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...

To the one who doesn't breathe

If there was time I dreamt of waking up to the sunlight filtering in through green leaves, this is it. I dream of gurgling water, white pebbles and white mist. I dream of the silence of the chirping birds. I dream of paused moments.
But I wake up breathless. I wake up to harsh sunlight. I wake up to loud phone calls. I wake up to super fast time. But I don’t wake up to sunlight filtering in through green leaves.
My fingers move fast and smooth, their tips connecting me to you. It’s a bit like touching. But the keyboard with which you can touch me is not there. It will never be.
I wish I could show you everything that I see. I wish I could find every pebble on the brown riverbed and show you.
But the trout still swims. And the water still flows. And I can still swim to the bottom to get you the white pebbles, those ones with the smooth rounded sides. The sun still jumps along the creases on the surface.
And tonight the moon will also rise—high above the treetops. The moon will also jump along the creases on the surface. I love the moon. I love you.

Pace

It moves with you, silently. Slithering along the shadows at blistering speed, it stalks you—stopping wherever you stop…waiting, watching and calculating.
The pace of the city is a nocturnal animal. The night is its junge.
Have you ever felt the icy finger of an unknown feeling, play with your spinal cord? It happens to me at times. In the dead of the night, sleep becomes sweat. The machine-like nausea strumming away in my head is disturbing. Sometimes, when that happens—I change into something else.
People at parties, people at office, people at work—all of them surprise me. They are unique and yet they don’t realise it. I try to talk to myself but I don’t find the same me. I try to look into pictures to make myself realise that there is a reason for everything. But suddenly I realise that there is something else that is more powerful…something else that matters more than just finding out reasons.
Why are we doing what we are doing? Questions like that are disturbing. Here’s one more: For instance, why are you reading this? I was bullshitting all this while, trying to tie some knots into my broken strings.
What were you doing?

Does it matter that you can't see my face?

Will it really make a difference to your life if you wear a Versace jacket? Or will you turn blind if you don’t wear Armani shades? Don’t know why I am asking these questions. Don’t know why I am even bothered.
But somewhere brands (read: the way we would like people to look at us) make a difference. So, what’s your brand?
Every one of us portrays a brand image—basically, it’s the way we want people to see us. It makes a difference since people react in different ways to it. But if a homeless man is picked up from the street and given a makeover by Valentino, will it make any difference to his life. People, of course, will look at him differently. But will they buy him dinner because of Valentino?
Poor Valentino, it’s not his fault. But what I am trying to say is that it is important to build one’s own brand because there is no designer for that.
Let’s go a bit deeper now. Some brands have inherent qualities, which are not apparent in the beginning—much like humans.

Scene 1: For instance, I rode a Royal Enfield motorcycle to Pushkar. It was a ride of about 1000 kilometres. The roads were good and the guys at Royal Enfield swear by their bikes’s tripping value. But I had a torrid time with the bike. It was big and powerful but low on quality. Halfway through the trip the battery fell off and I had tear my t-shirt to tie it into place.

Scene 2: On my way to Ladakh I had chosen a bike from Honda. It was small in comparison to the Royal Enfield but I was sure of one thing—the brand ‘Japanese’. And true to my prediction, the small 150 cc Jap bike took me through the most treacherous roads and the most deceitful conditions that anyone can throw at you.

Honda is Japanese and Royal Enfield is genetically a British thumper. But does Royal Enfield’s mediocre performance mean to say that all British things are bad?
Now both brands made a difference to my life. A macho guy would love to be seen with a Royal Enfield than a puny Honda.
But does it really matter? When it comes to ground zero, brands fall apart.
Make your life a brand because death doesn’t have any.

Honestly, no hard feelings....

