Twinkle Twinkle Little Star..

If you're thinking this post is a geeky article on cosmology, or about my adventures on a space ship (how cool would that be?! *sigh*) or has got anything to do with the whole star-sign hocus-pocus thingy (I'm a bit of a non-believer. Apologies.) then you're sadly mistaken. Its actually about the day I killed Adele. Butchered, to be precise. Metaphorically ofcourse. Yes. The multi Grammy Award winner and now Academy Award winner, multi Platinum record selling, one-and-only singer-songwriter Adele. Considering she's by far, one of my favourite artistes of all time, this was, needless to say, purely unintentional. In my defense I can only say 'Oops!' and hope that one day, you can find it in your grieving heart to forgive me And this is how the tragedy took place.

It all started in December during my birthday week. Just so you know, I had one of the most boring birthdays ever, spending most of the day in lab, mixing chemicals that I did not care about waiting for some sort of magic to happen. That too on a Saturday after a particularly 'enlightening' meeting with my boss earlier that day. So I was a little on the grumpier side to say the least. While walking back home, cursing the moment when I decided on science as a career and graduate school as a 'life' for the next five years, I got a phone call from my darling brother. He wished me and told me to check my mailbox for a package. Presents! I almost screamed like a child in the middle of a rather quiet road and rushed to my mailbox to find that beautiful yellow mail pick-up slip. I think I did a bit of a bottom-bouncing jig too.

The girl behind the counter was called Kim. I handed her the yellow slip, smiling my toothiest smile, looking quite the buffoon. She smiled back awkwardly, gave me the you're-one-creepy-dude look and went looking for my package in the mailroom. I waited there impatiently staring at the clock and tapping my fingers loudly on the counter. The other girl behind the desk whose name tag I didn't bother to check gave me the dirts. I didn't care one bit. Its my freaking birthday and I'll do whatever the hell I want. Deal with it! It took Kim twenty long minutes to find my package. Riding high on birthday-induced adrenaline I was almost about to yell and create a massive scene of epic soap opera proportions. But seeing the mere size of the package and little Kim (Li'l Kim. Get it get it? *nudge*) teetering under its sheer weight I felt a teeny bit sorry for her. It was a freaking keyboard!! I smiled uncomfortably and tried to save the situation.
"Wow. That's big. I wasn't expecting it at all." I said.
"What?!! This is NOT your package?" she said, her face flushed, beads of perspiration on her forehead staring back at me.
"Err. No no. I mean its a surprise present. Its my birthday." That toothy grin raised its ugly head again.

Kim did not answer. I could tell that she did not care two hoots about my birthday (or wedding or anniversary). She probably wanted me to drop dead instead. Anyway, with my birthday balloon thus unceremoniously deflated, I decided to borrow a trolley from them and make a dash for my apartment. Now the thing is that my apartment was a block away from the common mailroom. If that was the only issue I had to deal with, I would have still been glad. The trolley was square, and at least a foot shorter than this goddam long rectangular package. Its wheels were loose, moving at inexplicable angles almost independent of the direction I was carting the trolley in. In addition, they made an earth-shattering loud grating noise against the stone pavement which was anything but level. So with every little twist of the unruly, fiercely-independent wobbly wheels, the humongous package threatened to slide off the cart, jabbing the shins of unsuspecting innocent bystanders on one side and deleafing prickly bushes on the other. I was yelling the entire way, instructing people to move away to avoid any casualties, apologizing profusely, and covering my face in embarrassment. Thanks Bro. Ain't you the best?

After this mini-disaster I tucked the keyboard under the bed, and conveniently forgot about it, allowing a neat layer of dust to do the rest, my upcoming qualifiers serving as the perfect excuse. Two months later when I finally managed to scrape through my exams, I decided to give the keyboard a shot, fired up to live some serious Mozart dreams. Now what should I play? Considering my mother is quite the pro at the keyboard and my brother is a guitar-god (Dude! I'm seriously good at this 'buttering' thing.) I thought I couldn't be anything but a natural. So I decided to play one of my favourite ballads by one of my all time favourite artistes. 'Someone like you' by Adele. Perfect first song for a natural who's never even brushed past a piano key, right? I started playing. Do-re-mi-mi-fa-fa-fa-soooooo-la-la-la-damn this is a weird instrument-ti-ti-do-nailed it! Well that was a breeze. I imagined a concert stage, the spotlight almost blinding me, and the house chanting 'encore'. I sighed, gratified. Okay now focus. 'I heard that you.. you.. you.. ting tong.. where the hell are you? Aaah. Found it... settled down, that you, found a.. found a.. found.. Can you find it already? Damn.. found a.. found.. This is such a bogus song... found found.. which key is it? Adele sounds a bit off tune here isn't it? It sounds so much better if she just sang re-mi instead of la-ti here.. that you're married..  you're married.. married.. Why can't people just remain single? Goodness. All this mush just makes me sick.. Never mind I'll find.. find..I'll find.. I don't think I care enough to find. That's it. This is such a dumb song. Someone like you? Really? Why can't you broaden that parochial outlook of yours and go find someone else for a change. Stop bawling will you? Never mind.. mind.. mind.. Well never mind. Screw you. 

In that trying moment I decided the song sucks. My favourite love ballad was infact quite hateful. Adele can die. I cannot believe I liked that song. I must have been on something. So I decided on a better song. Err. Well nursery rhymes are songs right? Twinkle twinkle little star.. wow that was easy. And the melody is just heart wrenching... Up above the world so.. so.. so high.. Like a diamond in the sky.. Woohoo! There couldn't have been a more soulful rendition of that song. Fine. Rendition of that rhyme. Stop getting so technical already. But think about the lyrics. So meaningful. And the underlying pathos just touches a nerve. You don't see it? I guess I have to break it to you. You have bad taste *whisper*. Next up, Ba-ba black sheep. I'm on a roll baby! Ba-ba black sheep have you any wool?.. I have tons my boy! You name it! But wait. It sounds a bit like twinkle twinkle right? No. Its EXACTLY like it. Well who cares. Its two WHOLE SONGS right there. All in two hours. I told you I was a natural.

Applause.
Encore.
Bowing modestly.

Raising the Brat

Before you begin raising the red flags I want to clarify that NO, I did not have any kids while I was away. But I learnt some valuable life lessons and considering that half the parents out there today are busy popping babies out like the popcorn machine with no inkling as to how to go about raising them to be responsible global citizens, I thought I should share my hard-earned knowledge. Yes. You're welcome.

A friend of mine from college was in Seattle a few days back and he got in touch with me through our oh-so-popular social networking site. To be honest, when I read his message, I had mixed feelings. Now you might ask why I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of meeting someone I knew from way back in college, and that too in a foreign setting considering I don't have a ton of guests coming over often. To truly understand this you have to know something about me. I'm a closet antisocial. The reason I use the term 'closet' is because anyone who has even remotely interacted with me knows that my absolute favourite activity of the day is to blabber away endlessly with anyone and everyone I meet, thus wasting precious time when other great ones out there are busy trying to save the world. So in a nutshell, my philosophy is 'talk till your tonsils burst'. However, I'm also a slave of routine and this is where things get complicated. Throw in a fancy dinner at a time when I would normally vegetate on my couch glued to the television with eyes popping out of their sockets, and I turn into a nervous wreck; shifting in his seat, curling up under his comforter, whining. And this is exactly what my friend proposed. A fancy dinner. On a MONDAY. I think I lost faith in God for a moment.

Anyway, I accepted the invitation. Since I knew Brat from before, and he was more than just an acquaintance who shared my skill of making unending small talk, I figured that for once I might actually enjoy doing something different. Although I remembered he had been party to an incident which involved almost setting a college residence room on fire, I decided to ignore the warning bells. Needless to say, since he was the one who was visiting Seattle, the onus was on me to decide the restaurant. Fair enough. A virtual conversation ensued.

Brat: Yo! You up for dinner on Monday?
Me: (After overcoming that longstanding inward strife) Sure. Where do you wanna go?
Brat: I was thinking of going to a non-Mexican ethnic place.

How incredibly racist, I thought. Or maybe he just didn't like Mexican food, or had an overfill of it in California. Just to keep things more interesting, I decided to stick with my former opinion.

Me: (After spending a good amount of time looking up non-Mexican ethnic dining options in Seattle and cursing myself for having said yes) I know this really cool Vietnamese place in Downtown. Or else we could try out one of  the sea food joints along the waterfront. That place is gorgeous. What say?

Brat: (Replying almost immediately) Dude, can we try out Ethiopian?

Pehle bolna chahiye tha na! Idiot. Way to make someone come up with an array of choices and crushing them with something this specific. Jerk. So off I went looking for Ethiopian restaurants in Downtown Seattle, and after coming across a bunch that shut down due to 'inexplicable reasons', I came up with one that looked pretty promising. The website was informative. The pictures were enticing. The menu looked reasonable. The reviews were more than positive. Jackpot!

