Busy at work

"You still have a cool image," the words came and hit like thunder. After sitting still for a few moments, I typed in the customary 'hahahahhahaa' but it did not do justice to the way I was laughing. It was just like another day, and this friend and I were discussing how we (he after trying and I after not trying) could not raise our 'levels' in all these years and have stayed at the same state of worthlessless. It's great fun, laughing about your incompetencies and celebrating the hopelessness. But he changed it all today, adding this highly undesired line at a time when we were so much in the groove, citing one example of callousness after another.

"No, I am serious, you have some coolness about you."

"I have a word for it - unsmart." I love the rolling-on-the-floor smileys and used them in abundance, to catch up with my laughter.

"No, really, you are calm, composed and confident."

"Too good, carry on. I am liking it." Knowing he was not going to stop, I thought of egging him on for more. After all, if I tried to forget his intentions, it made for some good reading.

"You have something intense about you as well."

"Don't stop, go on..." At this point, my colleague came and peeped in. She smiled her way to her seat in sometime.

"I am in the mood today, so keep listening. Tomorrow, I won't tell you all this."

"Sure, you go ahead. I will tell good things about you once you are done." Then I reminded him of someone who met me for the first time, and vented her frustration by telling another friend that it is impossible to talk to me.

"But that was just the first time, because you are usually quiet. But you have a 'totality' about you." We usually use the word 'total' to represent the biggest goof-ups. He had to use some other word to even think he could make me take him seriously.

"Hahhahaahhahaa.. Now enough. I cannot take it anymore."

"Am I joking here?"

"Who wants to know? It's making me laugh my heart out. Thanks."

"No good telling you anything."

"No no, it felt good. But you also should know, you are our hero."

I knew there would not be an answer. If I laughed like mad, I was smiling broad now, to give him back a bigger dose of his own bitter medicine. Not bothering about the lack of answer, I went on with "Something like a dynamic idol", "the level we can only aspire to reach some day, knowing we cannot get there". I knew this cannot go on one-sided for long. So had to buzz him for his non-response. "You there?"

"I was serious. Am not liking this today."

How could I make him believe that even I was as serious as he was. And the conversation wavered to the familiar courses of making fun of friends, acquaintances, unknowns and, most importantly, ourselves.

Having said all that, the chats that I have with him makes me feel light at work. Here is a snapshot of how it goes most of the times.

Of stirred souls and soothed minds

It does not usually happen – consecutive posts on the same topic. But it’s been sometime and I did not write anything here. Then, this Saturday, I went for the Rahat Fateh Ali Khan concert in New York. Not writing about the experience would be like Neil Armstrong coming back to earth, shrugging at the people around him and getting back to work. Here is an approximate account of one of the most surreal musical experiences I have had.

If you have read the previous post, you know how much I love this singer – his voice, his absolute command over his skills, his humility and genuineness. I waited in anticipation till he smiled his way to his harmonium, acknowledging the rampant cheer in the auditorium. Not even a minute to settle down and announce that he would be starting off with a famous qawwali of his Ustad. He never, not even once during the three hours he was on the stage, mentioned of his Uncle, just Ustad-e-Mohtaram Khan Sahab. By the time he finished the heavenly rendition of Allah Hu, he left no doubt on what was to come. The time just passed in his impeccable singing, incredible voice, amazing coordination with his troupe and, of course, the divine intervention. It’s nothing but the divinity that separates singers like Rahat from others. What he sang for three hours over small sips of water and a five-minute break was something out of this world. It does not come with training alone.

He sang qawwalis, Punjabi geets and all his popular songs from Bollywood movies. The qawwalis included Allah Hu, Tumhein Dillagi Bhool Jaani Padegi, Maikhana, Halka Halka Suroor, Afreen, Mast Qalander, Tum Ek Gorakh-Dhanda Ho and Koi Jaane koi na jaane. The Punjabi geets included Mera Piya Ghar Aaya, Ni Main Jaana Jogi De Naal, Aankhiyan Udeek Diya, Kisay Da Yaar Na Vichde. He sang all his famous Bollywood numbers – wrapping them effortlessly with his style and presenting something new from what he hear in the records. I particularly liked Main Jahaan Rahoon (for the way he sings the first two lines and effect of the chorus for the Kehne ko sath apne part), Naina (what a song and what singing!) and Bolna Halke Halke (you have to be me to feel what I feel in this one). Ore Piya, Jag sunaa sunaa laage and Mann ki Lagan (just loved the way he ended the song in this live version) were superlative to say the least. He embellished the numbers with some incredible taans and aalaaps. His fingers glided over his harmonium with so much ease that the complex notes seemed to be coming from somewhere else. And each time he took his hands off the harmonium and set off on those sargams, a bigger treat was for the taking. The hands measuring out the notes, the head swaying sideways, the eyes closing as the scales went higher and the hint of a smile as if to acknowledge the perfection of the output – this is the picture of the concert that has stayed on. Another thing was when he missed the words for a brief moment, remembered it soon enough as to not lose the line and then went on to sing the next lines in the now deliberately off-beat manner that turned out to be more beautiful than what he intended to sing. Who thought this brilliant piece of improvisation stemmed out from a mistake?

He was happy with the crowd – that swayed and raved and appreciated the maestro in action. Request-chits came flowing in; people came to the dais to get a close up shot or record a clip or just to dance. All songs ended with a rapturous applause and he started off with the next one as people still clapped. The atmosphere was full of life and one could ignore the pretty lady in pink who came up and posed with her elbow on the stage as her partner clicked on, concentrating hard to get that perfect background. But can you possibly ignore the ingenuity of the person who thought of making I love you I love you I love you from Allah Hu Allah Hu Allah Hu.

I kept the title of my earlier post on Rahat as ‘Rising Sun’ – the successor to the institution called Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan who had just started making his mark. When I went for his concert, I had to tilt my head up much more I do to see a rising sun. The sun has already risen and is at its brightest best.

Rising Sun

Music can be relieving. We all know this, but there are some times when we realise this and believe in this more than ever. There is one kind of music that soothes you as it plays. You relax, it relaxes. End of worries. There is this other kind. It does not play along. You are made to plunge in and swim. The tune, words and arrangement become the temperature, depth and current of the water. One way to add more to the experience is to consider the singing. Try listening to the effort put in by the singer, either directed or through improvisations, and the appreciation could increase considerably. This is true for music across all the ages. It is rarer, but definitely not absent, in modern music.

We started with relief. And there is relief indeed, literally, when you listen to the synonymous singer - Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. A present day heir to one of the richest musical families, he has not buckled under the pressure of responsibility. He has, in fact, added some more to it - seamlessly adding his flair to light singing in modern film songs. The compact training and base stands guard, the softness plays in front. You can just watch the duel in amazement. Putting his songs on play does a lot of good to me at times when things are not what I want them to be. It also proves to me that art and artists can never fade from this world, it is only the trends that decide what we get everywhere. Here's saluting a real treasure of our times with traits that I look for in my favourite artists - humility, softness, devotion. And they can sing live and create the same magic without the technology blanket of the recording studio. And my favourite artists smile as they sing.

