting. My boss glanced at the Landcruiser and then at me. Beads of perspiration clung to his forehead. “With this truck we are not gonna make it,” he said, shaking his head. I pointed to the V8 logo on the tailgate and smiled. I guess the V8 logo did the trick.

“Let’s do it,” he declared before quickly climbing into the cockpit. I suffer from vertigo and the next 45 minutes was tough, given the Landcruiser’s height. Beneath the hood, the Landcruiser cradles a big 4461 cc V8 oil burner that churns out 282 bhp@ 3600 rpm. And between 1600-2900 rpm this fantastic engine unleashes a mammoth torque of 650 Nm, which is significantly more than many of its nearest rivals. Also, throw in acceleration figures of 0-100 kph in 8.5 seconds to widen the grin. But what’s more important is that while cruising at around 140 kph the rpm needle barely inched over the 1500-1600-rpm mark. So, expect hours of hassle free cruising. 

And to top it up, anticipate good road holding abilities as well. During the dash to Gurgaon, the gigantic Yokohamas squealed away to glory while we were busy carving corners at high speed. But thanks to the permanent all-wheel drive, we just couldn’t do enough to rattle the monster. There is negligible body roll. Also, the normal front rear torque split of 41:59 automatically changes to 30:70 while accelerating or cornering, which allows for superior grip. But I was a tad disappointed with the steering which is good but not excellent for point and shoot situations. The ML320 handles a lot better. 

Credit should also go to the ride quality of the Landcruiser that gains from a new mechanical system, which allows hydraulic pressure to be synchronized across all four wheels. Toyota has also endowed its baby with Active Height Control (AHC), which enables a 100-110 mm of height adjustment. 

In the fuel efficiency department, don’t expect much, at best an average of 4-5 kmpl, which gives the Landcruiser a range of around 550 km on a full tank. But while parking, again look forward to a pleasant experience. A turning radius of around 11 metres and a brilliant park assist system make it at least look easy. (Smiley again)

But one last grudge: The key of the Land Cruiser lacks the "Land Cruiser" attitude. After pocketing a brilliantly detailed ML320 key, the key of this Rs 90 lakh car at best looked flimsy and tacky. Not done Toyota. Get some "Virtual Clarity" here as well. You can't keep a 3-tonne car on the table, you know, just for the flaunt quotient.

But to sum it up, if you are looking for a vehicle that can outlast you and perhaps even your children without whipping up sweat, look no further. Also, if you consider yourself the strong silent type this is a machine that will help you to flaunt your strength, silently. And of course, it always helps to dream because the Land Cruiser just makes all the possibilities look more possible, even if it means scaring the daylights out of your parking attendant (two more smileys).

Pic: Corbett, Dec'08

The other day I was going through a blog where the blogger described her experience in Jim Corbett National Park. This park, earlier known as Hailey National Park in 1907, covers an area of 798 sq km. Interestingly the park possesses sub-Himalayan geographical and ecological characteristics. Not many will understand the importance of this, since ignorance is one of the easiest forms of self-deception now. But I just wish, for people who throw plastic wrappers on the road and care two hoots about the environment, realization would come a bit early. Before their kids start gasping for air and choke to death in front of their frail eyes.

Anyways, back to the blog. “More than visiting the wild, this trip was meant to be a respite from a monotonous routine. So instead of staying in a cottage somewhere inside the jungle, we chose a lush resort offering everything from perfect rooms and clean pool to a sports room and decent food,” she wrote.

The resort in question is Jim’s Jungle Resort, 2 km from the closest entrance to the forest, and if I am not mistaken, a very ‘urban’ area because Corbett is one of those parks where human settlements border on the wild side. And her words, I feel, are nothing more than a typical Dilliwala’s reaction when they are pushed out of their familiar surroundings.

So, the next morning, according to her blog, she and group of friends got on to a jeep and entered the forest. I can imagine the motley bunch giggling their way through the trail as the bored driver caressed his way through the tracks. “They say you could spot a tiger if you are lucky. Guess we were quite an unlucky lot. We saw nothing to boast of except a few beautiful birds, wild hen, spotted deer and some admirable flora. It was only later we were told that the bright pink I wore like other members of the group are a strict no-no,” her blog says. “A few beautiful birds????” Now what’s that?

Bird lovers from all over the world, with their Leicas and Hasselblads, trudge across to this part of town to catch a glimpse of the Indian Hornbill, a magnificent bird that can dwarf a human kid.

“Wild hen?” That must have been the red jungle fowl, the ancestor of all domestic fowl. Too much of tandoori chicken, eh?

And of course, there is the splendid white-throated Bushchat (only around 8,000 are left in the wild). Known as a mysterious bird, it is locally called the $100 bird, meaning firangs pay that much for a mere sighting. This mysterious bird is a migratory bird though surprisingly it can only be found in the grasslands of Corbett in winter and not anywhere else. And oh yes, the Great Slaty (arguably the largest species of woodpecker in the world) also thrives here. So, what are we talking about?