Me: (Distinctly proud of my online searching abilities) Hey I found this really nice place on Cherry Lane. The ratings are pretty high. It seems to be a popular joint. Here's the link to the website. Have a look and let me know what you think.
Brat: (a couple of minutes later) Sounds good. What time?
Me: Between 5.30 and 6.00. I'll give you a call when I leave. It should take me not more than forty minutes. It'll take you twenty minutes tops.
Brat: Coolio. Yo. C u den. (He often used words I didn't really understand. But it sounded vaguely like a yes.)

Next day I left work early and as promised gave him a call at 5.00. He didn't pick up. Obviously. I left him a message saying I was about to leave, hoping he would hear it in time. But going by the above mentioned conversation, I was positive that he'd be there by 6.00 latest. Smiling to myself at the prospect of mouth-watering Ethiopian delicacies and contemplating how well I had evolved socially thanks to dear friend Brat, I headed to Cherry Lane; naive and trusting. Except when I got off the bus, I was in for a rude shock. The neighbourhood was shady to say the least, with none of the promised cherry trees in sight. People decked in bling and leather were walking around, smoking what I suspected to be weed. I decided to get out of this place as soon as possible, and was thankful for spring and the longer days it brings with it. Nothing bad can happen while the sun is out right? However I was glad I wouldn't be stuck here alone and dialed Brat in a surge of kinship.

Me: Hey, where you at?
Brat: Err.. Have you reached?
Me: Yes. I said I'd be here by 6.00. I gave you a call an hour back. Have you checked your messages?
Brat: Hmm. I thought you said you'd take an hour.
Me: (voice mounting the scales, slowly and gradually) I did take an hour.
Brat: Sorry dude. I missed your call.
Me: But either way I told you I'd be here by 6.00!
Brat: (conveniently ignoring the indignation) Dude, I'm walking towards the bus stop.
Me: Where the hell are you?
Brat: I'm at Pike Place Market.
Me: (impatiently) What the hell were you doing there?
Brat: (casually) Nothing really.
Me: (taking deep breaths) Do you know which bus to take?
Brat: Err... No.
Me: (trying hard to keep my rapidly thumping heart from rupturing a vessel) Did you even check up the address of the restaurant? It was on their website.
Brat: (cool as a cucumber) Nope. (As if he had done me a favour)
Me: (still trying to be generous) Okay. I'll help you out. Do you have google maps on your phone?
Brat: Err.. pause.. I guess.
Me: (almost yelling, but trying not to attract the attention of the occassional weed-smoking passerby) What do you mean? Do you have it or not?!!
Brat: Yes yes. I do. I remember now. Actually its my girlfriend's phone.

I didn't care two hoots about who's goddam phone it was. I told him to make it fast and hung up. So here I was stuck in a questionable neighbourhood, feeling terribly out of place, waiting for the most irresponsible person to find his way through an absolutely unknown city. Great! I turned up the music in my ears in an effort to drown my frustration in it, and went about looking for a place to sit and wait for an indefinite period of time. Little did I know that finding a place to wait it out would turn out to be such a formidable task on its own. After a few aimless rounds around the neighbourhood, I chanced upon a park. Not a deserted one, but one filled with giggling pint-sized kids and their beaming parents. Nothing on the planet could be safer than that! I smiled to myself and strutted through the entrance, with a content air of achievement. As I made myself comfortable on a solitary bench near the swings, a cursory glance around told me that I was the cynosure of all eyes. Needless to say, the stares weren't welcome. I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why that would be. And suddenly I had an epiphany. This park was primarily meant for the recreation of five year olds and their parents, and unfortunately I was neither. And as God is my witness, I had never wanted a child so badly than during that dragging hour spent in Garfield park! In the effort to raise the white kerchief, I tried my best to gauge a kid's attention, forcing a plastic toothy smile from time to time, which made my jowls hurt. The kid paused for a moment and having decided I was a creep after ample deliberation, promptly went about his business of rolling in the sand, occasionally shooting me tiny baby daggers. I guess my 'Ole-Baby' face needs a lot of work.

I sat for an hour through sundown in the freezing cold, dodging unwelcome eye-contact from people around me, before I got a call from darling Brat. He had FINALLY reached the damned restaurant. While he was busy profusely apologizing for being late and telling me how he had missed the same bus three times over (?), I could only think of different ways to bang his head against the wall. The next hour was spent in hearing more mind-boggling Brat stories. He had apparently planned to go to Vancouver to meet a 'special friend', Seattle being a brief stopover. Sounded like a wonderful plan. The only glitch being, his visa had not been approved yet, and he was also missing essential travel signatures from his University. How the hell was he planning to go to Canada without a visa?!! The border patrol might consist of well-meaning generous individuals, but I couldn't imagine how they could change the law of the country for making a meeting with a 'special-friend' happen. It reminded me of the J. P. Dutta Bollywood yawnfest 'Refugee' where the only thing that Abhishek Bachhan did throughout those excruciating three hours, was to run endlessly from India to Pakistan and back, smuggling people across the border. The amount of running that he did in his debut alone made me wonder why he had never tried out for the Olympics.

The food was the only saving grace of the evening. It was delicious and totally worth the effort. I wanted to rush to the kitchen and hug the cook for bringing me comfort food on an especially bad day. Brat remarked, "Dude! This is yum! Its exactly like dal chawal." So much for exotic ethnic cuisine! After he insisted on paying for dinner (That's the least that he could have done anyway!) we headed out. The alley was pitch dark with a couple of dim street lights blinking sadly in the distance. There was not a soul in sight. The only noise I could hear were our footsteps and the din of the cicadas. As we neared the bus stop, we could see two huge men in leather jackets and hoodies pacing in the distance. They could be nothing but drug dealers. I was sure I would be mugged that day, and having nothing but a heavy wallet, my blackberry and a brand new iPod in my pocket, I found myself strangely vulnerable. Being the generous man that my parents raised me to be I decided to first get Brat on his bus home, although my instincts told me to run for dear life. Brat left in minutes, burping and rubbing his sagging belly, while I was left alone waiting for my bus. Those ten minutes were the longest ten minutes of my life. The bus stop was on the other side of the road, tucked away from regular sight, with no light or visible signage. I tiptoed towards it avoiding contact with the towering supposed drug dealers and  keeping my eye out for homeless meth addicts possibly huddled in the dark. I kept my black hood on in an effort to camouflage. I cursed my stars for not having attended karate school when I was a kid. As I was busy rehearsing my lines to avoid being stabbed for cash, I saw the semblance of a vehicle in the distance. It was the 48. It was my bus. I dived in through the open doors and almost landed on the benevolent smiling driver's lap. I felt my heart. I felt my pockets. I felt my throat. They were all intact. I guess there was a God after all. I decided on keeping a set of rosary beads handy next time, especially for such trying times.

Brat did not make it to Canada after all. You don't need to be a rocket scientist to get that right. He spent the next couple of nights on someone's couch he had rented online from a website I had never heard about before this. He tried to convince me that it was a great living option, as it was cheap and the guy he was living with was really nice and was not a serial killer. He said the latter with such finality that I did not bother contesting it. He met his 'special friend' and rented a motel in Bellingham. Incidentally, the motel was owned by a Sardar family, and Brat ofcourse made the most of their charity and goodwill. He had free meals comprising makkhi ki roti, dal, ghee and sabzee for the next four days and was a tad disappointed when he didn't manage to get a discount on room rent on top of that. He met me a couple of times for the odd lunch/dinner, choosing vegetarian Thai food and burgers/fries over delicious middle-Eastern lamb gyros. He even insisted on an Indian restaurant, ignoring my apprehensions about it being overpriced, ordering  a plate of kebabs worth twenty bucks and later cancelling the order and walking out as if nothing had happened. He stayed in my apartment the night before he left, politely turning down the offer to sleep in the living room and grumbling about my sleeping bags being not so comfortable. I had to steel my roommate's blanket and sponge mattress for the night, only to ensure additional padding for his cushy spoilt behind. He even requested for a spare key to my apartment and wanted to work on my laptop, where I decided sternly to draw the line. The only things I gained out of this experience were a bottle of red wine and an amusing story to tell.

I will hereby take this opportunity to plead to the million struggling parents out there, that they should spend a little more time teaching their kids the value of punctuality, responsibility and compromise, rather than be content leaving them with nannies. For once they grow up, its all too late, and harmless innocent people like me have to bear the brunt of the baggage that they have grown to be. I'm seriously contemplating whether having kids in the future is a good idea or not, as I don't want to add to the existing bundle of caprice in the world. And in the unfortunate event that they do turn out to be brats, I guess I would have no choice but to kill myself.

R.I.P.

The Great Indian Wedding

December saw me stuffing my things with a vengeance into a humongous suitcase once again. I was headed to good old India, and this time for a lengthy twenty days, instead of a meager, rather volatile and unfulfilling twelve days like last year. Oh the joys of travel! I was talking to somebody the other day about how a journey home after extended absence makes one stupid. For instance, when I landed at Frankfurt for a tolerable (and much needed) four hour layover, my unbridled happiness made me flip out my fancy phone and soon enough, I was fervently texting my friends back home, updating my facebook status (which on other days would be deemed unnecessary) completely oblivious to the fact that I was on international roaming during which most cell-phone apps ceased to be free. I was too busy basking in my Grad-school afforded luxuries which allowed me to flash my credit card and indulge myself with a scrumptious brownie while reading Vikram Seth, instead of running around looking for a calling card to make that tragic minute-long voice-trailing-in-the-middle phone-call home. It was only when I came back and stared in disbelief at my phone bill that I had an epiphany. Happiness is fleeting. Almost cruel. And all this stupidity thanks to my 'Smart'phone. Rather ironic don't you think?