Attaching two live snippets from two of my favourites from him. Sheer magic - takes time to believe someone can sing like this.

Mann ki lagan



Naina

Glorified Tears

You need not be tearful when talking about tears. Poetry - the traditional and old-fashioned type is what I like - has this uncanny ability to turn the most depressing emotions sweet. This song from Naya Kanoon is one such example; it keeps talking about the tears without a mention of the crying. Hasrat Jaipuri shows us why lyricists of the golden era were poets as well. Madan Mohan keeps his musicians off this track to give the total attention to the lyrics. They had to resort to - no surprises here - Rafi Sahab to deliver the goods.

Here goes the words -

Unhe qissa-e-gham jo likhne ko baithe

To dekhe kalam ki rawaani mein aansoon

Ye anmol taare, ye ulfat ke moti

Unhe humne bheje nishaani mein aansoon...

Unhe hum kahaani sunane na paye

Unhe daag dil ke dikhane na paye

Ye aansoon hamare bade kaam aaye

Zubaan ban gaye be-zubaani mein aansoon...

Na samjho ke aansoon hai gham ki kahaani

Ye aansoon hai ulfat ki pehli nishaani

Muqaddar ke qaatib ka kitna karam hai 

Ke likkhe hai meri kahaani mein aansoon...

Zamane mein taqdeer sab ki judaa hai

Tujhe kuchh mila hai, mujhe kuchh mila hai

Udhar hai teri zindagi mein khushiyan

Idhar hai meri zindagi mein aansoon...

Unhein qissa-e-gham jo likhne ko baithe

To dekhe kalam ki rawaani mein aansoon.

Still marvelling at - zubaan ban gaye be-zubaani mein aansoon!

West-side Story

Completed seven days in San Jose today. Even though the work, workplace and colleagues are pretty cool here, there is something amiss that calls for this post. Here are seven reasons why I did not quite like it here till now -

• Would you want to move out of a place where you have just had the best of times with the best of friends? Feel at home, loads of fun, weekend trips, dinners, movies - almost every day? I, for sure, won't. This could be reasons 1 through 7 - but let us have the other ones as well.
  
  
• You check in to your hotel - a pretty neat one at that. And a notice waves at you - "This facility contains chemicals that are known to cause cancer and birth defects... " Not a nice thing.
  
  
• People who do not talk much with everyone like to see others talk. What then, if there is hardly anyone around you?
  
  
• Not the right place if you do not drive a car or plan to buy one. The public transit is not quite there. Reminds me of path trains, subways, trains, NYC Taxi, water taxi... 
  
  
• It takes a lot of time aligning yourself to spend time by yourself till late in the nights everyday. After getting there, you possibly do not want to do the same during the day as well.
  
  
• Can you possibly reign in your system so as to feel hungry before 9:30 PM every day? More so if you are not cooking at home? You can possibly go out - but that would just be to take a walk.
  
  
• When the total package is incomplete, you tend to quesiton your intentions. Makes you feel you are so away from home just for the money.

Signs

"Do you believe in signs?" I was not prepared for this question from my friend. All of a sudden, when we were talking about something entirely different on chat. Still not sure what the question actually meant, I had to resort to a terse reply, "Not really." In a moment, she explained the relevance of the topic - she has been reading Paulo Coelho of late. A kind of rediscovery of the author of one of her, and mine as well, favourite books. The Alchemist is indeed the best example of how one can write sense in the simplest of ways. A novel-sized fable if you will. Anyways, without any more diversion, let me talk about the things she said next.

When life on this earth started, there were just a few souls, but as time moved on, the souls increased.. the explanation given in the book, is that when the soul moves on, it splits into two, a male and a female. And then they split into two, so on and so forth. The soul always splits into a male and a female. Have you ever thought about why we say soulmates? This is the reason. A soul always becomes one again, if people are able to find their soulmates.

Though I could not quite say that I believed in this theory, I had to admit that this explanation was indeed nice and simple. Pretty neat too. I found too many assumptions in this theory and did not quite get the concept of a male soul and a female soul. A soul, if there is one, cannot have a gender. It is just the essence of life in the body. A body without a soul is dead. A soul without a body is potential. A soul-mate, for me, is a super-set of all partners - whose compatibility transcends the limits of the body and the mind.

As I thought of all these things, it struck me that there is always many ways to look at the same thing. My thinking was based on the way I think, the things I have realized till now. Anyone else might have a different realization of the same thing. And when you start realizing things, truth and untruth no longer matter. To talk about a commonplace example (that is what you can expect from me), if you are not satisfied with work, whether the work actually offers possibilities or not does not matter. You stay stuck at your realization. Likewise. It is perfectly alright if someone relates to things that are not obvious. And when that happens, one can relate to signs, destiny or the supernatural.

I believe that even a thousand opinions can exist without interference. Without getting into the merits of each individual opinion, one can choose not to overlap with any of them while forming one's own. You possibly cannot ignore when Paulo C writes. But you are absolutely free to smile at the triviality of this post.

Ghulam Ali Can't Dance

It was just yesterday that my mother told me that I am very fortunate to have friends like the ones I do. I had no reason to differ; she had none not to realize this. Not every mother can see her son off and - before she can even come to terms with the geography separating them - in no time hear him beaming on the phone, "I am perfectly fine. Staying with a friend, eating at another friend's place." The momentary pause at this point is just to gather the names of everything the friend cooked for dinner, the warmth shown by her and her husband and the good times with other very good friends. Now, when the night is contemplating handing over the keys to the sun, I look at the four people sleeping about in the house. It reminds me of similar settings in Hyderabad and Calcutta - and the times I have felt a happiness growing inside. I re-assert the observation that I started the post with.

All good things are actually better, but you have to look beyond the surface. Many people have friends and there are instances of friendship that has moved on to folklore. What makes my case even more curious is the fact that all this love and care is for someone who is just a little better than the furniture in the room as far as interactions are concerned. Put an occasional smile to the chair at the corner - that's me. This amount of cordiality for someone who is a permanent fixture in the Liabilities column of any journal is indeed rare.

Each time we are together, more so when everyone is having a great time, my friends realize the ineffectiveness of my participation. After all, what can you get from someone who listens to music that from the stone age, whose speech is as limited to that of the neolithic man as well? Someone who cannot sing a line or dance a step? And on each such time I, on my side, realize the futility of any suppressed wish that says - "When will this guy change?" If my incorrigibility was made of gold, it would have been 24 carats.