Coming back to the tiger, I am glad that most tourists don’t catch a glimpse of it. This magnificent beast deserves some peace and not ignorant idiots on top of jeeps chasing it. Understanding nature is important. Understanding the habits of tigers is important. It is useful to know which deer’s call can confirm that a carnivore is in the vicinity. It helps to be in the core area of the forest and not in some clean swimming pool. Any which ways, the Ramganga River that feeds Corbett is cleaner. Especially, in those places where Ghariyals, Goonches and Mahseers swim in harmony. 

And most important: After going for a two-hour jungle safari in a forest, which covers 798 sq km, don’t write about hens. And secondly: Don’t insult Jim by encouraging comments such as this: “a few beautiful birds, wild hen, spotted deer and some admirable flora..."
ha ha... goes to show how overrated the place is. am sure nobody ever saw a tiger there except jim corbett himself.... visiting a zoo is more educational...” That was a comment on the blog.

I have nothing more to say. Goes to show why National Geographic doesn’t have a lot of Indian reporters.

 

Should I tell you more?

Varanasi May,09

Kolkata, May 09

Bihar, May 09

You have a choice. Would you like to read about my drive to Kolkata or would you like to catch glimpses? Lemme know.

Nasty me

Pic: Ma's windowsill garden, Kolkata

I don't believe in "First impression is the last impression". Whoever said this must have been a really self-concious individual. And I firmly believe that it only works in a job interview or in a situation where you are meeting the person for the first time and there is no guarantee that you will meet him or her a second time. 

Fair enough?

For instance, I know this young woman in office who tries to be super sweet to people, tries to remain as calm as possible and talks a lot. Sometimes, I feel like carrying a duct tape or a magic wand to office.

The first time I met her she appeared the dedicated type.

In a few days I realised that all she could do well was talk incessantly and butt in with unneccesary questions. I tried leaving hints but they didn't work I guess.

In a few more days, I realised that she is shifty as well. Point out a good story idea to her. She would sound confused and disinterested. And later she would suggest the same idea in a meeting, sometimes saying that she would do it with me...

Later, on being asked about it she would murmur some excuse. And then, when you would have lost interest and moved on, you would see her struggling to write even 200 words on it. 

And oh yes, it isn't a big deal at all that she suggests 20 story ideas in the meeting to come up with 2 stories in the end. If only she could have eaten and been less of a troublesome monkey. 

But did I realise that she was a monkey when I first met her?

Trip

The heat is stifling. The moment I step outside it tries to smother me. Keyboards sound like electronic insects walking on a hot tin roof. Thoughts run fast and steady, like long distance marathon runners sweating it out in the sun. Everyday, it's more or less the same cycle. I wait for something to happen. I wait for the marathon runner to trip. 

Plain lucky

Pic: GK2, Delhi

Life is incomplete without the Busa. Life is incomplete without the reassuring thought that a key in your hand can turn you into Superman.

Life has been kind. I thank God for the opportunities he has given me. I thank Him for the wonderful machines that I have been able to ride and feel.

Sometimes, I just feel like one lucky Superman. ;)

One of those mornings

Pic: Kolkata, May'09

Time flies by fast and quiet. Every night I go to bed thinking about the next day. But somehow the thoughts are hazy enough to confuse me into believing that there is no shape to them. I wake up every morning with broken memories of those thoughts. A cup of bitter coffee and a window full of stark sunlight break into me. And I stretch my aching legs.

I am growing old, I ponder sometimes over a burning cigarette and the morning newspaper. As if to confirm it, I sometimes bend my back suddenly to feel if the ache is still lurking there. And then I smile, when I find it safe and kicking. I have to get back into shape, I scold myself before lighting another cigarette.

Sometimes, in the morning, just before pushing open the door to the loo, I breathe in. Lungs feel like sandpaper, rubbing against each other to create that dry wheezing noise. The burning sensation lasts till I take a sip of that bitter black coffee.

I think about my life. I go back to the days in school and run across uneven territory to my present. I find a consistent trend in the way I have always reacted to things happening around me. I wonder, sometimes, about what I want to do in life.

These questions just don't throw up any definite answers anytime. But they help me to kill time till the clock points out that I am late for work.

Vendetta

Guys, this is interesting! Last evening I was talking to a hacker. He was telling me about how a person wanted to shut down this blog because he was apparently hurt by something that I had written about him. For reference, you can once again read the "Where is Renault" post below.

The person in question is the 'fat owner' of Renault's PR company here in India. Shall I reveal his name here? I am almost convinced that I should. Anyways, I guess his PR firm can take care of his own publicity stunts!

But I was very happy with the hacker. He actually said that he liked what I wrote about Mr Fatman. And he feels that Mr Fatman deserves the accolades. "Just by reading his description I knew who you were talking about," he says. "Mr Fatman approached me saying that something has to be done about this particular blog. I told him that it's unethical and if he has anything to say he should create a blog or leave a comment."