Anyway coming back to the things that made it all worth it. I landed in Bombay, a quick detour, before heading to Calcutta. I had planned to stay over with a couple of my best friends there and explore a different city with renewed appreciation for home. There was non-stop chatter about love-lives or the lack of it over glasses of wine till wee hours in the morning. There were unforgettable meals in quaint hole-in-the-wall Parsi eatouts. There were brushes with brilliance at Prithvi. There was blatant ridicule for tourists who posed awkwardly before the Taj, trying to replicate possibly the most overdone instance of trick-photography, stretching their arms out at odd angles in the hope of grazing the top. There were sunsets across the Marine Drive and moments of idle staring into space. There were truckloads of bad photographs where our nostrils looked too inflated thanks to unflattering camera angles. There was extended philosophizing surrounding a certain redundant 'dentist's appointment'. There was heat during what was supposedly 'winter'. There was dust, incessant honking and unruly traffic, and a butt-of-all-jokes NRI version of myself stuck in the middle of this chaos, too accustomed to zebra-crossings for his own good. The romance of it all was intoxicating, the certainty reassuring. That warm fuzzy feeling came rushing back. It made me smile.

After an eventful two days in Bombay, I landed in Calcutta. The week spent there was a blur, out of which two days were spent in recovering from a severe jet lag. Isn't international travel fun?! But I had less to complain about this time round since I had a wedding to look forward to. My mad cousin R was getting married! Yes. She's crazy. Not only because she has rather unruly hair which makes her head look like a bird's nest bustling with unseen activity. But because she is a rather bumpy emotional roller-coaster herself. Her mood swings are legendary in the family and she has no qualms in admitting how big a drama queen she really is. Incredibly creative, talented with more love to share than she can manage, you'd love to hate her and hate that too. (Well, that's a bit complicated. But I'm sure you understand what I mean. And R, incase you're reading this, just focus on the last statement. The rest aren't that important.) Anyway, after a rather emotional bachelorette party sans strippers and lots of 90's cheesy bollywood music, we started preparing for the big day. And a day of massive proportions it was! Initially I envisioned a very different stay at Hyderabad which involved a lot of relaxation, idle banter and exploring the sights and sounds of the city, not to mention gorging on truckloads of unhealthy, calorie-peaking food. I did get to do some of it. But the one thing we didn't get to do was 'relax'. It was only when R was walking us down the wedding venue carrying a sketch of what it should look like on the day and explaining everything in excruciating detail, did I realize that the supposed event-manager was the bride herself, and us cousins, her hapless minions. As if that was not enough, her brother A and I were in charge of decor. Yes. You heard right. D.E.C.O.R. For the ENTIRE venue! Considering my prior experience in this field included over-decorating a foot-long glittery Christmas tree once every year such that it couldn't stand anymore and had to be kept sadly leaning against a wall, I felt myself breathing really hard through a severely constricted windpipe.

What followed in the next two days was nothing short of disaster. It all started with cousin A and I heading to the flower market to procure three hundred kilos of orange and yellow marigolds at 4 AM. I had never seen a flower market before and did not , in the least, know what to expect. It was nothing short of a battlefield. There were at least a hundred numbered shops, each selling exactly the same set of flowers. There was ample yelling and ferocious bargaining, some of it in Hindi, some of it in Telegu, some of it in unflattering gestures. And two city boys with zero experience were stuck in the midst of it all. On top of that, cousin A had one leg in an ugly green cast and was limping all along, thanks to some ice-skating related mishap in Germany. Excellent! But we survived the ordeal, thanks to our God-sent chauffeur Akbar. A small little chap, forever smiling, and bargaining impossibly, he was a treat to watch. Cousin A and I were just wax models, frozen in time and space, staring at him in awe, as he brought down prices from 50 to 35 bucks a kilo! Now that's some serious haggling I would say.

Having stuffed the nine huge sacks of crumpled flowers in one autorickshaw (a major feat in itself) we headed home to take care of the rest, as the auto followed us in snail-speed, wobbling precariously on its semi-deflated wheels. The next day was spent in putting up all those flowers strung together to make a seemingly impossible pattern that cousin R had come up with. By that time, I was convinced that she hated us all. Thankfully we didn't have to do this maddening task ourselves (which I feared we would have to at one point). As help, we were introduced to Khaled, the flower guy who spoke only Hindi and Murthy, the electrician, who spoke none at all. Now isn't that exciting? Cousin A and I looked at each other. We had to make a quick call on who to instruct. I was going for Khaled any day, as the only Telegu I knew was 'Vaidhava' (meaning stupid) and needless to say, that's not very helpful. But cousin A was fast, even on his limp feet. Before I could say anything, he called dibs on Khaled, and began instructing him about the flower arrangement. I had a clueless Murthy staring at my face. Sigh. I went ahead with accomplishing the impossible and I decided to use my hands a lot to do it.

Me: Murthy Bhai! The green lights go here and the yellow lights go there.
Murthy: (silently looking here and there.)
Me: Murthy, did you understand what I said? I was thinking of having the green lights on alternate bushes and have strings of yellow lights behind the mandap, in the form of a separated curtain. (At this point I was waving my limbs frantically in the direction of the bushes and drawing imaginary lines in the air.)
Murthy: (still silent, staring blankly)
Me: Murthy! (A bit agitated at the failure of afore-mentioned enthusiastic gesticulation) Say something. Kuchh Bolo. TALK. (Trying every language I knew)
Murthy: (calmly) Aaa. (shaking his head sideways)
Me: (exasperated) Murthy! Understood? Yes (nodding) or No (shaking head)? (hoping to give his inexplicable head movement some much needed direction)
Murthy: Aaa. (Swaying head sideways ambiguously.)

I suddenly imagined a wedding with no lights, and cousin R, shuffling in the darkness in her trousseau, looking for a kitchen knife to stab me with. I glanced at Cousin A dragging his injured foot around, and Khaled following his every move, nodding vigorously. Oh how I wish Murthy would nod. Just once. But he didn't. And it made me want to cry. In addition, cousin R wanted to hang hand-made bucket lanterns along the entrance (Yes we made them too). I tried to explain the concept to dear Murthy. I didn't bother to look at him this time. It would only result in more heartbreak. So after some aimless instruction from my side, exaggeratedly pointing to the wire canopy above which was set up in order to hold the lanterns, while Murthy stared at the ground looking for a pen he had dropped and couldn't seem to find, I decided it was time for me to give up and fervently pray for some divine intervention. Three hours before the in-laws were supposed to arrive, the bride decided to hand out some last minute construction work. She wanted a gate to be constructed, which would supposedly serve as a sign for the groom to get off his horse! I ran to Khaled hoping against hope that we were still left with some flowers to build this magic gate. He somehow anticipated this, and before I could ask him anything, without even looking at me, he raised his hand gesturing that we were out of flowers. Great! I turned to look for cousin A. I saw him playing an awkward game of hopscotch in the distance cutting a rather sorry figure. I assumed walking/running was no longer an option for him thanks to that darned cast! So the only other option was a gate made out of fairy lights. It would seem rather magical from a distance surely, I thought, but the prospect of explaining the concept to Murthy made it nothing short of a call from hell.

Me: Murthy Bhai! How's everything going? All OK?
Murthy: (dryly) Aaa.
Me: Good. (Hoping 'Aaa' meant Okay.) We want some lights twirled around these two poles right here and a couple of light trails hanging between them. Something like a gate. (Holding my palms at an angle which looked more like a thatched roof than a gate. But never mind.) Could you do it?
Murthy: (busy scratching his head with the pen he seemed to have lost a few hours ago and staring into space) Aaa.

At this point I was convinced that 'Aaa' meant No, because Murthy's face did not reflect the slightest signs of understanding. But that's all I could do and I just hoped and prayed for the impossible to happen. And the impossible did happen! When I came downstairs in the evening, R's uncomfortably large camera (which I incidentally didn't know how to use) slung across my shoulder, I couldn't believe my eyes. The twinkly lights were on, and the venue looked absolutely gorgeous. At that moment, the only thing I wanted to do was to kiss Murthy, riding high on a wave of awe and gratitude for a job well done, but I couldn't find him anywhere. I was a tad dejected, but I had no time for despondency. I had to run around following every event, the unimaginably heavy wretched camera in place, capturing precious moments for cousin R's album. But Murthy, if you're reading this (I'm sure you're not), you ought to know that I love you and you're my hero. You inspire me.