Hello - 9 inches to the left

Mine has been an incessant attempt at keeping on writing whether anyone reads or not. It felt great, then, when someone chanced upon this blog yesterday and said it was nice. He had an immediate question - 'Why no post on A?" He was justified in saying that. After all, this person had sent too many chills down our spines at one time. And he has indeed left with us an unending treasure trove of laughter, to the extent where just the mention of his name brings to mind his myriad antics, and plunges us in waves of unadulterated laughter.

To get the context, we need to rewind to the early years of this century. Eight years ago, even I used to be enthusiastic - embroidering dreams on ambitions all day. It was in such a setting that my brother introduced me to the two people I mentioned in the last paragraph - the initiator and the protagonist of this post. In no time, a legal document pronounced us 'Partners' in a firm. 'A', he told, was a programming exponent with superb 'contacts' and an undying hunger for entrepreneurship. The other partner, let's call him 'B', was into graphic design which is so essential for what we were going to do. Fancy websites, to be precise. Being still in college, I came without any specialization. Three of us (3 is a number that both 'B' and I detest now), thus, started a journey on a not-so-auspicious day. The name of this association was also ironical. We called it Destination Future. 'A' was cool, he called it DF.

Anyways, in a couple of months, we could indeed complete a couple of nice websites solely on the basis of some neat user interface. Then we got some more. The clients were happy, some cash started flowing and I picked up some HTML and JavaScript. At the end of the first year, we ended with a positive in the balance sheet. After college and on weekends, we would assemble in the 'office' and 'B' and I would arrive at the correct design and alignment of the webpages after numerous iterations. Our man, however, did little in these things. He said he could hardly wait for the programming work to come, smiling to show his betel-stained teeth; with an eye on an equal share even on the refreshments that came.

Days passed and soon things fell into perspective. The attitude was, afterall, just a failed attempt to hide the ineptitude. Writing programmes was like asking for the Ganges in Rajasthan - he could not even write a few correct lines in an email. Upon close observation, we realised that the time he spent at the computer was on chats, games and emails to nondescript ladies in, as far as, Australia. Emails that lied through their teeth. 'Too hectic a schedule, am working 20 hours a day.' 'I lost my laptop since I did not lock my car. All my data is gone!' 'Microsoft, IBM - all are running on losses, we will also need some time to pick up.' One would have thought he already had his photo on the cover of The Times - they were waiting for him to date the issue.

It made us restive and angry. Each time he showed his teeth, we gritted ours. It was imperative that in such a setting, Destination Future had all but a future. Time passed watching him arrive late everyday, leave early offering the lamest of excuses, shoot arrows at balloons before they could rise up the length of the computer monitor, write 1000-line emails (sorry not progams) and take numerous phone calls. Talking of phone calls, I must tell you about his peculiar habit of saying many hello's whenever he got a call, bending 9 inches to his left for each greeting. Often, when the caller finally greeted him, his ear would almost touch his knee. He would keep talking in that position.

In some time, we canceled the agreement and decided to move on. Having gained tremendous confidence in his PR skills that now matches his design skills, B carries on with a setup of his own to this day. Having failed at a similar attempt with a few of my friends in college as well, I decided to take on the oft-treaded path of employment. Having done nothing, 'A' decided to continue doing nothing. It is impossible to write everything about him in this post. 'B' and I still have a great time bringing him up in our conversations and laughing out loud. We still start laughing everytime we are together or on chat - when anyone gets a phone call, someone says programming or some incident creeps out from the dungeons in the mind. I don't know of anyone else who makes us laugh more than him.

There he came and said he was a nerd
But little did we know
In our pastures we just let loose
A rampant cow from the herd.

New Work

Getting up early, walks down the river side, sitting idle on a bench amidst an equally carefree (but not as lazy) wind, hurrying for trains that arrive to the minute of the schedule, 2 sides and 2 meats for 5.55... I am back to Newport. A setting sun still dazzling on the Manhattan skyscrappers reflect the good times I had before. The expansive serenity of the surroundings promise uneneding possibilities.

Brush With Greatness

“Tell us about any incident that you would never forget, Mubarak Ji? Something that brings a smile to your face or brings tears to your eyes…”

“Andhere Chha Rahe Honge, Ke Bijli Kaundh Jayegi, I had just sung till this line from the song Kabhi Tanhaiyon Mein Yun from the film Hamari Yaad Aayegi when” - she paused for a moment to look at the anticipation in the faces in front of her – “the lights went off!” We laugh out loud; she smiles. “Gaane ka aisa asar kisine kabhi dekha nahi hoga,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Mubarak Begum chose something amusing over the myriad melancholic things that keep bothering her.

During the three days that I got to spend with her, there were talks about the difficult times and the uncertain future. But there was no resignation in those talks – only a glaring resolve. An acceptance of reality, an amnesia of an absolved past. She agreed for every interview I arranged, without even asking her. “No personal questions, no controversial questions.” She seemed not to be an interviewer’s delight. When asked about how her passion for singing evolved she says, “I never wanted to sing, I was forced to sing by my father.” She is not very happy either about the long walk at and even longer drive from the Shamshabad Airport. You ask her the questions, she gives you her answers. No frills.

But if you persist you are treated to chunks of delightful incidents. When asked about her reaction to getting things easily these days and the big money involved in even smaller shows, she does not tell you anything about it. Instead, she breaks off to a story. “There were times when I would sing and wait for the payment. Sometimes, it was never made. It used to be around 150 rupees per song that time. I remember once I was very upset at not being paid. And even when we came out and sat in the taxi, I was grumbling about it to my father. Hearing me, the driver turned and asked me how long I had been singing? ‘A few years,’ I said. ‘Even then you are thinking about money?’ he asked me over his shoulders.”

“Work started to cease for me after 1965,” she puts it matter-of-factly. Further questions are not answered. So are questions about her past. The stern façade quickly comes off in tears as you ask her about her parents. “However old I get, how can I accept that they are not there with me?”

“Take me to her now,” she demanded when told that Jamuna, the beautiful actress who lipped her most popular song from Humrahi, stayed in Hyderabad. And as the two ladies embraced sometime later and kept talking, one could not say for sure if it was really 46 years that had separated them. As I asked Jamuna Ji if she could come for the concert the same evening, she said, “Of course I will come.” And as she talked on the mike in the concert, she narrated how Mubarak Begum gave her the ‘shock of her life’ that morning. One could feel the genuineness of her feelings, the depth of the emotions rocking her. It was no wonder that Begum, on her part, declared that never before did she sing ‘Mujhko Apne Gale Laga Lo’ with the same emotions as this day. No surprises again, when she did an encore for her heroine, who hummed happily with moist eyes in the first row.