Well Mr Fatman, any comments?

Lost

Pic: Benares, May 09

You merge into the night, like the lights...

and...I hear the wind

'Cha' by the Ganges

Pic by Conor Tierney

It's been a long time coming. The last time I planned a trip like this was two years ago. Trishikh and me to Ladakh. Ironically, we had initially planned to ride down to Kolkata. Mom screamed and I blew. We turned North then.

This time Trishikh isn't there. After cajoling and coaxing my boss I got a couple of days leave. Life was getting stressful here. And the idea of a long drive into the mountains was hanging like a spider in my brain. At the same time, the thoughts about Crazu, mom and dad kept cropping up like daffodils on a lazy wintry morning. I had to choose.

And I chose. 1500km one way. Through the supposedly badlands of UP into nostalgia.

I am restless

by Rabindranath Tagore

I AM restless. I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not the winged horse.

I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in the house where I dwell alone!

Where is Renault?

I hate the heat. Much like Renault's indignation at being called the sickest carmaker in this country. The French carmaker hasn’t been doing too well here. And now, it has also been announced that the Logan is the least-selling car in this country.
So, the other day I dropped in at the Claridges to meet Ashish Sinha Roy, VP, communication and corporate affairs, Renault India — in short, the company’s spokesperson. It was a bright sunny day (read hot) and I was surprised when I was hurriedly ushered into the lawn. Not that I mind being out in the sun for a good reason, but a corporate meeting in the lawn, in the afternoon, in Delhi, during summer, well?
Ashish came across as a smart and pseudo-intellectual person — common Bong traits, I guess. In a blue tee and unpolished brown shoes, he gave the impression of a middle-aged man comfortable in a cushy job. Considering Renault’s poor marketing activity here, it didn’t come across as a surprise. Then there was another guy, the owner of the public relations company that works for Renault.
This guy was fat; had stained teeth; had a very shady smile and unfortunately was a Bong too. The moment I stepped into the lawn, I saw him studying my shoes and me, perhaps trying to gauge my brand equity. Suddenly Ashish asked for cigarettes and the fat guy ordered his executive to go and buy a packet. I was surprised at the “corporate” dadagiri. How can you ask an executive to do that? But one mystery was solved. I knew why they were keen on having the meeting outside.
But that’s not what I want to tell you. I want to tell you how brands are built and destroyed by seemingly insignificant actions.
After the meeting, I got into the creaking Wagon R that Renault’s PR company had got for me and asked the driver to ferry me home.
He was confused. First, he called his boss a number of times to confirm whether he could do that. Second, he went on complaining about the traffic.
It pissed me off. After a few minutes I asked him to switch on the a/c. It was boiling outside. He did but after sometime switched it off saying that the vehicle had run into reserve.
With a very funny expression on my face I asked: “Whose car is this?”
Pat came the reply: “Sir’s wife’s.”
“Who sir,” I probed.
“The fat man who runs the PR company,” he said nonchalantly.
I was satisfied. And I wonder if Mr Ghosn is too...

Zor Lagake...Haiya!

Just met a guy today who is an amateur/professional photographer. 

Met his lovely wife too. Only problem: She talks too much. 

Now this guy loves shooting nudes. His wife doubles up as a model sometimes.

Now don't blame it on the slowdown. Please no.

But even this is not the story!

The story: One day, this guy buys a Barbie doll. Obviously, for a nude photoshoot silly.

He spends around 550 bucks!

Then he comes home and takes off her clothes. And discovers a polka dotted panty.

And then no matter how hard he tries to take it off, he fails eventually.

He curses himself, swears on the Barbie, but still the panty wouldn't come off.

Now, this makes me wonder...why doesn't Barbie's panty come off?

Any answers?

P.S. WARNING! Just read that Aishwarya Rai is set to become the Indian face of Barbie.

Tell me

The value of gold is judged by its purity. The value of a diamond is judged by its carats. The value of an employee is judged by his contribution to an organisation. The value of a son in law is locked in his capability to keep his would-be wife happy.

But can anyone tell me how the value of human being is calculated?

I would love to know since I see so many of these guys being ignored. Some are ignored as managers, some as husbands, some as lovers, and some simply as men on the street…

All of us live each day. But how many of us actually “live” each moment?

If I talk freely now, I would perhaps decimate many a peaceful thought process.

But then, what’s the point? The destination is the same.

In between, it’s the warmth of the fire that matters.

Or so, I would love to believe.

Otherwise, it’s just a case of parasites taking over the world.

Now, why don’t you like being called a parasite?