The wedding itself was another episode altogether. The bride's side were Bengali, mostly comprising quintessential Tagore-reciting, phuchka/Rosogolla eating, book-fair visiting intellectuals, whose favourite pastime on a rain-soaked Calcutta day was to discuss politics or literature over a steaming cup of tea and Marie biscuits. The groom's side were Marwari; an acutely business minded, shrewd, education loathing, strictly vegetarian, Bhangra dancing lot raised primarily on Bollywood. With gritted teeth and bared claws, they judged each other with every morsel of their being. What followed was a night of drama, flared tempers, heated exchanges, reluctant compromises (or the lack of it) and a battle for ultimate superiority. I could imagine a hundred men in the background, beating their gigantic drums, letting out occasional earth-shattering cries of war. Well that might be an exaggeration. But all that stress and lack of sleep made me see things. Literally. At one point, I saw a kid furiously tugging at one of the flower strings, determined to pull it down. I remarked sarcastically, "Beta, Aur todo. Pull the life out of that thing." The girl, at this unexpected encouragement, began tugging at the pole with renewed vigor, the intensity of the effort throwing her off her feet. She landed straight on the ground, bereft of grace or dignity. She cried out in embarrassment. I giggled like a child. It was a victory, too sweet to digest.

When the wedding was over, we all sighed in relief. The remaining unwed cousins went straight to the terrace for a breath of fresh air, suffering from severe marriage withdrawal symptoms. I'm not sure how long its going to last, but it'll be a while before any of us treaded the path, I can assure you. But when I returned exhausted, to my quiet routine life in Seattle, a week after the wedding, I realized I missed it. The laughter. The madness. The herding. The people. The differences. The conversations. That warm fuzzy feeling. 

The Art of Manipulation

Its subtle. Its divine. Its rare. And most importantly it works wonders, and you're hardly the prototypical 'obvious' villain in the exchange. At least that's what I tell myself - 'Taking advantage of naive, unsuspecting (often dumb) people to get your way is OKAY'. And that's enough to squash whatever little conscience I have left. Peace! But seriously, don't you think conscience is overrated? I mean what the hell do you get out of it, except maybe earning the 'you're a good man' tag that doesn't really do you any good in the first place. You get laughed at, trampled upon, taken advantage of, every waking hour of every single day and you almost never win anything. So if you ask me, get out there and fight your own battles and fight them dirty, as a wise man once said 'All's fair in love and war'. And in this world its mostly war. And aren't we all headed to hell anyway? Sounds like a really fun place to be!

But I digress. Let's get back to the topic of manipulating naive trusting souls. *rubbing hands in glee*

Here's an exchange I recently had with one of my roommates. Lets call him Bo.

Day 1: I entered the kitchen one evening and found a pile of dishes in the sink, the kind of thing that makes me seethe. The counter-top was a mess, strewn with shells and what looked like octopus tentacles to me, which I later found out to be pork intestines! I'm generally quite accepting of different kinds of food that people are into and I'm sure when cooked, the intestines would turn out to be delicious, but I don't necessarily want them hanging off the oven door for show. Nope. Not having it. But somehow the dirty dishes disturbed me more. There's something about half eaten meals floating in a pool of water that grosses me out. The prospect of having maggots in your house maybe?

Me: Hey Bo! (Trying to be exceedingly sugary) What you cooking?
Bo: Pork. Umm. Ma-ki-ng soup. (Dragging every syllable.Yes. His English is more than stunted.)
Me: Pork Soup? Sounds delicious. What are these? (pointing to the mound of chopped up octopus tentacles. I was convinced it could be nothing else.)
Bo: PORK!! (I could sense from his tone that he was slightly annoyed.)
Me: (Gasping) Are you sure? Isn't it octopus? (Flailing my arms in the air and doing a little bit of a tribal jig, trying to make them look like tentacles, quite unsuccessfully ofcourse. And in case you're wondering that the question was rather dumb and he obviously knew what he was cooking, in my defense, I doubted his limited vocabulary and thought maybe he referred to all kinds of meat as 'pork'. Ahem.)
Bo: NO! Pig.
Me: Got it.

Slightly offended at being cut short this way and determined to finish what I started, I continued.

Me: Bo, the sink is almost overflowing and beginning to stink. I think 'we' should get the dishes done soon. Don't you think? Sometime tonight maybe?

Without a word, Bo quietly proceeded to do his dishes, frantically scraping away at the two week old, dried out gravy clinging to his plates. I barely suppressed a smile, when I saw the sweat on his forehead and defeat in his face. Revenge is sweet.

Day 2:  I entered the kitchen the next day and found Bo standing in front of a wok of boiling sesame oil, releasing large chunks of chicken into it, rather ungently. And as expected, with every release, there was a deafening sizzle, a cloud of smoke, and spurts of oil all over the chimney walls, counter-top and the floor. My sandals squeaked as I tried to make my way through the oil puddles. Way to go, Bo! ( and that rhymed! )

Me: Bo, is that chicken you're cooking?
Bo: Yes. Taste? (His face lit up)
Me: (unable to refuse) Sure.

I dipped my spoon in the curry and greedily gulped it down. It was hot and had ten times more spice than I could handle. I almost choked. But a couple of tears escaped me.

Bo: (disappointed by my reaction) No good?
Me: (wiping that treacherous tear) Its great. *cough*

Bo went around his business, with a smile of contentment on his face. I guess I AM a good actor. Recovering from that unprecedented assault on my alimentary canal, I continued with renewed enthusiasm.

Me: The kitchen floor is really dirty. 'We' should clean it up sometime.

Bo runs to the next room, and re-enters a minute later with a mop in his hand. How sweet! But well it's oil. And dry mopping would just end up spreading it uniformly on the kitchen floor, thus laying out an impeccable death trap for all of us. No, thank you. Riding high on my manipulation success rate so far, I continued.

Me: Bo, that won't do any good. You know what 'we' should do? 'We' should get some soap water instead.
Bo: Sorry. Me has assignment. Submit tomorrow. Clean after. Please?
Me: (alarmed at the prospect of having to do it myself) Err.. It wont take too long. Its really easy. Wait.

I ran to the bathroom, fetched some soap water, and came back. Animatedly splashing the mop in it, I continued.

Me: See. Its very easy Bo. Dip it in the water like this. And then take it out and....
Bo: Late. Assignment. Good night.

And before I could say anything more, he fled.

Moral of the story, it doesn't work all the time. But hey, one in two times is not so bad eh? Also, my victim turned out to be smarter than I thought. Maybe you'll have more luck?!

NOT my fault!

I tried to keep movies/music out of my blog for a while now, lest it turned into one of those blogs. However, considering they are an integral part of my life, and keeps my otherwise mundane grad school life even slightly interesting, I thought they deserved a place here. Don't worry. I'm NOT going to bore you with the millionth review of The Dark Knight (I STILL haven't watched the movie can you believe it? Sadness. No points for guessing why I find its reviews particularly annoying, especially the ones that talk about how amazing Anne Hathaway was as Catwoman. I love that girl! L.O.V.E. ). What I will talk about though are some of those movies/songs that ruled the charts at its time and left an indelible mark, on a particularly impressionable kid (I'm still kind of a kid no? All those itching to correct me, screw you!). So if you think I'm  weird, mad, say or do things that are majorly inappropriate and often uncalled for then you know who/what to blame. Its NOT my fault. And just so you know, it NEVER is. 

Jumma Chumma: One of the first songs I learnt as a kid (Can you believe it?). In my defense, I never intended to learn it. It was on radio and television ALL the time. And considering I was three, and had no idea what 'Chumma' meant, and had a ear that picked up almost anything it heard, you can't blame me for finding the tune incredibly catchy. Mom was tying my shoelaces one morning, and I happened to hum two lines of the song. Well what happened next was nothing short of legendary. Although I don't remember most of it ( Did I mention I was three? Lord! ), but I do remember that there was a lot of yelling and frantic flailing of arms in the air. I think my mom cried too, thinking she'd lost a perfectly innocent child to the 'adult' world of Bollywood, despite her strict regulations revolving around the idiot box. I just didn't get what all the hue and cry was about, except that my brother kept saying "Haww" for a week after the incident (He was rather annoying then. Hope he's not reading this. If you are, I want you to know that I love you NO MATTER WHAT. :)) Years later, when I heard the song again, I was quite disturbed by the utter lack of taste I had as a kid. Also the idea of a fifty something Amitabh Bachhan shamelessly hitting on a twenty something girl in a hideous black and red can-can was not exactly appealing. My first stint with the inappropriate. And seriously, what's with the mugs? Sheesh!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

Don't break my hut: Why would you wanna do that? No really. Why? Why break some poor bloke's hut? Especially when he pleads the girl not to break his hut, she nonchalantly screeches, "I weel. I weel." How incredibly mean! And the most confusing part of it was how the guy seemed to enjoy it, and danced and jumped in the air in response. As a perplexed fourth standard student I asked my mom:

Me: Mom?
Mom (anticipating a nonsensical question, hardly looking up from the newspaper): What?
Me: Why does Madhuri want to break that boy's hut?
Mom (answers disinterestedly): Who's this Madhuri now? Some new girl? (Seriously, I was NEVER a playboy.)
Me: No no. Dixit. Actress.
Mom (swaying her head disapprovingly): You should stop watching TV all the time and do something constructive. 
Me: Maaa! Not the point! Tell me no. Why does she want to break his hut?
Mom: You think they live in huts? Really?! (In all seriousness, I never thought about the obviously foreign locations this song was shot in. Not to mention the gross-but-expensive looking black leather jacket, dangling silver chains and what not. Question. Do black leather and silver go together? Except that hip-hop artists seem to carry them off with considerable ease.)
Dad (chipping in from afar): Its not hut. Its 'heart'. 
Mom (turning to dad): I guess that's worse.

