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?