Until we ride again

Pics: Enroute to Leh, Aug, 2007
Someone sees a deep meaning in a quote. Someone writes with a golden nib. Some even go further and attack a country. It's a little difficult getting used to the moods of time.
But I can't think of a better moment to look deep inside.
I feel like riding. Riding a motorcycle on an open highway answers a lot of difficult questions. Talking about highways, I just remembered something.
A good friend and fellow rider, Trishikh, is leaving for Kolkata as mentioned in the post below. He has been with me through almost 75% of my trials and tribulations here. I haven't got used to the feeling of him not being around.
He is leaving in a few days. He is a character and has character. Nicknamed Whisky he loves to get high. And one day, almost as if to prove it, he rode up to the second highest pass in the world on a puny 150cc bike.
Reed thin, erratic, and stable headed, most of the time he loves talking about rides. "Whatever I lack in size, I try to make up through my actions," he says. Put another way: Taking punishment is his way of fighting away identity blues.
Perhaps for the same reason he keeps a beard sometimes.
Together we have done Jaipur, Ranthambore, Chomu, Leh and a few other hot destinations.
Life is strange. But it will be stranger without Trishikh here in the City of the Mughals, as both Dalrymple and Dheeraj would have put it.
Here's wishing Dark Rider, as he calls himself, Godspeed.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Pic: Moscow, April 2008

First Anand left. Then Arindam lost his job. Arindam tried or perhaps didn’t, for sometime. After four months, he too left. Trishikh was under too much pressure. From his mom, who started staying here with him, and his job, which started getting too hectic. CASA, Planman, and then something else. He did it all. And then finally he broke down, deciding to leave.

All these guys other than Anand were in the Capital for more than five years. Even Saurabh lost his job, though he wouldn’t admit. Anyways, that’s what the guys at office say. Final conclusion: Everything changed, in front of my eyes, very fast.

I write a lot of things for the newspaper for which I work. I use words such as, slowdown and recession in my articles. But if, someone asks me, what slowdown means to me personally, I would say — it’s something I can’t explain, but it’s something that I can feel and see in front of eyes. It’s happening like some eerie Shyamalan flick.  

Leaving out Saurabh, all the other guys have or are leaving for Calcutta. Dreams that were so real a year back are now mangled corpses that float on a soggy sea. Replacement seems to be more important than cure. It’s easy, isn’t it?

Colleagues are wary. Everyone is evaluating — situations, people and chances. I am not sure whether a financial crisis should change the way people think. A change in mindset is not the solution for a problem, which is so technical. Salaries haven’t come down for a major chunk of the working population in the country. True, some people have lost their jobs. But what percentage are they of the total Indian working population?  

People who are unaffected have stopped spending. Shopkeepers are not selling therefore. Advertisers aren’t getting any orders since companies have clamped down costs. Everyone is getting affected because some dude somewhere said that times are bad, and it caused a kneejerk reaction. So, just imagine what would have happened if you had bought that expensive white shirt at the shop window?

I just wish I had. 

LOST touch

a little bit of blue, a little bit of green...and a lot of red. that's from the tail lamps. The auto was a little breezy. And i lost my phone.

For the umpteenth time. The auto took my phone.

Cruel.

Or just plain high.

Tell me dost.

Are you lost?

He, he...

That was just me. Mourning.

Some nice place

I can smell the slight hint of summer now. It's somewhat like my temper, smouldering in some tiny crevice of a long long day. 

Sometimes, I wonder about a not so long past, which seems so far far away now. Back in school, every Saturday evening, I didn't fail to turn up at Mr David's garden, on Elgin Road. If I remember right, the house number was 28. But no matter how much I try, I can't remember his first name anymore. I am also 28.

Mr David was a short frail man with snow white hair who used to stitch his own denims. He smiled as I tried to rehearse Shakespeare. And then our conversations would drift off into short stories...tales of imagination interwoven with things much more uncomplicated than what I write on today. For instance, even this. Would Mr David agree? 

I don't know. Mr David is perhaps more frail now...haven't met him in ages. But I know he still remembers me. He always told me that he would...

Like I promised

1783 cc, 127 bhp, Suzuki Intruder M1800R/Boulevard M109R

2006 model

0-100 kph:

Lamborghini Diablo - 4.9 secs

Suzuki Hayabusa - 3.2 secs

Suzuki Intruder - 3.8 secs

Rest is history. Period.

P.S. Always wanted to do this ever since I was a kid. 

Falling, again

I think I am falling in love with Delhi, all over again. Guess I have realised this: When you come to a city, it feels like meeting a woman for the first time. You see her from a distance. Then you see the way she walks (A slight sway of the hips can tell a not-so-slight story). Then you go up to her and talk. You test her, taunt her and if everything falls into place you strike up a conversation. And so, a relationships begins.

My affair with Delhi started this way. And let me not go into the details because a lot of things in it are personal. But I don't mind revealing that it hasn't been quite a lived-happily-ever-after fairytale.

But a love affair is a love affair after all. Certain bonds grow roots so deep that long after the leaves have fallen, you are still reminded of the shade.

Well, this woman is still very much here. And she doesn't fail to surprise me everytime I think that it is over.