When life gets you down on your knees, which is the best way up? I have tried many a time, to ask myself the same? But more often than not, the next day arrives in a huff and puff. And my question is left in the lurch-alone, to fend for itself. A lot of things are happening here. Salary hikes, new dreams, new ways of looking at life.
It has been sometime now that Anand has come to Delhi. His habit of doping hasn’t left him yet. Or, should I say it is the other way round. Once, we had mutually decided that there was nothing wrong in doping. We thought it gave us a different vantage point, to stand back and look at life slightly differently.
But life gives you other vantage points as well. Some are good, while some are even better.
I have tried telling him that, also the difference between right and wrong. But in the process I perhaps lost a friend. Now, what is more important-friendship or belief?
I have learnt one thing over the years. At the end of the day, you have to fend for yourself. Over time, I have been let down by friends, not because I needed them, but because I stood by them. I fought against my parents, fought against sane judgement, all the while thinking that my friends need me. But whether it’s Anand or Dukh (pun intended, in case you missed it), everyone cold-shouldered me, once his or her job was done.
So, nowadays I don’t think about feelings that much, until and unless people come very close to me. For instance, when I look at new apartments in Delhi, thinking how it would have been if I had one, I always think about whether Crazy (my lovely Labrador), would be comfortable in it or not. I think about my parents, I think about Neha. And sometimes, I think about friends too…sigh…
You see, I am not a saint. But if people can sin, I might as well have a few of my own and be happy, rather than counting the insults and be sad. Anand says that I have changed. Well Anand, welcome to a whole new brand of friendship-in hindsight, your brand of friendship.

Accusations

A little bit of sunshine, a little bit of cloud, a little bit of candlelight, a little bit of care. Or perhaps a little flower, with a little bit of smile. The mind sits at the door, eyeing the path, which leads nowhere. She has stopped coming long back. The cornfields turn into hay and sweaty farmers tow them away. The frog has ceased to croak and the rains have turned into rainbows. Enid Blyton has stopped writing and the movies aren’t good either. Where do I go with my childhood, whose bosom should I seek?
My grandma used to tell me that the moon is the home of a lonely old woman who spins away yarns of dreams. She used to tell me that stars are angels who watch upon us. One day one such angel dropped a tear, which fell into the ocean. A kind oyster chanced upon it and hid it in its bosom. And slowly with the tides of salty time it turned into a pearl. My existence is not that beautiful. My tear is not precious.
Perhaps it’s a stupid thought; perhaps it’s just plain loneliness. But after a year of parched sunrises and hollow sunsets, I feel it’s time to look inwards.

Happy New Year :)

Saddest Poem

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she oncebelonged to my kisses.Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

A mystic heart, a mysterious love

So Ms Mysterious, how's life?

At my end it's pretty hectic with having to churn out stories and meeting people. But there is a silver lining at the edge of that far-away dark fluffy cloud. Am going to Ladakh and Kargil. But wait that's not all. Am going on a bike. You know, it's a dream come true. So, since sometimes you are as mystic as me, wanted to share it with you....
Don't exactly know who you are, or what you are :), but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that you have a mind, which communicates...and while I am sitting at my small cubicle in Delhi, typing out these words, I wish I could go back to Cal, see my parents,Crazu and sit beside the Ganges and watch the sun go down.
Outside, the streets are choc-a-bloc with traffic and smoke, it's hot and humid, but my mind wanders somewhere else...and my heart beats for a lost cause...
You take care of yourself, Ms Mysterious and be mystic...!
I am off this Sunday...and perhaps will find what I am searching for...or perhaps not...
The road is calling...and I have to leave for now. Just wish I could take you along, and if ever you read this just remember that I thought of you and you will be in my mind all through..

Anger

There was a dream, in a small dark corner of my heart. A dream to touch the fluffy clouds floating in the evening sky. As days went by and nights became longer, I hid that dream among the autumn leaves. I have stopped dreaming now because my eyes are frail and my heart is weak. But sometimes, somewhere among the orange autumn leaves, something rustles and I smile.

Buddy, don't do that again....