They consequently got sucked into an extremely animated conversation about how breaking someone's heart is worse than demolishing someone's apartment. And how men are dogs, and women only sing about breaking hearts while in reality guys do it all the time. Mom won the argument. As usual. Duh. But seriously, wasn't horrendous English pronunciation the primary focus here? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ07sN1b-ZY

Kaun: I was never a man with a strong heart. I think I blamed my mother for it in a previous post. Can't remember which one. But that's besides the point. The thing you have to know about me is that I have always been TERRIFIED of ghosts. Like the peeing-in-the-pants type (Although I had a cousin who was worse. He screamed like a girl while watching a movie about impossibly large and hairy mutated spiders. If you're curious, go watch 'Eight Legged Freaks'. I think its a laugh riot). At the same time I was a sucker for ghost stories. From the more popular/widely read 'Monkey's Paw' and 'Dracula' to the more obscure 'Bandage Bhoot' and 'Brahmadoitto' (which translates to Brahmin Bhoot, complete with a sacred thread and kumkum-smeared forehead ) that my granny created to entertain an often annoying grandkid, I had them all by heart. Literally. What happened as a result, was that I was perenially scared of the dark, of anything remotely unfamilar/unseen. Its like living in a world of ghosts. Also the fact that I had a particular sadistic Dad who reveled in jumping out from weird corners, with flared eyes, clawed palms, shrieking hysterically just to see his own kid shiver till his knees rattled, didn't help in the least. (Seriously. Who does that? That too to their own kid?!) 
Thrillers came a close second. Especially the ones involving psycopaths/serial killers/ gore fests in general. The movie that damaged me for life was one called 'Kaun', released in 1999, that met with a rather luke warm response at the box office. I was twelve then. The empty house, an eccentric Manoj Bajpai looking for Mr. Malhotra on a rainy night, a lonely woman hearing about a serial killer on the loose, and all that went on in those two taut hours had me hooked, cowering behind a cushion for cover, aforementioned sadistic Dad jumping from behind at the worst moments. I was traumatized. Literally. I couldn't sleep for days. I thought my dad strangely resembled Manoj Bajpai from the movie. Eeeeee. I think that was one of Ram Gopal Varma's best. But then he degenerated into someone who made 'Phoonk' and later,'Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag', both intolerable yawn-fests. Not to mention a talented Urmila Mantondkar ending up playing the lead in all movies that required the central character to be traumatized/crazy/mentally disbalanced/possessed by a spirit. In her comeback venture Karzzzzzzzzzzzzz, she did look strangely ghost-like. Scary. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqtSQ6KWRSg

No Entry: Officially the worst song that Bollywood has ever churned out. There are a few close competitors  but this is undeniably the worst. The WORST. The song has a total of 51 'NO's in the chorus. Fifty-effing-one!! Can you believe it? My head starts spinning after the first ten 'No's. And incase you're wondering, YES I counted them. (Ya ya. I have nothing better to do. Blah Blah. Keep talking.) My head starts spinning after I hear the first ten of them. Seriously. There's no entry in 'Ishq di Gali'. I get it. Its pretty straightforward. There's a red light and you need to stop your car. But you DON'T have to say it so many times! Shut the f**k up already! But considering the men involved in this song ranged from Salman Khan to Anil Kapoor to some other fifty something old hag of an actor whose name I forget/never bothered to find out, I can imagine why this had to be reiterated to the extent that the only word that was buzzing in your ears was NO. Also why would you want to walk through this Love-Gali holding Bipasha Basu's hand? Have you seen her in this song? What with the psychedelic purples and pinks, golden shimmer face paint and the rather obvious wobbly flab made worse with all the furious gyration, she looks likes a witch, or even better, Amrish Puri. (Do you see the resemblance? :P) *Shudder*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGdRVy5Poc0

And all those million people out there who had this song as there ring tone/caller tune/door bell/morning alarm at any point in your life, I think its time you consider killing yourself. Or else I'll hunt you down and make you pay. The former will be a lot more respectable. Trust me. 

'Aap ka Suroor' crap club: Ooooooooo Suroor! The constipated thing called Himesh Reshammiya. Enough said!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSVlg08l50w&feature=fvwrel

And after Britney Spears, Rebecca Black, Justin Beiber and Carly Rae Jepsen, all my mental faculties have been successfully numbed. And recently, the last nail was mercilessly drilled into my coffin. Psy, you killed me. Yes. YOU!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

My Didu Strongest!

Didu = Maternal Grandmother.

My maternal grandmother.

And just in case you're wondering, NO! My granny does not look like the lady above. Maybe she owned a pair of glasses like her, sometime during her lifetime (Didn't they all?). But the similarity ends there. Then why the pic? Well, that was the only good blog-worthy picture I got when I googled the words 'Awesome Old Lady' (Well I can't really blame google here, cos the closest match I could think of was Miss Marple, and all she did was sit in a chair, knit and solve mysteries. I think they should come up with an octogenarian  caped crusader kind of thing for senior citizens. They need a role model too right?!) Yes. That's Didu. Awesome Old Lady. She might not have gone out into the wild, chasing lions with a rifle, yelling 'Bad Kitty!', but she has some serious star potential. I always knew it. She was never the regular grandmother that I heard stories about from my friends. Ofcourse she was loving, and spoilt us brothers with candies till we complained of toothache. But that was not all. I always suspected she had some hidden superpowers, or had been a spy in her past life, or something similarly cool. Well, the last bit was a bit of a stretch, I agree. But hey! This is my blog. Deal with it.

I'm too sexy for my shirt : Considering this is a post about Granny, some of you might think this to be a bit inappropriate. But the song defines her. Yes. She has an aversion towards excessive clothing. And by excessive I mean regular. Often to the point of embarrassing her grandchildren and family members in general. Her absolute favourite activity of the day, is to emerge from the bathroom after an hour-long shower in nothing but a soaking wet translucent gamchha (which is a threadbare inexpensive cotton rag-towel, for the uninitiated) and walk to the verandah in broad daylight, with the intention of putting her clothes to dry. She walks nonchalantly paying no attention to the red-faced family members, zig-zagging across the room  with various items of clothing, just to cover her up. FAIL. She spends another hour spreading her saree out on the line. Such ceremony, I tell you. I wonder why she takes the pain to wash it everyday when she hardly puts it on. She even spends a few minutes chatting up some obscure vendor passing by on the street below, about how expensive potatoes have become these days, as if they were best buddies from school, mostly yelling to make herself heard, and garnering unnecessary attention from the curious. All of this, in just a bedraggled gamcha. 

After contemplating how to avoid being seen with her in the future, lest they find out we're related, I drum up my most I-mean-business like voice and ask, " Didu, why don't you put some clothes on next time? " Her reply. " Its the age of exhibitionism. Also, it's hot no? " Point taken. I haven't come up with a good enough counter to that argument till date. Honestly, if she was born in today's age, she would have at least become a Bollywood star/starlet, if not a successful swimwear model. She has talent. Trust me.

Penny wise - Pound foolish : Didu has always had a fascination for coins. And irritatingly so. Its like, anything greater than a rupee doesn't stick to her. And imagine paying ten bucks in quarters on a regular basis. Here's a sample conversation with a regular rickshaw driver. Let's call him Dhanno ( I know Dhanno was a horse and its a bit demeaning, but in my defense, he was NOT as pretty as Basanti. )

Didu (getting off in front of our house): How much?
Dhanno: Mashima, ten rupees.
Didu (yelling): What?!! Are you mad? Take five.
Dhanno (shocked by the drastic reduction in fare): What are you saying, Mashima? What do you get for five bucks these days?
Didu (sounding profoundly wise): This is not America or Bombay (They have the same cost of living remember?). This is Calcutta. You get a LOT for five bucks. For example...
Dhanno (cutting her short, and sounding slightly defeated): Okay FINE! I'll take eight. But not a penny less.
Didu (decisively, her game face on): Seven!
Dhanno (exhausted): Deal!

Particularly pleased by her victory, Didu goes on to 'gather' seven bucks from her purse, her fuzzy glasses not helping in the least. Turning to me ( Yes. I was standing next to her, with my head down, the entire time. )

Didu: I can't see very well. Darned glasses. Would you be a dear and get seven bucks from my purse?
Me ( sensing this was a trap ): No! Why can't you do it? Your glasses seem perfectly fine to me.
Dhanno (chipping in impatiently): Hurry up you two! I don't have the whole day.

I proceed to rummage through her purse obediently. All I could see were coins. No paper notes. No fivers. Just ones, twos, quarters and quite a few embarrassing 20 paisas, which had gone out of circulation twenty something years back. I swear I wanted to cry. After a good fifteen minutes of frantic searching and furious counting I manage to put together seven bucks. Phew! But there was one problem. How do you hand over a bunch of coins to someone? In a pouch? Tell him to cup his hands so we can pour them in? Well  Didu tackled that with ease. She told him to do exactly that. CUP HIS HANDS! In hindsight the entire scene was kind of funny. But at that moment, standing there, soaking in the shame and gawking at Granny's incorrigible behaviour, there was nothing remotely amusing about it, trust me.