She was to sing about three songs that evening. Without even a proper rehearsal, she was cynical of the performance. But as everyone collectively broke out into a deafening applause as she entered, one could sense that this audience would not be satiated for less. She went on to sing 7 songs amidst undying applause. The audience was not particularly expecting her to sing ‘Devta Tum Ho Mera Sahara’ – a classic 1953 duet with Rafi Sahab by Jamal Sen from Daera. She sang the whole song from memory, even the lines by her revered co-singer. One yearned for the excellent use of the chorus in the song, but was nonetheless left in awe. Scores of people came with her to the waiting car. For the only time during her stay, I saw a glow of joy in her face. It did not matter that she did not leave the place with a heavy purse, the warm embrace of her loving ‘heroine’ and the resonant applause of her fans more than made up for it.

People took notice. “When is she coming back?” “Meet me sometime; we will plan something big next time together.” “Does she practice daily even now? How come her voice has not lost the kashish?” Smiling, I could just hope that this initiative augurs well for one of the most neglected singers. A singer whose fledgling career dipped to the ground in her youth, but still promises to attain newer heights to overhaul the mammoth obstacles that block her way.

And as I put on Kabhi Tanhaiyon Mein Yun Hamari Yaad Aayegi yet another time, I try, in vain, to recollect another song that is as haunting. When I finally give up, her jest rings in my mind again, albeit in a different context – “Gaane ka aisa asar kisine kabhi dekha nahi hoga.”

3 days at home

Roti-Dimer Kosha, Baingan Bharta, Pulao, Machher Matha diye lau, Mochar Ghanto, Doi-Machh, Chicken Biryani, Paneer Butter Masala, Kosha Mangsho, Parota, Keema'r Ghugni, Musur Dal, Phulkopir Tarkari, Chicken Sandwich, Rajbhog, Rosogolla, Kalojam, Lyangcha, Chamcham, Shon-papri, Mishti Doi, Ice cream, Himsagar Aam, Lyangda Aam.

Not mentioning the quantities. :D

An Incurable Addiction

It's strange how even the quintessential healer, time, cannot heal some 'ailments'. One positive example is the way you feel for someone or something that you genuinely love. Sports has been one such love for me. While in school, it was an integral part of my life. I remember playing daily, without exception - cricket, football, table tennis, carrom and a host of other not-so-famous games that we played during and after school. One such invention was what we called Terrace Tennis. A court was drawn out on our terrace and a string was tied at about 4 feet to serve as the net. A table tennis ball (the local, hard and heavy variety) was sent across it with hard-cover 6-inch copies following the same rules of lawn tennis but no shot, including serves, was allowed to be played overhead. This last stipulation put a check to the number of times we had to run downstairs to fetch a ball. Visitors, the elderly ones, used to get alarmed seeing us running on the terrace at such fervent pace. More because, half of the terrace did not have a boundary. We were allowed to choose our names and it is no surprise that I was the Agassi on that court. In fact I did a bit better than him, staying the number 1 player as long as the game was played. :)

Such an involvement was ably supplemented by an equally strong interest in the happenings in the global scene. There was not much on TV those days, but we would lap up the weekly sports roundup shows and the big events. And, even to this day, I start reading a newspaper from the last page. We would get The SportStar and I used to read every page - though the most interesting part was to collect the centre-spreads that came free. I still have them at home, more than 300 posters of myriad sportsmen and women. My joys would cross the line whenever there was a Viv Richards, Andre Agassi or Gabriela Sabatini for the taking. Sadly, somehow I missed out on all the Marco van Basten ones and do not have one of him. These four were, and still are, my sporting idols.

No wonder, then, that I do not have to look up for names like Nigel Mansell, Jan-Ove Waldner or Leroy Burrel to know what they did.

But things changed, for the worse, after school. I stopped playing any games and even the craze for the happenings in the world of sports slightly decreased. This was aided by the retirements of Viv, van Basten and Sabatini around the same time. Thankfully, Agassi stayed on to re-write an essay in agelessness. I developed special likings towards many new players, but the passion for these top-4 borders on devotion and is much greater than my liking for Brian Lara, Thierry Henry or Dennis Bergkamp.

It would be an unending saga, if I am to write extensively about my madness for sports. And though I have grown apart from it to a large extent, the thrill of watching a defining moment in any game is unrivaled. There was a time when I would know all names in the starting XI for each team in the Football World Cup or the European Cup. Now I have to look out for the few I know in each team. I did not watch a single football match in the last 2 years, since the 2006 World Cup. Yet, when the Germany-Poland match at Euro 2008 kicked off the day before yesterday, the rush of excitement was the same. A packed house of colourful fans singing for their teams, the players not able to, and not wanting to as well, rest for even a moment for a full 90 minutes, the passionate attraction towards the ball at any cost - what a sight!

So here I am - suffering from the fever called IPL till recently - back to my bigger love football the moment Michael Ballack and his men lined up for their national Anthem at the start of the match. And no prizes for guessing who I would be supporting. The unique distinction of winning the European Cup as a player and a coach awaits Marco van Basten if the Dutch invasion runs till the end under his coaching.

Go Orange, Go Marco!

Approved absence

Today, one of my friends asked me about the lack of activity in this space for the last few weeks. 'Don't be so idle', I was told. I just said that I will write something soon. What I left unsaid was that there was an absolute absence of activities for such a long time overall that it was imperative that it would reflect here as well. So much so that I hate those learned men now - the ones that have left us with so many crafty adages. 'An idle mind is a devil's workshop,' one of them said. Not only did he cut deep with the word 'devil', he sliced it open by bringing that dreaded 'work' even in the bliss that we call idleness.

Idleness - we say - is just a way of life. You can view it the way you want to. And call you what you want. What you call Zero-Kelvin we love to call Absolute Zero. That's how we look at it. That's how we love it. You think it is doing nothing; we believe it is not doing anything. But it is the same thing. You take a break from work; we take a break and work.

Why ponder over a glass half-empty or half-full? Drink only if someone brings it to you.

P.S. - Ok, the use of 'We' all through this post was an unproved assumption that at least one person like me exists.

The Big Blog

After Aamir Khan, it is none other than the grandest man of Indian Cinema, Amitabh Bachchan, who has set his blog rolling. I think it is great to have public figures taking to blogging as a means of direct interaction with the people. And going by his posts, it is clear that this is also a medium for him to make his stand clear on many issues that are inseparable from the life of a celebrity. If you take a glance in his blog, it will be clear how much time he has to think about allegations levelled at him for myriad issues. Despite a routine that hardly anyone of his age can maintain, to stand 'tall' amidst people ranging from politicians, media, intellectuals, artists, NGOs and so on, requires a determination, and patience, that very few can preserve.

In all probabilities, however much he tries to clarify through this blog, people with intentions would continue their tirade against him, even at a personal level. Like all detractors, they are not against him, they are just working towards their minutes of fame. Instead, genuine fans would be much better off to see him ignore these allegations around him. I would not say dignified silence, but a careless disdain is what is required when needed. There would be definitely a seemingly endless treasure of incidents in his remarkable run in the industry - scenes, shoots, songs, dialogues, people. Detractors would remain detractors, but this way his fans would surely be loving the enrichment as much as they have loved the entertainment.