I don’t lie. Not when I am writing to myself. And especially when I am writing here. But yesterday I caught someone, a friend. Lying. I was hurt. I read the paragraph again and again. And I am sure that the same person when reading this would pluck a hair. Don’t ask me from where…ha ha
There are a few reasons, I believe, that prompt a person to lie. But here, on Blogger there is just one reason: A desire to reach an imaginative climax with mental masturbation.
There are writers, and then there are writers. Writers like the ones mentioned above, will talk about how the world is a weary place, and they will step back and look at the macro picture to present a worldly-wise view of everything they see around them. In the process, they will clutch their balls and weep at night about the size of their ping pongs...
In their desire to impress readers, or rather to hammer into themselves the belief that they are bastards of Freud or N Chaudhuri, they would unknowingly step over that thin razor sharp line which separates the ‘are-s’ from the ‘wannabes’.
Their whole life, they will write, molesting the keyboard in their bid to have satisfying ejaculations, but here, the seeds would need artificial insemination in unsuspecting minds. But what they don’t realise, is that the trick is not to masturbate. The trick is to give birth. And if they keep on lying, they will only be procreating artificial bastards like themselves.
And Freud or N Chaudhuri will continue disowning. In hindsight, it’s better to have a genuine father. But people lie about that too. :)

Ahem....

It’s been long I know. I was away. Grinding it out among grubby cubicles and fluorescent tube lights. Did you miss me? Or did you think I was dead for good? Have a lot of thinks to tell you. Wait for sometime more. I will puke.

Handicapped

The mind is at unrest. An online profile evaluation told me that I am cursed with some abnormality in my left-brain, which allows me to analyze human emotions through even the twitching of muscles on a person’s face. More often than not, unbelievably I have managed to home in on the darkest corner of the mind of a person. And it is not pleasant, revealing secrets that deserve to be left alone. But it is not in my hands. I can’t do anything about it. It happens unconsciously.

People talk about loyalty and commitment. But can even one human being on this earth tell me that he/she has not been emotionally unfaithful. The same applies to me as well and here I am, stuck neck deep in a dilemma trying to reason out my follies. But I do believe one thing that people deserve what they deserve. Contrary to popular belief of me being God, the logic above is simple and do not need divine intervention.

A relationship is actually bondage of need. To explain a bit further, a relationship is a dichotomy. It is not only about handholding, it is about trying to recognize one’s existence and give it a form. Once, a need is fulfilled the inevitable happens. Not every relationship is based on a need theory though. The flutter of a shy eyelash, the fleeting smile- almost surreal, the sudden rush of warmth on the left side of our chests are also relationships, too short to be given meaning to. But these are small jigsaw pieces, scraps that piece our day together. It would be wrong to say that I don’t believe in them, the problem is that I am not alone in my thought.

I love Summer!

Summer was in my room. Summer crossed the mind with sun kissed touches. Summer spoke softly like a child and warmed my heart. I saw summer’s silhouette in the semi crowded street as she walked towards me. The walk changed into a halfhearted trot, the trot changed into a hug. I was high. I was far away. Summer took my hand and we both walked in the cool darkness, towards the light.
Rides in the auto are never complete without a touch of warmth. In the backseat of a rickety old Bajaj three-wheeler, summer’s voice was like a baby’s as she tried to melt the icicles inside. Rationality grappled with doubts, dreams slept with anger but summer opened the curtains to expose the morning.
Summer has a big heart. Summer is beautiful. She shares her dreams with me and together we walk through lush green meadows. Sometimes I get angry on the fickleness of the seasons. She leaves her slippers at my door and disappears for days. I long for her and I wait for her. The minutes tick by and the hours pummel my patience. But still, summer doesn’t come back. I love summer. The stickiness, the beautiful sunsets, the nostalgic evening breezes, the lazy idleness, the sadness, the madness. Summer means love. Summer means longing. Summer means persistence. Wait, my phone is ringing. Must be Summer! Will be back!!!