On our way up, I asked, "Didu! What happened to the ten rupee note I stuck in your purse yesterday?" I did it secretly the night before when she was fast asleep, to save myself this inevitable trauma. That ten-rupee note was precious. It was my weekly allowance. It was hard, but I absolutely HAD TO do it. "You did? I had no idea. Where did it go?" Seriously. Where did it go? Did it just turn into quarters overnight. Or her bag had a hole in it, which only allowed paper bills to pass through. I guess there's only one explanation. Magic! I told you she had superpowers. Wait. I think I saw a cape. *goosebumps*

I am a DiscoDancer : Didu has had arthritis for what seems like ages now. But she has a fascination for dance. (Not that they are related. But when I think of weak knees, dance doesn't exactly cross my mind. ) And I'm talking Bollywood here. Not Bharatnatyam. Not kathak. Bollywood. If there's an award function on TV, she's hooked. What with all the Sheelas, Munnis and Chikni Chamelis  gyrating on screen, her seventy-year (?) old eyes light up at the slightest sound of thumping techno beats. Its not surprising that not everyone in the house share her sentiments on this issue, especially my mom. She's more into singing reality shows. Thus ensues an unending battle for the remote control. Who will win? Music or Dance? Not to mention the men have no say in this. Nada.

Didu (in a rather reproachful voice): Your mom makes me so angry.
Me (paying no attention): When does she not.
Didu (sensing the indifference): No. Listen to me. She always watches that stupid show on TV. And never allows me to watch what I want.
Me (rather curious): And which one would that be? (expecting the name of some KKKK.. serial. The four K's apparently have some sort of numerological significance. My Ass.)
Didu (solemnly): Indian Idol.
Me (quite taken aback. Actually I dont mind that show. Although Anu Malik gets on my nerves with his retarded efforts to rhyme): Why? What's wrong with that? What do you want to watch instead.
Didu (excitedly): Jhalak Dikhla Ja.

And here I thought she wanted to follow Aastha or some similar 'spirituality' channel, where they keep chanting tunelessly all day like a bunch of dead men. I guess that's not her thing. And considering I've seen her often doze off in the name of prayer/meditation, and the fact that her day-to-day questions range from whether Ranbir really loved Deepika, or whether Saif's 'Kareena' tattoo was real, I should have known better. She should have been in showbusiness. Dayam!

Madame Smartypants :

- A recent skype conversation during which I happened to be in an extremely whiny mood :

Me (sulking): Didu! I hate making lunch everyday. I'm sick of my ham sandwich.
Didu (peering into the webcam. I think she brushed her nose once too.): Why don't you buy something for lunch everyday?
Me (more sulking): It's expensive. You know how big a miser I am.
Didu: How expensive is it? Can't be more than two dollars! (She's still not used to inflation.)
Me (trying my best to enlighten her): Two dollars converts to a hundred rupees!
Didu (in a tone of correction): Nope. It converts to 111 rupees.
Me (shocked out of my wits): How the hell do you know that?
Didu: Simple. I follow currency exchange rates in the newspaper.

I died. Well almost.

- My Mom and Didu keep fighting all the time. They cannot live without each other, mind you. But their life seems almost incomplete if they don't lock horns at least once a day over something inconsequential. I guess its just women. Anyway the verbal exchange that eventually follows is a guaranteed treat. Here's a sample.

Didu (to a yelling mom. I still don't know what the issue/non-issue was.): Why do you scream so much?
Mom (still yelling): Cos you're hard of hearing.
Didu (unable to contest that): Err. So what? You can yell and still be polite no? (That's not possible right?) Anyway, when you yell you sound just like Bimala. (Bimala has been our househelp for almost ten years now. With a heart of gold, subliminal cooking skills and a shrill glass-shattering voice, she's a force to reckon with.)
Mom (flipping her lid): Are you comparing me to her now? Ofcourse. I'm illiterate.
Didu (strangely calm): You don't have to take offence. So was Kalidas.

Well she does have a point. Mom stopped yelling almost instantly. She was taken aback by her spontaneous brilliance. Who wouldn't?

So are you convinced that my Granny is awesome-bordering-on-superhuman? If not, I feel sorry for you. Cos I'm a believer.

The Adventures of BongMan and Me - Part II

There's so much to crib about and so little time! Gah! So without much ado, lets get down to some serious BongMan trashing.

More excerpts from previously mentioned travel journal:

- Some of the most annoying Bongs I had the misfortune of travelling with are the ones who come with kids. Usually two. And each more intolerable than the other. The kicking, screaming, crying, scratching, running-up-and-down-the-length-of-the-compartment kinds. Makes me want to yell and tear my hair out, to say the least. But maybe its gotten less to do with them being Bong. Maybe its just KIDS. Look I love kids. I think they have the most adorable 'behinds' among other qualities. But they're not my ideal companions, so to speak, on journeys or inside movie theaters. They unleash the Devil in me, and that's an understatement. If I hadn't been introduced to the concept of self control I would have been behind bars for assault ages ago. Trust me. The problem in most of these cases is bad/terrible parenting. According to me, kids should not be allowed to travel/enter movie theaters till they're at least ten. And if they are, their parents should be prepared to see their kids with popcorn buckets dumped on their heads. Anyway, lets not digress from the issue at hand - Bong parents with kids on trains. FOCUS.

BongDad (Bad), BongMom (Bom) and BongBaby (Butt) enter air-conditioned compartment of the Calcutta Rajdhani (I refuse to call it 'Kolkata'. So give it a rest!). Me, hiding behind my book, sigh, almost audibly, attracting unnecessary attention. Damn. They've seen me now. Pointless conversation becomes inevitable.

Bad (turning to me): It's so hot isn't it? (wiping sweat off his face with an already drenched handkerchief.)
Me (still unable to forgive myself for inviting conversation): It is.
Bom: Its quite cold in the compartment though. (It's air-conditioned! Duh! Also notice the insistence on stating the obvious.)
Bad (turning to wife): Give Bontu some food. He must be hungry. (presuming Bontu is the name of the hapless child.)
Butt (whining): Noooooooooooo. I'm not hungry.
Bom: Bontu Shona. Please eat something.
Butt: No! (Yelling unnecessarily. Kids!)
Bom (Giving up. I would have killed myself or her if this exchange continued any longer): Fine! Do what you want. Next time you pester me for food, you ain't getting any.
Butt: Mummy! Where will I sleep?
Bom (Obviously offended by afore mentioned refusal of food. I presume she made it with all the love in her heart.): You'll sleep in the lower berth.
Butt (wailing): Noooooooooooooo. I want to sleep up there (pointing to the top bunk and simultaneously scrutinizing ways of getting there.)
Bom (Making weird facial contortions, supposedly trying to scare the child into obedience): I said NO! No more arguing. You'll be sleeping in the lower bunk. That's final. Now stop your nonsense. Look, uncle is getting angry. (pointing at me. Me infuriated at being called 'uncle'. Seriously?!! May you be pelted with stones Woman!)

Butt casts a quick look at me to make sure whether 'Uncle' was really mad at him or his beloved mother was lying through her teeth. It doesn't take long for him to figure out that the latter was true. Goes back to his usual shenanigans.

Butt (impatiently): Mummy! I'm going upstairs (meaning top bunk).
Bom (Looking out of the window, least bothered about safety of her child): Do what you want. (Me thinking why I never heard these words from my mother. But probably this is why I turned out so awesome. Did I hear whispering? Don't worry. I'll find you whoever you are.)

Butt, unable to control his excitement at being offered unlimited access to the delectable top bunk, starts swinging from whatever he could find, across the seats, showing unbelievable skill and letting out occasional ape-like noises (or maybe Tarzan. But what's the difference? Po'tay'to-Po'taa'to.)

Bom (suddenly realizing the damages associated with above mentioned wild behaviour, starts yelling): Get down from there! (turning to snoring husband) Get up! Look what Bontu's doing. He'll fall and hurt himself. Please put him up on the top bunk (Turning to Bontu, hanging upside down at this point) Bontu! Its very cold up there. You'll catch the flu. Wear your monkey-cap! (Now I know why they're called 'Monkey' caps!)

Bom forces a woolen, black and pink polka dotted monkey cap over dangling Bontu's head.  (The colour scheme/design is very important to completely visualize this bizarre spectacle. Stop scoffing you!) Bontu wriggles but he couldn't do much given the position he was stuck in. I'm sure he wished he was Spider-Man. I wanted to let him know that he was not far behind.

After what seemed like hours of yelling, kicking and dangling, Bontu finally made it to the top bunk. I thought now is the time for peace. But did I tell you he was a kid?!! Within minutes of reaching the summit, he wanted to come down again. But unfortunately, after considerable deliberation, the only option he could think of was free-fall. And although he wished he could fly, he realized he was not a bird or born of particularly superhuman parents. So he decides to cry. (At this point, I gave up all hopes of reading my book and tucked it away in one of the bunk-pouches. Yes. I gave up. I lost. Happy?) Not content with just wailing at the top of his lungs, Bontu decides to sneeze. He first irritates the hell out of perfectly innocent fellow travellers like me, and then goes on to kill them with mucus-laden bacteria. Yes. Kill me Bontu. I'd rather die.