The few places where he has mentioned about his father (the late Dr. Harivansh Rai Bachchan), his poetry and his philosophy, have definitely embellished his accounts more than anything else. Quoting and explaining from the timeless Madhushala, he says how he believes in choosing a (the) path and sticking to it. I shall quote verbatim -

"Madiralay jaane ko ghar se, chalta hai peenay wala,
Kis path se jaaon asmanjas may hai woh bhola bhala.

Alag alag path batlate sab,
Par main yeh batlata hoon,

Raah pakad tu ek chala chal, pa jaaega Madhushala.

(The wanderer, the traveller sets out from his home to go to the Madhushala. Which path to take he is at a loss. Every one gives him different directions and different routes to take. But, the poet says, i tell him this - just catch one path and keep walking - you will find your Madhushala.)

The Madhushala is symbolic here of a destination a desire a goal, anything. The world will always suggest different ways to get there to achieve it, all very confusing at times. But the poet says, just get on to one path and keep walking, keep persevering - you will find your destination."

I am sure the fans would love to read this than to read him explain that his daughter-in-law was never married to a tree. In the coming days, I hope, we will get a larger share of the priceless chest of experiences he has inherited and earned in his blockbuster life.

N.B. At one place, he quotes his father saying - "After the sun has risen and before it sets, the one that sleeps, shall loose all his wealth even if he is a wealthy and devout Raja or King." I am no King, but a quick look at my bank balance gave me nothing to contradict the great poet.

Of Steps and Notes

The Taramati Baradari is a historical monument in Hyderabad that was built by the seventh Sultan of Golconda, Abdullah Qutb Shah in remembrance of his favourite courtesan Taramati. It is basically an elevated platform with 12 arches and an acoustic technology way ahead of its time, evident from the fact that the Sultan would keep an ear to the strains of music from the Golconda fort, a few miles away. This has been refurbished by the state's Tourism Development Corporation and now houses a hotel with banquets and a 1600-seater cultural complex. Given the nostalgia associated with the place, it can be safely said that there could have been hardly a better place to house the Golconda Cultural Festival that started today.


To make things better, the evening had a Kathak performance by V Anuradha Singh. She was followed by Rahul Sharma on the Santoor.

I had never been to a Kathak performance before and all that I had seen of it was from a classmate way back when I was in school. Twice every year, on the day of the Individual Performance exam, she would come up and do the exact same steps for about a minute, falter at a particular step each time, giggle and run back to her seat. To see a masterful act after this was a hallowing experience. She came on to the stage and started off with a Shiva-Vandana before speaking to the audience. First on was a Chalan, which focusses solely on footwork, and the audience got an indication as to what was in store. Ably assisted by a harmonium, two tablas, a violin (playing like a Sarangi, which I sorely missed) and an almost redundant keyboard, she doled out small but highly effective doses from her repertoire to the audience. The person in the harmonium doubled up as the vocalist for some of the performances.


She presented short steps on tabla bols, then upped the momentum to depict some improvised sequences like a fish swimming in the river being picked up by a bird, the dance of a bee around a blooming lotus, a group of ducks moving about in a lake, deer-hunting, Lord Krishna playing with a ball, and so on. She explained that she developed these sequences as a layer over the traditional steps of Kathak, before moving on to some more traditional jugalbandi with the tabla, vocals, violin and then a few Chaturanga sequences on Raagas like Hamsadhwani, Shivranjini and Malkauns with all of these together. Overall, hers was a wonderful amalgamation of tradition and contemporary. While the tradition was epitomised by a breathtaking series of 42 back to back spins faster than the count from one to forty-two by the vocalist, the contemporary was best depicted by an item on what she called an Arabian Sufi Kathak, for which four dancers from her troupe added colours to the show. Coupled with a very able sangat by her musicians, her feet rained on the stage like wild rain and her ghungroo would make you believe it was raining on a tin roof. It was indeed a great performance by the artist in that it did not allow the mind of even a first-timer like me to waver.


Rahul Sharma built his performance on three pieces - one what he called as an impromptu nameless piece, a Jazz item and finally what he called the Music of the Himalayas. He was accompanied by a tabla, drums, keyboard and a jazz guitar - the first two instruments being the dominant supporting cast. As evident from the instruments, it was fusion that he served to the audience, probably aware of its composition. I wish there was a complete performance on a Raaga with just the tabla and maybe, a sitar/sarangi/violin. But he had clearly decided on keeping a fast tempo throughout keeping the audience in mind. All in all, it was an enchanting performance by the prodigious talent. His performance was laden with improvisations as well - once he was using only one striker and plucking the strings with fingers of the other hand to create a fresh set of notes, as if coming simultaneously from a santoor and a sitar. There was another prolonged period of time when he kept on playing a stock tune while allowing the tabla and the drums to take the initiative, which both the players did with finesse. Moreover, he was very patient with the glitches, when the power went off twice and the microphones were suddenly not catching some of the instruments.

All in all, this was a great start to this weekend.

Nirvana

There is one point when man stops craving about the material comforts in life and looks beyond. For me, they are the same thing - a craving for something you do not have.

Look at any one of us. Money, investments, career, security - something or the other keeps us tethered to the post of ambitions. And after some years when we actually reach there, we realize there is a higher target to achieve in the same parameters. This is probably because we do not quantify our targets, all we always want is 'more'. Hence however much we achieve, there is more ahead. Today, even as we have left behind the goals of the past by far, we are well into a few rounds of this vicious circle.

However, at one point in life, the futility of all this running around dawns on us. As I said, there is again a craving for something we do not have. So we shift our focus to peace of mind - realizing little that peace was all we had when it all started. And without our knowledge, we also no longer talk about going to the gym or for a jog. We have yoga and praanayam to go with our new wants. I do not understand why one cannot dissociate Yoga and the, often needless, spirituality.

But the fact is we cannot. And there opens the door for the spiritual leader, ever-eager to step into our lives. Supposedly, for our betterment. While the Deepak Chopras await the elite class, the common man in us can always resort to Baba Ramdev, Amma Amritanandamayi and so on. Without realizing, again, we attach ourselves to the lessons of, quite ironically, detachment.

I am not averse to spirituality or religiousness. But we need to realize that we do not need anyone to lead us there. When we think we have had enough of money and fame and want Shanti, the person supposedly guiding us there is in his own pursuit of money and fame. One life is quite simple to manage and no one, not even God himself, can make it easier. And for me, we have God and extra-ordinary Men but sadly, no God-men.

I am not preaching without practising here. If you are into a lot of trouble, you just need to do two things to feel at peace -
A) get used to more troubles, and then,
B) break free.