Culdn't help this

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Hai mar jaayenge,

hum to lut jaayenge

Aisi baatein kiya na karo

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Tum hi socho zara,

kyun na roke tumhe

Jaan jaati hai jab uth ke jaate ho tum

Tumko apni qasam jaan-e-jaan

Baat itni meri maan lo

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Waqt ki qaid mein zindagi hai magar

Chand ghadiyan yehi hain jo aazad hain

Inko khokar mere jaan-e-jaan

Umr bhar na taraste raho

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Kitna maasoom rangeen hai yeh sama

Husn aur ishq ki aaj mein raaj hai

Kal ki kisko khabar jaan-e-jaan

Rok lo aaj ki raat ko

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

Yunhi pehloo mein baithe raho

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo

By Fayyaz Hashmi

Translation:

Don't insist on leaving today

Just keep sitting beside me.Don't insist on leaving todayelse

I shall die, I shall be looted.

Please don't talk like this.

Don't insist on leaving today.

Give it a thought,why shouldn't I stop you?

When you leave,life goes out of me.

For your own sake, beloved

Just listen to this one plea,

don't insist on leaving today,

keep sitting beside me.

Don't insist on leaving today.

My life is trapped in time's bars,

just a few solitary moments are free.

And if you lose them too, my beloved,

you shall keep craving forever.

Don't insist on leaving today,

keep sitting beside me.

Don't insist on leaving today.

What an innocent hue-wrapped meeting this is

of beauty and love, they rule today.

Who knows what lies in tomorrow,

Let's make this night stand still.

Don't insist on leaving today,

keep sitting beside me.

Don't insist on leaving today.

P.S

"Fayyaz Hashmi (1920-1974) is a legendary song and dialogue writer. He was born in Calcutta.

The brilliance of this guy emerged much before independence of India, when still a teenager, he wrote the song “Tasveer Teri Dil Mera Behla Na Sakhe Gi”. It was recorded in the voice of Talat Mehmood and music was composed by Kamal Das Gupta.

The dynamic achievements of young Fayyaz Hashmi and his clarity of expression by using simple words were greatly appreciated by Qazi Nazrul Islam -“Tum mann main doob kar mann ka bhed nikaltey ho. Aasan shubdoon mein mushkil baat kehna buhut mushkil hay”."

:) True.

That stupid urge

It was deafening, the way his head hurt. Alcohol burst through his veins like a raging river. He stumbled out into the sidewalk, hugging his arms against the chill.
The bar doors creaked shut behind him, cutting off his last supply of warmth. His breaths were heavy, and slow. Bloodshot eyes searched for a friend while his hand grabbed at an invisible railing.

He missed a step. And — missed again.
No one heard the dull thud. But as he lay on his back, he saw the stars shining frostily in the dark clear sky. He blinked, and watched as the mist from his lungs melted into thin air. “It’s cold,” he whispered softly and pulled his jacket closer around him.

He knew he was cracked up. And he stayed put until suddenly, his dry lips curled into a sarcastic smile. Something was stirring within him. “That stupid urge again,” he cursed, and dragged himself to his feet.
Darkness swirled around him softly, like her curls — mysterious and elusive. He could hear her laughing at him. He looked around, scanning the empty street, and slowly made his way towards the bus stop.
By the time he made it to the spot it had started to drizzle. As he stood there, silhouetted against the dull yellow street lamp, familiar thoughts rushed in, like carpet bombs.
He remembered the way he loved her. He remembered her laughter. He remembered her dreams. And her insolence.
The rain fell dark and slow, ploughing into shallow puddles that shivered with each shot. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked at the spot where he had seen her last.

He imagined her in bright sunlight, sunrays glinting off her jet black hair. She used to be there every morning, sharp at 9. Even he was forever there, behind one of the many trees that lined the avenue, watching her. He was afraid to talk to her, afraid that he would hurt her, afraid that he would lose her.
And day after day, he would feel that stupid urge rising to form a lump in his throat— until one fine day, he decided that enough was enough. "I have to tell her everything," he thought aloud.
So, it was a blustery autumn day. The breeze was just right and so was the mellow morning sun. Dry leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked towards the bus stop where he usually found her waiting. He reached, and on seeing no one, looked at his watch. It was 8:47 am.

He decided to wait.

That day she didn't turn up. And he left it at that.

Midnite Rendezvous

Pic: At my place, Someday
4.28 am by my watch. A bleary dark and cold Sunday morning. Let me finish this before I run out of brain. She would have been after my life if she had been here. But she isn't. And I ran off for the night.

I came back from office. The terror scenario had almost got the better of me. But I managed to survive. The high cost of newsprint has perhaps rocked ship. From when did The Economic Times start reporting about how Bollywood feels after a terrorist attack. But hey, cm'n I am being too short sighted here. People read this sort of stuff! No one is fuckin interested to read what Vijay Mallya ate for breakfast. That guy anyways needs a treadmill and some serious motivation.