Alarmed by the sneeze, Bom gets worried and severely pokes her sleeping husband (How can anybody sleep through all of this? Beats me. But in hindsight, I guess this goes on at home everyday. Poor old Mr. Bad.)

Bad (startled): What? Where?!!!
Bom: Bontu's caught a cold! I told you to not let him go up there. Keep sleeping. All your life!

Bad, being reprimanded by darling wife thus, promptly rescues Bontu from the dark, cold upper berth. (Not so delectable now eh Bontu?! *snigger*) Bom gives Bontu a bone-crushing hug, as if he just came back from the battlefield. Bontu, all sweaty from the excessive physical exercise, sneezes again.

Bom (alarmed) : Why're you sweating so much? (Why?!! Really?) (Takes off the hideous monkey cap, and finds Bontu's hair to be soaking wet) I told you not to run around in the train. But do you ever listen to me Bontu?! (nailing the I-am-hurt tone. Sorry to burst your bubble lady, but that won't work on the Devil you happen to call your son. Not in a million years.) The upper bunk is really cold. And the AC has been turned up so much. Its freezing in here!

No it's not. Get that darned Monkey cap off his head and all will be fine in Bontu-Land.

P.S. As much as I hate you BongMan, my journeys wouldn't have been half as eventful, if it wasn't for your annoying self . Not to mention your darling offsprings. There. I said it. You're not mad at me anymore are you? *nudge*

The Adventures of BongMan and Me - Part I

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day and she said, "The two things that Bengalis can ever think of spending money on, are Food and Travel." As much as I hate putting large sections of people into tiny boxes labelled this and that, this I could not deny. For someone who hasn't interacted with a lot of eating and travelling Bengalis (Bongs), these labels would seem perfectly harmless. I mean, who doesn't appreciate good food and the joys of backpacking? But when you talk about Bongs and food/travel, most words fall short of expressing their true attachment to either. And this is by far the most delicate way of putting it without enraging an otherwise-peaceful-mostly-sleeping-Tagore-quoting lot.

Excerpts from my travel journal :

-  I am a really quiet traveller by nature (only when travelling alone ofcourse). I stare outside the window, read a book like nobody's business and mostly keep to myself. I'm not antisocial. Far from it. Some might even call me garrulous. But I'm not your typical chatting-up strangers-on-the-train kind of guy. In the name of social courtesy, all I can ever manage to say is a half-baked Hello, which almost always comes with an awkward pursed-lip smile. I've tried replicating that in front of the mirror a couple of times, and it looks hideous to say the least, the best I-have-no-intention-of-talking-to-you smile that anyone can come up with ( Ya. Its an achievement. Let's see you do it! Ha! ). But somehow, most Bong travel companions I have had in my life don't seem to be able to read it well. Maybe they're just too social for my liking or plain daft (The latter sounds more believable.) Here's a typical exchange with my fellow Bong Indian Railways travel mate :

BongMan (tugging furiously at my duffel bag trying to fit one of his five suitcases, under the seat, which by every estimate won't fit into that tiny space; yelling): Who's bag is this?!!
Me: It's mine. (Duh!)
BongMan (an immediate lowering of voice, embarrased): Oh. It's yours? Sorry. I was actually trying to fit my suitcase under there, and was wondering who's bag this is. (Stating the obvious.)
Me: It's okay. (Hideous fake smile in place. Gawd! How do I do it? *Applause*)
BongMan (still struggling to find place for his humongous suitcases): Excuse me. If you don't mind, could you shift your bag a little to the right? I can squeeze my bag in easily then.
Me (visibly irritated with the mild accusatory tone): There's no space to the right. I'm sorry. I can't shift it further.

BongMan seemed almost offended at my lack of extending any sort of help. Well, in my defense, I was travelling alone. With one duffel bag. Inconveniencing no one. Reading an extremely interesting book. And was in no mood to wrestle with unnecessary large pieces of luggage belonging to someone else. His luggage. His problem. And trying to fit things that were obviously larger than the spaces meant to store them was not my ideal pass time. However, BongMan's incessant grunts and frantic efforts melted me a little and I offered to keep my bag in the top bunk, much to my own inconvenience. Blame my mother for giving me a weak heart!
BongMan's face lit up at my suggestion and he thanked me profusely. Note how he did not bother to ask if it would be inconvenient for me. Even for courtesy's sake. Selfish prick!

Anyway, I thought this brief annoying exchange would be the end of it. I guess I spoke too soon. The moment the train made its first chugging sound, BongMan plunged into business with gusto. The business of getting acquainted with his unfortunate fellow traveller. With shoes off, smelly feet on the seat, grabbing his pillow, and with curiosity brimming in his eyes, he started with his volley of questions:

BongMan: So where're you going?
Me (vowing to be largely monosyllabic): Calcutta.
BongMan (finding this very funny): Me too. Haha. What a coincidence!

Being from the same city made us brothers of some sort I believe. Hence the excitement.

BongMan: So where do you live?
Me (being my antisocial best): Calcutta.
BongMan (finding this funny too): Where in Calcutta?
Me: New Alipore.
BongMan (obviously unaware of the lack-of-counter-questions-meaning-no-interest-in-making-conversation theory): Oh. Bhery close. I live in Behala. (unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm continues) What do you do in Delhi? Do you work there?
Me: No. I study.
BongMan (not giving up just yet): What do you study? Computer engineering? Medical?
Me: No. Chemistry.
BongMan (convinced that I'm an underachiever): Oh! (pity in place) Din't get through the engineering or medical exams, did you?
Me (wishing I could be invisible): No. I made it through to a few engineering schools. But I didn't want to go in that direction.
BongMan (sighing at my stupidity): Why didn't you take up engineering? What did your parents say? Chemistry pore ki hobe? ( meaning "whats the point in studying Chemistry?" )
Me (refusing to look up from my book, and not interested in justifying my career choices): Nothing will happen. I won't get a job.
BongMan (finding this strangely funny too. I stopped trying to figure out his sense of humour at this point): Haha. I didnt mean that. I was just curious.
Me (feigning some interest): What do you do?
BongMan: Me?! I work in a bank.

I knew it. Yes. He had to work in a bank.

He went on to talk for a few more minutes about how an engineering degree would have led to a 'sure-shot' job in the IT sector (which incidentally does not require an engineering degree in the first place ) and how he's worried about what his kids would do in the future. At this point, I sank in my seat and buried myself in my book, trying my best to drown his voice out somehow. If I wouldnt have been initiated into the school of Ahimsa by my beloved peace loving parents, I would have slapped him in the least or hurled my shoe at him. But I resisted my violent urges, so much so, that it made it difficult to breathe at one point. I think all that personal struggle with ambivalence was showing, cos he seemed to finally read my vibes and decided to back off, not willing to compromise his personal safety over 'seemingly' harmless travel-chit-chat. But BongMan was not one to give up on adda. He quickly started a parallel conversation with another fellow traveller  (who was eagerly listening in with wide-eyed amazement all this while) on the lines of how youngsters these days are not respectful to their elders, the entire generation going to the dogs, and how it will adversely affect the growth of the Nation, and so on.

I had never been happier.

                                                                                            (to be continued....)

The Moon looks good from up here!

Dear Reader(s),

When I started this blog approximately a year ago, I decided to make it an insanely funny one. I tried for some time, relentlessly searching for that elusive funny bone hiding somewhere in my body. And considering I started writing because a friend of mine (who incidentally never read anything I ever wrote in my life) convinced me that I could write well, didn't really help. Ya ya. I'm THAT gullible. But I guess everyone came unto this Earth with the belief that they are meant for greater things. And I thought writing was my true calling. I remember after publishing my first post, I could somewhere in the future, see my name being called on stage for the Pulitzer or the Man Booker. I'm still confused why its called 'Man' Booker. Are they only awarded to Men? Or is 'Man' supposed to be a prefix symbolizing some kind of inexplicable greatness? Either way I thought I  totally deserved it and I was this close to being written about in the Guardian ( If you're dreaming, why bother about the Dainik Jagran. Make it big I say! ) and having tea with the Queen in Buckingham Palace, yada yada. All I had to do was to send out a couple of emails and facebook messages to friends/cousins in the name of publicity and then sit back, relax and watch my fame take over the world. What happened in reality was slightly different from how I had pictured it to be. I apologize for my unfounded megalomaniac fantasies. Really sorry.