I can pursue, arrest and experience peace at will. Just yesterday night, I was feeling a bit restive and wanted to come out of it. So I browsed and settled for an album titled Best of Baba Sehgal and put all the songs to play. The repulsion notwithstanding, I intently listened to Manjula Manjula, Baba Deewana, Thanda Thanda Paani, Dr. Dhingra, Memsaab, Miss Loomba Loomba, Kitty Kitty and Dil Dhadke. (Step A)
Then I closed the browser window. (Step B)

At that precise moment, there was more Shanti in my life than what all the holy men have gathered in theirs. When you are in need, you achieve Nirvaana by doing the same by clicking here.

And I can assure you, Baba Sehgal works much faster than Baba Ramdev.

Silent night

As I sat down, tired
Of the meaningless walk
Alone, lost - the other night,
The darkness was visible, but
Not enough to find my way back.

I made a bed
Of the thick, moist grass
And rolled and rolled, as much -
No edge to fall, no air to lose
Walls and ceiling, made of glass.

The zephyr on the sweat
The coolness of defeat,
Ample support around me -
Sedentary stars standing above
The trampled grass at my feet.

Soon my eyes got wet in sleep
Dreams, even, were taking form
Then, day broke to break it all
I opened my eyes to the jeering crowd -
The early birds had got their worm.

March's Merriment Marred

The first few days of evoke mixed feelings -

1) My brother's wedding anniversary -
Read last year's post here.

2) Viv Richards' birthday
Read last year's post here.

3) This is where the happy mood turns sour - with that conceited and hyped thing called International Women's Day!
(Sorry, no blog post on this one. I don't expect I'd write one too.)

A tale of 9 ears.

Let me keep this short. It's a classic that would be enjoyed most by people who were at the scene. I am lucky that I was among the four of us in the auto this evening. Ok, so I will come straight to the point.

Three of us were in the auto, on our way to a friend's marriage. Unknown to the driver, so that he does not charge up his already exorbitant price for the 14 km journey for the additional passenger, another friend was to join us on the way. When he told him, of course after the deal was made and we had travelled some distance, his expressions changed and surfaced through his wry sense of humour. "Where do I drop one of you?" he asked. And when we insisted it's rather a 'pick' it was obvious that wasn't picked up well by his highness. Nonetheless, we stopped him at the mentioned place. His pride was further bruised when we did not pile up in the rear seat and the friend instead opted to sit beside him. And he kept slicing his being with looks of contempt each time we, as usual, burst out laughing. He even cleared his ears a couple of times.

Then as we were in the middle of a busy road, he did something that had us guessing initially. He screeched to a halt and told the friend to get down. He himself got down as well - and removed the seat cushion and brought out a packet from its intestines. Having done that, he motioned him to sit and drove on. Moments later, he was holding a small piece of paper and rolling and folding it. When the size was just right, he put it in his left ear and smiled at the friend - "Talk as much as you want now."

"I use it to wipe the mirrors, but sometimes it comes good in emergencies," he smiled even as he turned a literally deaf ear to the thunderous laughter inside the auto.

Hot News!

I have made clear my dislike for the standard of newspapers in an earlier entry. You may ask why, then, I still shell out the hundred rupees at the end of the month for the Times of India? The simple reason is - I do not have a dining table at home. And so, at the time of each meal, the Times of India is summoned to save the floor as the food starts its journey from the vessel to the mouth, via the plate.

Today, however, it was a grave insult to the newspaper as unknowingly, today's edition itself was spread during lunch. It was too late by the time I realized and so we proceeded with deliberate nonchalance. However, the metro supplement was lucky and after lunch, I decided to skim through it. The first article that I chanced upon was about modern-day parenting and started with a query that was something like this -

Hello, I am a parent of a 9 year-old and I realize the role of a parent has changed. I know I cannot be like my parents and have to adapt myself to the changing times. Please advise on how to be a parent and when do I stop being a parent?

I threw it aside after this. And, also made sure it lies crumpled beside its discarded sibling after dinner tonight.

One Course Less

The symptoms were visible for quite sometime now. But there are times when your pride stops you from standing up to the truth. I have also kept it under wraps for some months now. Today, with emotions akin to losing a closed one, I declare my 'legendary appetite' dead. Put to test to a sumptuous buffet dinner this evening, it performed in its usual inhuman proportions, but failed short of its own high standards. After a seemingly unending sequence of barbecued starters, I directly went for some really large helpings of the desserts - leaving the main course weeping by this rare display of discrimination.

Memories from the glorious era - the last 13 years - flash in the mind, glowing tributes from young and old alike reverberate still. For the uninitiated, I will still be respected as one of the rare tribes. I would surely finish off what would remain during group-dinners. But deep inside, the scene of today's cremation would burn in fiery flames.

Imagine being a Viv Richards and coming back as an Afridi.

Imagine

It was the after-dinner chat - and, as uaual, only words were walking miles. There were four other friends with me and we ended up talking about a lecturer friend who has just got a new job. After some talks, one of my friends, pointing at me, suddenly said - "What will happen if he becomes a lecturer?" The laughter that this imaginative sentence elicited would have surely put Rowan Atkinson to self-pity. Somehow containing his laughter, he repeated his question one more time. Here is the reaction -

Friend 1 - Hahahahahahahahahahahha (Vigourous swaying of the body - rocking back and forth.)

Friend 2 - I cannot imagine, man. (She is of a very soft nature and hence this soft expression.)

Friend 3 - College will be closed by the time he reaches. (Hit the nail on the head, I say.)

The pleasant picture of a packed class in rapt attention was suddenly torn apart. I could not tell them how it would be after the last comment.

Two dreams

They say dreams reflect your thoughts - what if they breed in your subconscious existence? I am thankful to the Creator, who did not allot dreams for my sleep. It has been more than made up for by what he allotted me for my waking time, where I choose and shape what I wish to see in my oneirisms. Coming back to the topic of our thoughts getting an outlet in our dreams, I just hope this is not true. Or, at least, it allows for a few exceptions, like most other rules.

As I woke up yesterday, still trying to stop the playback in my eyes, the sinking feeling just refused to go. I looked at my watch - 11:30. Diversion being shortest path to forgetting, I came online, to primarily check my office email. But almost as soon as I logged on to chat, I come to know that one of my friends had a dream as well. Talk about a dream when I was trying to forget mine. Anyways, what I heard was straight out of HG Wells' pen. Her dream had started with an argument with her sisters over whether to stay one day or two days in Los Angeles before going to New York. These were the last two places in their 3-stop trip. They had no contestation on their first destination though. Probably because, it was a place which few people will miss a chance to visit. It was the moon.

And so, I was told about life forms in the moon and how they cover only a small portion of the land. The major portion of the moon, quite 'dream'atically was covered with snow.

The disturbing thoughts of dreams reflecting our thoughts came back to me. She was indeed talking to people from USA some days back and she has been thinking of going to New York since sometime now. Why! Just some days back she even watched Khoya Khoya Chand. In a moment, I was sucked back in the gloom that I had just left behind.