Once upon a time...well, chuck it

My stay in this world has been a turbulent struggle for existence. Today when I look back in anger, love, disgust and sorrow I see myself walking around, trying to make sense of things. And of all things that have shaped me, love has been the most forceful contributor. I had harbored dreams of perfect love….a perfect heart. Now I feel strongly that the mind is more important. Rationality and practicality are the truest ingredients to even dream of having a family and settling down. Your wish of having a partner of your choice depends on your financial capability. Though I don’t reject this theory outright, but it makes me wonder whether old-fashioned romance really exists. Whether losing your senses in the dark tresses of your beloved is still a cherished moment. I don’t know, but I have come to believe that love is more at home in the human liver than the heart, quite similar to what the medieval pundits used to believe. The simple reason being, money feeds us, food is important for love and the liver digests the food. This might seem like a far-fetched theory but think about it, it might make sense. Perhaps that is the reason I was having such a bad stomach ache last night. Perhaps it is the reason why I don’t trust anyone anymore. Because, the liver can love but trust was martyred in the heart.

Through the centre

The sunlight was fading with unexpected sadness. Yellow was lost in cobalt blue and red was trying to breathe. Dusk was accompanying the night. And separation seemed inevitable.

Rings of smoke spiraled upwards. Smoldering in reddish anger, the tip slowly receded. The fingers were steady. But the mind wasn't.

The man's silhouette leant against the railing of the narrow balcony. Warm skin embraced cold steel. The coldness was like a furry spider. Climbing up the arm, to the shoulder and finally settling in the mind. He shook his head, trying to shake it off. The spider smiled.

Faith was 'Little Red Riding Hood'. An unsaid promise took off its sheepskin.

He was a knight. His armor was rusty. His blade had bloodstains. He had been fighting for centuries. Shielding the castles of his loved ones from the marauding tribes of darkness. It was time for him to take leave. But faith had to be saved. The spider moved, just a little bit.

The army of promises stood in front of him, deadly phalanxes waiting for the order to charge. He took out his sword. His armor creaked. Taking one last look at the moon he let out a battle cry. The phalanxes drew closer in unison, waiting, tensed.

The wind sighed, a raindrop fell and the cigarette dropped from his lifeless fingers.

The night found a solitary spider spinning its web in the balcony. The wet earth whispered nostalgia. And somewhere 'Little Red Riding Hood' wept uncontrollably.

Freedom

There was a small cage with enough space for only two birds. We will name the birds Joy and Sorrow. Sorrow loved to fly. He would open his wings and ride the thermals to reach a lone peak. From there he would look upon the vales below and ponder upon his loneliness.
Joy had met with an accident. She couldn’t fly without apprehension. She was too scared. In that small cage she would wait all day while Sorrow would roam around the world. Then one fine day, Sorrow decided to build a nest in the cage. Building a nest in the mountains would have been too risky for Joy. Then slowly Sorrow taught Joy the art of flying, waiting in his cage while she flew around with confidence. Joy made new friends, met old ones and loved the wild world so much that one day she forgot to return home. Sorrow became worried. Spreading his mighty wings he searched far and wide for his companion.
The morning was dizzy and the sun’s rays woke up a groggy Sorrow. He had fallen asleep on a lonely outcrop of a cliff. Tired he returned home to find Joy with her friends, frolicking outside their cage. Folding his wings carefully, he tiptoed towards them and snatched a bit of their conversation. Joy was complaining about him, of how small his cage was and that she was tired of spending her days in the damn contraption. She was complaining about Sorrow’s mood swings and how she had to compromise on a lot of things to keep him happy.
Noiselessly Sorrow felt something break inside him. He turned around and spread his wings again. The flapping sound subsided as Sorrow flew out of sight carrying with him the remains of a broken heart.
The night was stormy and thunder rattled the thin rods of the cage. With his head buried in his fluffy chest Sorrow slept. The sound of the rain outside startled his dreams and he woke up with a start. The cage was locked from inside. Joy had moved to the free mountains with a friend of hers.
Suddenly, Sorrow heard the sound of wings through the rain. He watched with love soaked eyes as his friend alighted in front of the cage. Joy tried to open the cage. Realizing it locked from inside she urged him to unlock it. Sorrow turned away as tears welled up in his eyes. He had thrown away the key. He had given Joy the thing that she needed most-Freedom.
At the same time a question cropped up in my mind. Will Joy ever be free?