She is like the rain on a sad Monday afternoon. She would go pitter patter on the tin roof, making you feel her presence, making you see her through the oh-so-far-away window, yet you would have to get wet if you really wanted to know her. But it didn't rain tonight.

I had three pegs of whisky to myself and a lot of melancholy. Friends were jokes during a crisis - meaningless. I missed talking. I got drunk. Don't know how.

The Haryana border is not too far from here. Tuglaqabad Fort takes 5 mins, then the dark and winding Surajkund Road another 10 mins, and then finally the police checkpost before you reach the booze shop. But tonite no amount of banging on the steel doors could wake up those bastards. I kicked started my motorcycle again and hit the highway with a debit card and 200 bucks.

It felt nice. The uncertainty. The thump from the engine felt warm. But no booze shop and I was running out of petrol.

Finally, I saw the comforting neons of a bunk. I cut the power and the sleeping attendants cut me in half. I took the risk. I was ready to wait out the night. It felt nice doing things that I had stopped doing. And I know that she would disagree.

Trucks whizzed by. I didn't feel scared. I felt close to them. Surprising, since I had become very cautious lately. And then I realized that I was lost.

It feels strange at first when you lose your reference point. Then you lose the panic as well. And a calm settles down. And you don't realise when you start enjoying, chewing your tension for breakfast. For me, it was love at first sight. Meeting an unknown piece of territory was like seeing a foreign land for the first time. Makes you feel excited. Makes you feel lovely. But she would never have understood.

Anyways, my back is aching now. Haven't changed yet. My hands are dirty and I feel like washing my face. I have reached home safely and had also stopped on the way for chai and cream roll. Sorry, couldn't get any for you. And by the way, I had managed to get petrol too. The bugger at the bunk first made me swipe my card to see whether it was working or not! Talk about brand equity.

On the road, it doesn't matter.

Where am I?

Photo: Didi's living room, Goa
I was going through a ‘sensational’ blog last night. It is maintained by a ‘self-proclaimed’ messiah/watchdog of the Indian media. Nothing wrong in that except that I found his preference of Sasha Grey a little strange. (She had a brief mention in one of his posts) :)
Unfortunately, a comment on one of his posts has a mention of me too. (I am being called a moron in it) and I will skip the smiley this time.
Sometimes, I feel like keeping a blog like that. There is a lot of juicy gossip out there that can make ordinary readers feel like Playboy voyeurs and the writer, Hefner’s son in law. But then again I think about how I want to be remembered after I die. Long shot this but I let the arrow fly nevertheless. When you die you don’t really care where the bull is, do you?
Call it laziness or call it what you will. I can’t just let morons inspire me.
The last line was important. Don’t worry about it though. You wouldn’t understand it anyways.

Observations (Part 1)

Photo by spirenas: Street of Calcutta

My teeth chattered rhythmically as the rickety old cycle-rickshaw snaked and shuddered through the narrow lane. Nothing had changed. The trees were still standing tall. The huge ponds still had enough water for young children to splash across. The scenes passed by me in slow motion and I didn’t realise that the rickshaw had slowed down in front of a big black iron gate. “My home,” I muttered to myself.
The rickshaw puller waited, as I put my bag on the ground and patted my pockets for my wallet. “How much is it,” I asked. He stood quietly, wiping the sweat off his temple with a dirty yellow ‘gamcha’. Then as if shy to ask, he looked the other way and mumbled: “Char taka.” (Four rupees) I settled it at ten and hurt, waited for ‘ma’ to open the door.
It was nice to be back.
Well, that was then. Lately, I suddenly realised how far I have come. The connection with my past is just a series of black and white photographs in my head. Sometimes, when I am alone on my balcony, smoking — thoughts of Calcutta come gushing back like a flash flood.

Wintry nights and racing rats

Pic: Delhi, November 2008

Winters always have had this habit. They change a lot of things. Every season, with the dropping leaves, an old chapter ends. Every year, during this time, I grow up.
Last year, Anand was here. This year, he isn’t.
Year before last, Crazy was here. This year, she isn’t.
Next year, something else will change.
Indra, do you remember those days? Dark green sweaters and gold striped ties. School went by slowly and winter by winter we all grew up. Or did we?
Each day passes by like a fleeting glimpse. I hear people complaining. I see them running, wrapping their dreams around the present — singing their own praises about whatever little they have — as if, they desperately need a word of acknowledgement to sleep well at night.
But isn’t acknowledgement like respect? You got to earn it, don’t you?
Thankfully, Neha is a refreshing change. She smiles and nags her way through the day, uncomplicated, unperturbed and lovely.
And what about me? I am still the same arrogant, insecure and proud bastard that you knew. And I still care a damn about the rats.

Don't ask me

Pic: Dona Paulo, Goa, September, 2008

I feel kind of lost these days. Are we all fighting a war? Am I writing to give justifications for what I feel? What makes me feel? Is it what I see? Or how I see it?
Is how I see it biased? Am I responsible for my biases? Who is responsible?
Now do I not control how I see? Do I see what I see? Do I see what I want to?
Do I know what I want to see?