I am in no mood to try and gather my thoughts that engulf me to this moment. Once again I am made to realise, words are just for moderate emotions. Extreme sorrow or happiness leaves you without words, even though vibrant thoughts jostle inside. I guess I would leave it to you this time - to try and feel why I am feeling like this thinking about that silly dream-thought equation.

Yesterday, I dreamt of a goon who was beating up my friend. Moments later, I killed him by smashing a brick on his head.


Update after 2 days:
Within 48 hours of this murderous dream, I was at it again. This time, I was keeping a band of brigands at bay while protecting people in the train I was travelling (a la Sholay) - gunning them down with abandon.

More Before than After?

I was talking to a fellow nightbird - like any other night. I like talking to him because of the interests we share. What I do not like is that he is doing his MBA and that reminds me of a few things I want to erase from my mind. Now do not ask me what - I already said I want to forget them. But today's post is about MBA nonetheless.

Well, undo the picture of an ambitious professional contemplating the higher steps in the hierarchical ladder. Even that of an astute entrepreneur giving 2 years of his God-gifted life to 'school' to ascertain which of his 23 business ideas would yield maxmum success. And, I am definitely not someone who would treasure the black-clad hat-throwing photo well into retirement. But if you consider the fact that I am allergic to peanuts and as technically adept as dumbest caller to the helpdesk, you might think that MBA could have been a neat and short way out of my crisis.

So, why am I thinking about all this when I should by now decide the sourness of the grapes? I have seen quite a few MBAs - both impressive and unimpressive. The only point I am trying to make is, I have not seen someone yet who said, or I felt, that his MBA course changed him for the better or made him a great manager. The benefits are always on your work profile or your paycheck. This makes me belief an MBA course is more of a launchpad than a breeding ground of genii.

There is one thing common - though. An MBA - or nowadays even a decent professional services company - does teach you listless jargons. For example, we no longer have meetings to discuss plans. We always go for some brainstorming to strategise the roadmap and take it forward. And so my friend, who is being taught the nuances of effective documentation, has to do a SWOT analysis of the client's existing (you should call it as-is) infrastucture and processes.

"I hate SWOT", he said, "it makes no sense." It makes some sense no doubt - I thought. Your strengths and weaknesses help you evaluate yourself, and then outlines what opportunties/threats they provide/pose, respectively. Someone tells you all this along the four coordinates drawn on the whiteboard and you nod your appreciative head, at the same time trying to hide your inferiority complex.

At this precise point, just sit back and relax. What value does this piece of analysis help you in your real life. If someone instead asked to overcome our weaknesses and improve further on our strengths, what difference would it have made? You would lose your air of an MBA for sure, the air that propels you above plebeian existence.

7 tolerable ones

Tenacity is one word that I sincerely do not associate with myself. More often than not I would leave things, that start going wrong, midway and forget about them. You might be tempted to think that blogging is an exception to what I said now. After all, writing a blog that maybe, exactly 12 people read is indeed something that comes from a resilient writer. There's more, he has also completed a year today.

But no, I have not given up yet because I never believed I would have a hundred regular readers for this blog - where 80% of the posts are labelled 'rambling'. I am on with it because I like writing here. The apparent disappointment would surely make way for joy and contentment when I read these years later.

Going to the numbers, the count of 60 odd entries in a year looks decent to me. So, keeping with the trend, here is a list of my seven favourite posts from the past year -

• I like the sandwiches and salads at Subway now. It was not always like that. (Read)
  
• It's here that the trend of the 7-item lists started.
  
• Sometimes you get attached to something that is pretty mediocre. This post is one. Perceptions?
  
• Can I sustain myself without the magic of Ghulam Ali? No.
  
• Someone told me to be more expressive and speak out my mind. Have a sneak peek here.
  
• Can I sustain myself without the magic of Rafi Sahab? No.
  
• Are you tired of seeing Gemma Atkinson in the sports page of Times of India? I am.
  

I hope to reduce the percentage of 'Rambling' in my labels in the next year. On that note...

21st Century

When I was introduced to some of my colleagues in the USA, and they heard I was from India, many of them asked me if I am from North India or South India. First on, it came as a surprise and I was even happy that they were aware of the Indian geography - though not to the extent some of us know. I know people who, without ever going there, can tell the names of all the 50 states and their capitals by heart. Anyways, after this happened a couple of times, the surprise made way for curiosity. After all, after this question, most of them came back to the usual questions about elephants and Indian weddings. And then I thought - this North Indian and South Indian thing - was it something they know? Or was it something they observed in us? Then I thought some more.

When I was leaving home for my first job in Bangalore, one question everyone invariably asked was how was I going to manage with the South Indian food? Everything is sour there - said someone from experience. (He had stayed in Chennai for 2 days en route to Port Blair some 30 years ago.) I did not like these questions at all - because I normally like to take things with an open mind. Anyways, when I landed in Bangalore, in my new group in office, I was instantly called a North Indian. "East," I said repeatedly. But, was anyone listening?

There is this view/counter-view for every situation. At least in this respect, the grass is not greener on the other side.

In Bengal, whichever house you go to, there is a 100% chance that on the first day itself you would be asked - "Ghoti na Bangal?" Meaning, originally from West Bengal or East Bengal? For someone from West Bengal, the other group will always be considered as refugees, even if they had migrated 50 years before the partition. And likewise, someone from West Bengal is always branded as unenterprising.

Then, there is this eternal fight between Bengalis in Calcutta and the Districts. Calcutta view - 'O, you live in a village.' District view - 'Spoiled, useless lot.'

If you think you'd be at peace if we just talk of Calcutta, you need to be more clear. North or South. South view - the North is old and we are the elite. North view - we uphold the tradition of Calcutta, who are they?

Then there are talks about how the Marwaadis constitute 30% of Calcutta's population and hold 70% of the money. "All they know is money with no value for education." Now hold on and hear the other party. "We, industrialists, make the destiny of the city. Bengalis are just a bunch of unambitious people who just know how to eat fish."


Now if this has your head reeling, I can just empathize with you. In the last four years, all I have been hearing are things like - 'Malayalis are spoiling Bangalore, but I don't care; I'm from Mysore', 'Telugus are ruining our Tamil culture and tradition; but when have Chennaites cared for it' and 'Everyone comes to Hyderabad to earn their living but we do not care, we have the highest immigration numbers for the US; the Telengana imbroglio would only get worse'. I am leaving out - just to name a few - the Tulu, Cauvery, Brahmin, caste, non-vegetarian, Sivakasi, Kadapah, Old Hyderabad, Guntur, Reddy, Naidu, Nair and similar angles out of this discussion.