Emptiness

In this way and that I have tried to save old pail

Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about to break

Until at last the bottom fell out.

No more water in the pail!

No more moon in the water!

There I was, hunched over office desk,

Mind an unruffled pool.

A thunderbolt!

My middle eyeShot wide,

revealing - my ordinary self.

Finally out of reach -

No bondage, no dependency.

How calm the ocean,

Towering the void.

Et tu brute

I have loved and loved with my whole heart. My talks of being apprehensive couldn't stop the chemicals in my head to create that heady concoction of emotions.

I had been asked to change and I happily relented, because I always did. But like I always, I realized that the same people who wanted me to change would not give up that one inch of ground on which they stand so precariously for that last sense of freedom.

And like always I cribbed and ranted only to find that I have become the proverbial worm in the apple.

Then why should I let my heart beat with passion, why should I be worried about the present if the future is so warped in strokes of grey?

I don't understand what they tell me. I just know that I have loved. But this lesson has been the last nail in the coffin. And even the body in it will change over time.

As an afterthought. If people can change after death, its ok if they change before it.

The Blind Spot

I consider myself to be a liberal. A person who is pro-change. Liberal is defined as "tolerant of the ideas and behavior of others; broad-minded".

And this is where I start asking questions about how liberal I am. Is it that I am so liberal, that any ideas that do not support my liberal view becomes unbearable to me. Isn't it that then I am just becoming another person in the
other camp?

When I look around I dont see ourselves as much different from the liliputs in Gulliver's Travels, who fought over something as trivial as how to break an egg. We fight over race, color, money, religion, sexuality....

And we never learn.

Why do we fight over how someone else looks or makes love if we are happy
with ourselves. All causes of fighting are because of a sense of insecurity
in us that forces us to prove to ourselves and others that we are strong.

Why do we think that the whites, blacks, browns or yellows are superior to
one another?

Why do we think that it is important to read the Bible, the Quran, the Gita?

Why do we think its natural for a man to love a woman only?

Why do we think that if we are allowed to flaunt our WMDs, should someone
else have to hide it?

Why do we believe that a certain part of the world is ours only and everyone
else who wants to be there is an illegal immigrant?

What makes us feel that our language is superior?

What makes us feel that our deeds are being kept note of and we will be
treated accordingly later?

Why do we think that we deserve better when there are others dying even
before they can ask that question?

Why do we think that it is better to bring a child into a world where it
will never be loved, than to kill it even before it can feel its death?

Why do we think that a girl-child is a burden?

Why do we think that a gun is going to keep us safe?

Why do we act as liliputs when we could be giants?


Rudresh Ghosh

You destroyed my garden

Fluorescent lighting everywhere. Feels like white hell. Veins in my eyes pulsate with red exhaustion. Arteries are all dried up, like fish lain out on the sand to dry. Feels nice to know the world around is so happy. People are going about their daily chores with a sincere determination.

Telephones in the head keep waking me up. Sleep is a flicker of lightning. There is a secret garden that I tend to with caring hands. But flowers don't bloom anymore. The butterflies have died. Their delicate wings torn to shreds. They lie in blood; hoping someone would pick them up. But they hope in vain.

I have searched for that elusive horizon. But when Friedman wrote that the world is flat, he killed the horizon. I don't dream anymore for a virgin horizon. The dreams too, are dead. I am waiting for my turn. And I don't hope in vain.