Boundaries anyone?

Pic: A morning in office, stairs where we smoke

These days I feel very exhausted. There is a slight tightness in my muscles since the time I have come back from Forbes. Sometimes I am hyper energetic, sometimes I feel eerily quiet.
For the past few days, I have been trying to find out the reason. And, I found out that it’s quite easy to point fingers. But that’s not the idea.
Sample this: Lost focus, poor time management, indiscipline, distractions, wanting too much at once, work pressure, family pressure, peer pressure, a nagging girlfriend—the list could go on for miles.
But all these attempts at trying to figure out the reason for my restlessness have yielded one good result. It made me wonder who or what I am…something like the assignment that all of us had broken our heads over in TSJ.
But this isn’t that easy. Collecting theories to be able to serve a platter of ideas cannot decipher a human being. Oh…at least I know that I am one!
Sometimes I look around me and I am not surprised. Waking up to an alarm, nerves strung out like a clothesline, making a cup of green tea, a shower and the mad rush to office—clueless.
Sometimes I wonder whether I am doing enough, sometimes I wonder whether I am going to bed at the right time. Everything seems to have a benchmark these days. Where’s the fun, I think out aloud.
Are we all going to die like this? Or is there a world out there without boundaries?

What's Royal?

Sometimes you lose sense of time. When the balmy wind hits your face you stop glancing at your watch. There is something in the heavy thump of a piston, in the way it cranks out power from the red-hot cylinder block. The road might stretch out to the horizon; the trees might rush by you faster than a freight train, but the heady vibration from the machine that you sit on shows the world where you stand.
I always loved bikes though I still can’t ride a bicycle. But from the time I started riding an Enfield, my life changed.
There are bikes and then there are Royal Enfields. Yesterday, a Royal Enfield fan told me: “Every Enfield rider knows that the bike is an underpowered shit. But it has an attitude.” I wouldn’t second him, but I can tell you there are always two ways to reach a destination. To me, how you reach it, is more important! Of course, any Japanese bike, which has decent amount of power, can kill an Enfield in a quarter mile drag. But that’s not the reason why among a few others, I ride an Enfield.
Here is an excerpt from Wikipedia: (“Royal Enfield was the brand of the Enfield Cycle Company, an English engineering company. Most famous for producing motorcycles, they also produced bicycles, lawnmowers, stationary engines, and even rifle parts for the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. This legacy of weapons manufacture is reflected in the logo, a cannon, and their motto ‘Made like a gun, goes like a bullet’. It also enabled the use of the brand name Royal Enfield from 1890. And now Royal Enfield is considered as the oldest motorcycle company in the world still in production and Bullet is the longest production run around model.) See, legacy matters…
The bike survived two World Wars. During the Second World War, the Flying Flea aka the Airborne, a ligther version of the Bullet was para-dropped behind enemy lines with British troops. Hmm…I find this exciting—something like travelling back in time and feeling like a paratrooper while negotiating Delhi traffic in circa 2008.
Then there is the question of feeling good while riding. This is relative. But after coming back home, dog tired after a tiring day at office, this is the only bike I feel like taking out for a spin. And after 5 minutes on it, there is usually a huge grin plastered all over my face. Why? Well, you got to ride it. All I can say is that there is difference between having sex and making love. Haw…

Insomnia

Everybody needs to fight their own demons. I fight mine at night. Every night. And I do it better. Alone.

SWOT analysis

Dear John,

I never knew what is going in my mind; it’s a place where people are too much coward to accept their failures. It’s a place where every one wants to prove them overcoming their own people and sentiments. My friends call me that I am a sentimental fool, some say that I am trying to gel in, some say that you lack confidence; The trusted ones are busy finding out their long hidden grudges.

But guys where is that innocence which every one of you have is lost was it so difficult to keep it surviving in this competitive world. Why my friend you have become so complicated and would you stop exploiting others. Don’t put relationships on stakes for the sake of achieving your things.

Use your powers for good purpose to save others and not on the ones who care and love you. To be successful you need to be a good human being first. Why have the feeling that whatever you say is right and what others are saying is wrong. Have the guts to face criticism. Don’t exploit people on their weaknesses. Whatever you have done don’t boast about it always, it's not going to stay with you for long.

Anand

This is a letter that I found tucked away in one of the hard drives in my PC. Anand was my best buddy from school. He is in Kolkata right now after a short stint at Delhi. Perhaps, he is happy, perhaps not. I have lost touch with him. But wherever he is, he is still remembered.

Huff, Puff...

Woke up at five in the morn, throat parched. I had a disturbed night’s sleep. Yesterday, I had rearranged the furniture in the room. The calculated risk didn’t pay off it seems. Risk?