In essence, no matter where you go, no one sees who you are. You invariably become what the other person thinks you are. I get to hear things like 'how can you be a Bengali if you don't smoke?' and 'yes I know, in Bengal fish is considered vegetarian' so frequently that I do not have to struggle anymore to keep a smiling face. I just take care that the smirk does not show up.

I remember filling up five pages in the History paper of my tenth Board exams explaining why India exemplifies Unity in Diversity. I doubt if I could write what I did if I had these experiences then. Hats off to this diversity, but just where is the Unity?

Choices

Browsing on, then talking trite
Over tasteless teas and coffees
An extra week off, without pay?
There's more to life than office.

Popcorn and coke; weekends
With have-been's and to-be's
A good book that you read - can you say?
There's more to life than movies.

Move your body and spill your drink
So much white in your cigarette stub
Ever stopped by, as children play?
There's more to life than the club.

The years pass by, and wink at Time
You still feel it can't get better
Then, the end comes blocking your way
There's no more life - to live later.

Friends indeed?

Pranks make for some serious business. Someone, sometime must have been really good at it and made it look very simple - and we still have to 'play' a prank. But I can assure you it is no easy task. It is not at all easy to rise up the ranks in pranks. I can easily write something like 'The best hundred' - courtesy the company I keep. But I'd rather just write on why I said it's a serious business and requires real hard work.

I am having a bad headache today. And when five of us went out for dinner today, two of my friends had a stint at the bar earlier in the evening. Being a bit tipsy from their drinks, it was only natural for one of them to leave his bike keys on his side-plate. The three sober pair of eyes glowed at such an opportunity and the bunch was flicked in a flash. We were happier because this was going to be a lengthy affair - all five of us were spending the night together as well.

He realised it on the way back home. "Did I leave my keys on the table?"

"No." Three sober voices spoke at once. And, kept on convincing him that he must have left it at home. The prospect got more interesting when he said that the bunch had his house-keys as well. The intoxication was done for already - we, the good friends that we are, ensured he does not get up with a hangover on a Monday morning.

The house was ransacked and speculations were rife. But no sign of the keys. And so, the natural course of action was decided upon - he would go to all places (the bar, a paan shop and the restaurant) he visited since the evening and enquire. Someone even suggested to keep tracing the same path with an alert look on the roads as well. And, to make it really look real - I accompanied him on this trail despite the headache. Three no's and half an hour later, we were back home. I was trying hard to keep my lips straight while he did the same with his brows.

"I thought of going to the temple today, but I did not and instead went for a drink. That's why this happened to me." This was his last take on karma before he slept off.

A very satisfying night to say the least. But before you think we are rather mean, let me tell you that all these are done only in a very close group of friends. He is going to find the keys under his pillow when he wakes up in the morning. Maybe, he'd start the day cursing Santa for coming thirteen days late.

Shine Time

There is something about polishing shoes. I had mentioned earlier about how I, in my absent-mindedness, had stroked my cellphone on my shoes keeping the brush aside. I did something today in office that reminded me of this incident. And then, I remembered a few more.

First, what I did today. There is this automated machine for shoe polishing in office (the manufacturer has very aptly named it 'Handsoff'). Most of you must have seen them somewhere. In case you have not, the machine runs on electricity and has three sections - a cream polish dispenser, a brush for black shoes and one for brown. In Hyderabad, moving feet gather a lot of dust and so, I use the brush once I am in office. Lost in my own world, probably thinking about the lack of work in office, I went for it today as well - completely forgetting it was Friday and I was wearing my sports shoes. I realised what I was doing once I looked down to check the shine. I did the first thing I do in such a situation - looked around. I guess my luck was also closing down like the week. Here he was, someone from the floor who would have probably died if he did not come for a shine at that precise time of the day, dying to control his laughter but unable to stop the grin. I did my best to hide my face - I did not want him to remember me as the 'shoe-polish guy'.

Circa 2004. My office in Chennai had this machine as well. One day, with a luck like today, I went ahead and, still unaware of what was lying ahead, collected the cream on my left shoe - only to realise that Mr. Handsoff was having an off day and refused to work. All that the rubbing against the static brush did was to smudge the white of the cream onto the black leather. After a few, futile minutes, I gave up. The public embarrassment could not be avoided that day either as a 'friend' in the restroom made public the news of me rubbing my shoe with hand-tissues. Now you know why, after that day, I always follow the sequence of brush (read check usability), cream and brush-again.

It's not that I have always had this rotten luck when it came to polishing shoes. I decided to save the one satisfying experience (surely qualifies as one of the most fulfilling days of my life) for the last. Once when in college, three of us were staying at a friend's place which was our usual den for enjoyment in the name of studies. The next morning, we were to go to a friend's place for her birthday. And as I got up, late as usual, little did I realise it was to one of my best mornings. So eager was my friend to put his best foot forward, that he actually polished his shoes for a full 30 minutes. Only, we had bought identical shoes which just differed in size. And he, with all his energy, mistakenly went on buffing my pair. The joy welling up, the laughter gaining uncontrollable force, the superhuman efforts to stay nonchalant at such a moment of glory; remembering these feelings that can sustain me in the most difficult of times. If I could click the the look on his face when the truth dawned on him, I would be more than happy to carry that photo and smile the way to my grave.

2008

I just realised that ringing in the New Year can hardly get better than being with an old friend after a long time. I had decided not to go for any 'New Year Party' this time around - a decision that I think I will stick to for some years on. I do like being in our group where some people make me admire their dancing skills while I give them something to laugh about with my vigourous, uneasy movements. But the biggest deterrant in such a setting has always been the crowd that one cannot possibly ignore. While "party animals groove and jam to the tunes (sic) of the DJ," it gets really difficult to look the other way. The floor is thronged with similar animals showing off their stuff under the multi-coloured lights. And, with clubs charging abysmally high cover charges on New Year's Eve, this decision went easy on both my mind and wallet.

One of my closest friends from college was visiting with some of his friends and we spent the last 3 days of 2007 amidst a lot of fun, feasting and jokes. (On this, must admit that the Chowmahalla Palace at night and the Biryani at Shadab are two things no one in Hyderabad should give a miss.) I got to learn a few card games and did horribly bad at them. After we called off the night, my friend and I would start afresh till the early hours of the morning - revisiting the past and planning for the future. Those quieter hours were definitely the best time for me - where the happiness is more felt than expressed.

So the new year dawned in a quiet manner this year - a year when I want to quietly tick a few items hanging in my checklist for a long time now.


P.S. I could not give the boisterous revelry a miss altogether, however much I tried by staying indoors at a common friend's place. When returning home late at night, it was the return of the same dreaded animals that made the roads an eyesore. Just as I was telling the friend whose bike I was on that this New Year's eve was one that really went well, bikes were all around us with people shouting 'Happy New Year' at the top of their voices - screeching down the speed, changing lanes and zipping ahead. Perhaps, making way for the next set to perform.