Since, the fan is a wee bit skewed away from the bed; I had minutely calculated the sweep of the blades and the chances of the breeze hitting the maximum portion of my body. My legs missed out in the end. And all through the night, thoughts of wicked bloodthirsty mosquitoes feasting made beads of perspiration run down my temple.

Anyways, the point I was trying to make is different. Every dark cloud has a silver lining. Similarly, mosquitoes have their advantages. The crisp new running shoes I had bought a few days earlier made their debut today.

The dawn was just breaking when I made a break for the road—or was it my procrastination? I started walking, rusty knees creaking in protest. Chest puffed out, I put up a brave face as the skies muttered its approval with a sprinkling of gossamer rain. Dawn was spreading its clutches across the eastern sky. And I could breathe.

I walked faster. The ATM machine at CR Park wasn’t far away. The newspaper boy has become Dorian Grey. And today I was hell bent on wiping away the picture—at least, for a month.

There is another interesting incident that happened. While walking back, I thought what the heck—these are running shoes! Heart thumping against experience, I bent forward like a pro and started to run. Whoa…I had hardly covered 100 steps when a very unpleasant noise stopped me in my tracks. It was emanating from my throat. I felt the soft walls of my windpipe rubbing against each other…

That’s it boy—I told myself—you need a cool and balmy lassi. Mother Diary wasn’t far from where I was standing, bent over, trying to fill my raspy lungs with some nice morning air. I always believe in rewards you see, even if they come in tiny packages. How about bloodthirsty mosquitoes for a start?

Touch

There are 3 chat boxes open on my Gmail. All of them say the same thing. "Wat r u doin tonite?" Still waiting for answers.

Return of the werewolf

It feels like one of those days when I didn’t have a job. Mom was exasperated. Dad was quiet. Only the furrows on his brow got deeper as the days went by.
Those days I had a motorcycle for company—a purple one. I had stuck a sticker of a werewolf on the fuel tank and I was happy that I had something to differentiate my bike from others. In a few months, Pulsar became a bestseller and there were thousands of them on the street. But I never noticed the same sticker anywhere else.
I used to have a lot of spare time then. I rode a lot, burning rubber to vent my frustration. I made friends—people I didn’t notice before. I didn’t notice them because when I had everything going for me I rode too fast to even look sideways.
Actually this was after Madhubanti had happened and my heart had sputtered. To tell you frankly, even my bike was for her. I had coaxed and cajoled dad to buy it for me so that I could ‘perform’ better in my MBA classes. But deep inside I knew I needed it desperately to meet her on time. Sorry dad!
When Madhubanti left, she took my job, my education and my parents’ peace. She left behind my bike. She left rows of green trees in front of my house. I left Kolkata.
For months I looked here and there. Then I got a BPO job. Days of nights and a few months of torrid relationships later I started feeling restless again. Money didn’t attract me. Neither did rows of busty girls trying to tell me that I would become a good father.
I spoke to my dad and said that I want to return home.
I did. After trying to crack CAT I came to Delhi. This time I didn’t have dreams. I came because I had felt that I should. Even on the train to the capital (if I remember clearly it was the Kurla Express) a benign pharmacologist tried persuading me against joining a journalism school. He said that I would die.
I think I will. I smoke a lot these days. And a lot of people are also trying to talk sense into me. Leaving ET and joining a new place is a tough decision. Folks at ET tell me that I am a rising star. People at my new place tell me that there are new challenges. The money is the same on both sides. But somehow I am not convinced. I am not convinced by anything either.
But faith is something Madhubanti couldn’t take from me. She had come back later asking whether there was any space left. No, I said gently. She had smiled. Today she is off to Alaska to join her bespectacled husband.
And me? I don’t have a ‘job’ again.

The Next Bend

The weather here has changed quite suddenly. At first, the raindrops didn’t surprise. It was gradual—the way humidity changed clothes. It was proof that Delhi doesn’t fail to shock.
It has been quite sometime that I have been sleeping out the nights here. Even this year, winter came and left, freezing memories in its wake.

And summer is having a terrible identity crisis.

Recently, I had mentioned to Anand that summers here can kill. Interspersed with bouts of mellow rain and lashed by dusty thunderstorms, the city of mughals has been hissing hot steam from its parched cracks. But the rain sometimes manages to hide the sins.

It's quite nippy here now.
Two years might not be a very long time. But guess it has been the most eventful period of my life. When I first came here, I didn’t know what to expect. But now guess it’s time to step out again.

Working for a newspaper as a journalist is not an easy job. Of course, no job is. But then again, words have their place.
Of late, I had started looking at writing as a job. People say that it is actually so. But I say it’s not that easy to just let go.

All of us sin. But the enormity of the crime lies not in the execution but the intention. It is important to know what you want.
In my case I don’t know because I haven’t seen far enough into the future to decipher it. It is important that I want to do it. I feel like climbing up the wall to see what lies on the other side.
The day-me, or anyone stops wanting, will be the end of the road.

Every bend has a new stretch waiting. How much you discover depends on whether you want to take it...