I have approximately two readers ( that was a rather hard number to count! ) one of who, was the friend who convinced me that I could write ( But now I think maybe that's not a widely accepted opinion. ) and the other needs constant reminders and more than subtle hints to visit my blog ( is it that painful?! *shedding a tear* ). I tried making them leave comments, to the effect that the blog-surfing world thinks its a life-changing blog worth spending some time and a few words of appreciation over. In the process, I discovered that one of them was severely techno-capped ( technologically handicapped I mean! I'm awesome at word play right?! *nudge* ) and the other just stopped commenting for some reason ( I'm this close to falling to my knees and begging for a comment. But I would like to believe that I'm a self-respecting individual. Well almost. ) I tried blaming the world, for being filled with people who are shallow and my 'deep, insightful' reflections deserve a 'niche' audience. But it ended up being more niche than I would have been proud of. I thought of advertising my blog posts on facebook, but then held myself back with the fear of coming across as needy (ya ya. I think too much. *sigh*) After endless efforts at subtly hinting through Blackberry status messages/facebook/artfully disguised lines in disjointed emails, I thought of reading it myself from the unbiased point of view of an average reader ( a voice within constantly screaming out how awesome I was often proved to be an insurmountable distraction I must say! ). What I read was quite shocking. What happened to my funny bone? I sounded like a depressed hormonal pregnant woman who hates her husband, resents her unborn child and constantly stares at the ceiling fan wondering whether it'll hold her weight. One tight slap. Well I guess I had it coming.

So without much ado I'm setting out in the search of that darned bone that's supposed to tickle you. And unless I lose a leg or something, I promise to be funny and not in a rambling painful alcoholic sort of way.

I love you dear readers. Sincerely hoping you exist.

Overtly apologetic - bordering on desperate - blogger.

P.S. The post should have been ideally titled Rude Awakening or Open letter to the Elusive Reader or something. But I decided to go with the Moon in order to accost the unsuspecting blog skimmer. Sue me. 

Going 'Bong'kers!!

In Calcutta, I was Bengali. Delhi preferred to call me 'Bong'. Pretty derogatory, I thought at first. The only thing I was reminded of when I heard that term, was that recurrent, resonating sound made by Kung-fu Panda's titanic, wobbling jelly-belly when he took on his adversaries. I hated it. Period. But man is a slave of habit, and before long I found myself mouthing that name with reference to me and my extended brethren with ease. Weird or what?!! It was much later, that I came across 'Bong' as a reference to a fascinating dope set-up, complete with half severed bottles, bubbling water, and lots of mind-boggling physics supporting it. I finally said to myself, 'Ha! It is cool after all!'. There ended my strife with the name. Adjusting with the rest wasn't so simple though.

My first nagging issue was my name. To fully comprehend my predicament, you need to understand the psyche of Bengali mothers in general. They love their sons/daughters to pieces. That's obvious. That often-stifling, all encompassing, singular love first manifests itself at the time of the baby's naming. They know their child is special. They're sure about it. So special that he, at no cost, can share someone else's desecrated name. If they do, it quite understandably, serves as a major source of maternal heartbreak. And boy that's bad! In the search of that elusive rare name for their oh-so-special child, they spend nights going through voluminous, dusty, weathered dictonaries. Weeks of no sleep, no food, and a countless unheard-of words later, they decide on the name. And it more than often turns out to be an archaic, redundant disaster!! not to mention more than half the planet can't ever pronounce it currently. The parents are thrilled by their achievement. They go about announcing the name of their new-born to their neighbours and distant relatives, oblivious to the disdain on their faces. Thus marks the beginning of an endless ordeal for the child. The child, who has to learn to wage war before he managed to master walking. "What's your name boy?"."I'm Oshontushto Gongopadhyay". "Osho what?!@#$". And the embarrassment has just begun.

My next existential dilemma . How Bong is really Bong? Am I being overtly Bong or have I fallen below the accepted levels of Bong-ness pre-decided by the self proclaimed torch bearers of my community? One section of my brothers and sisters can't speak any other language properly but Bangla. That's majorly because a large portion of them have studied in schools where the primary medium of instruction was Bengali. In their cases, its understandable, and if I may add, unfortunate. However, if you have had the good fortune of attending an English medium school throughout and still couldn't manage to speak the language properly, without that heavy Bongified accent, then all I have to say is, " Eeiu aar ay Disgress!!" ( which means 'you are a disgrace!!' in normal English ) A lot of you out there might feel that I'm being too hard on them. Yes I am, and I'll tell you why. According to me, English is one of the easiest languages to master, especially if you have attended an English medium school right from kindergarten. And in case you have given French or German a try, you'll know what I'm talking about. The reason why they still fumble and often shamelessly is that, they are primarily lazy and their heads are full of a pseudo superiority complex that Bengali is the best of them all. Bengali is beautiful. I totally agree. But to call it the best is slightly ridiculous. Every language has its own little nuances which make them different, and not better than the other. India alone has over 50 different languages listed in its constitution. So calling one of them 'the best' just displays one's ignorance. What mastering English needs is a little bit of effort, will and respect for the language. But no. They will continue to bask in the glory of the language they were born to speak in. They are happy living in their little Bengali coteries, refusing to learn what the world has to offer, laughing at all the 'Non-Bengalis' at how stupid and useless they are, unaware of the fact that the world mocks them even more for their blatant ignorance. I've seen it, and it saddens me.

"You don't talk like a Bong?!" I get that a lot. So I ask, "How do Bongs speak then? In Martian?" and here's what I get to hear. Bongs are essentially loud, and by loud, I mean it literally. In a hall full of people, if four Bongs get together at one corner, you can hear high-pitched echoing Bengali words float across the hall effortlessly, interspersed by thundering guffaws. Ya I know. You guys are Bong. Great! Thanks for making your presence felt!! If you happen to know them, and want to be involved in their conversation, well, its time for you to stop day dreaming. They are NOT going to switch their medium of conversation to include a lesser mortal like you. Never! Not in this life at least! So much for Bong social courtesies. And in case one of them is slightly more accommodating than the rest, he gets the dirts and is made to feel abnormal! I'll go for abnormal guy any day! Ya, you can sue me now!

This brings us to the second half of the Bengali population. The ultra modern, ubercool, anglicized lot who would prefer the British raj even after 60 odd years since independance . Ya. I'm talking about the kind, who have been born and raised in Calcutta since their diaper days but still can't speak a word of Bangla without that American twang to it. They are proud of not knowing their mother tongue. They are satisfied with reading Tagore translations. They think they were destined to live in America and curse the twist of fate that landed them in Calcutta of all places. They're probably even more American than the Americans themselves! One tight slap! They should be lined up in a row and shot through their screwed up heads! They serve no purpose and they deserve to die! I don't mind bringing Hitler back to life only to get rid of these weeds!

Which brings us to which category I belong to. I like to strike a balance. Lets say I'm the borderline species. And its tough being on the border, trust me. While my loud-mouthed, Bong-lish speaking, 'Bongs are the best' propagating, communist brethren think I'm much too pseudo to be called Bong, the rest accept me and thank their lucky stars cos I'm hardly a typical prototype hailing from the east who treats them like 'Non Bengalis', which apparently, again makes me a Pseudo bong. Well I'll tell you what I am. I'm Bengali and I'm normal. I have read more Bengali literature than a lot of 'true' Bengalis out there. I speak perfect Bangla. I love Rabindrasangeet and hear them more often than songs in other languages. I know the history of my birthplace in more detail than a lot of them who claim to know it better. I'm proud to hail from Bengal. But that is not my sole identity, and I refuse to make it my only one, leave alone wearing it on my sleeve. I'm accommodating, eager to learn and am open to perspectives.

I want to reach out to the world. If that makes me pseudo, then well, I don't really mind. At least that makes me normal. Thank God!

It's bad to be a 'Book'ie

You might say, "Don't we know that already? Thanks for the brand new information smart guy!!" But I'll tell you what's new about that. 'Bookie' is the exciting new word coined for that endangered species of book lovers, and you don't have to be a rocket scientist for guessing the tone right! "Did you say you like books?! Gosh! What a douche!" Yes.. that's your image now. Face it. Gone are the days when book-addicts ruled the world (immediately after the dinosaurs; or so I would like to think). They've fallen headlong from the heady heights of greatness to the abyss of disrepute, all in a span of twenty years! Woho! That was fast! So what can you do about it? Nothing. Just sit on your bed, buried in your books and sulk.

Well not that it came as a complete shock to me. I could see the apathy that people around me have for books, all the time.

X: "What are you getting me for my birthday this time?"
Me: "I was thinking of getting you a book, but I'm confused which one"
X: " Oh! Don't bother! Get me anyone of your favourites! :)"

What X really wanted to say was, " Books! Are you freaking kiddin' me? Who on Earth reads books? and just so you know, I care two hoots for your favourites! Duh!
Oh! and one more question! Why are we friends again?"

All that said behind the garb of that seemingly innocent smiley! Yes X. You think you're smart and an Academy Award winning actor but I just read your mind and Psychics are cool!

But even after facing this time and again, I somehow kept telling myself that people might hate books but they don't hate those who love them. Until this happened.

I was waiting in a high end Gurgaon mall the other day for a friend to turn up. She got caught up in traffic and I had a good half an hour to kill. I opened my bag to find 'The life of Pi' sitting there, waiting to fill up those empty waiting minutes. So I sat there on one of those fancy benches amidst lots of bored couples and panting grandmothers, and promptly started reading. A good fifteen minutes later I happened to look up and I let out an audible gasp! Everyone around was staring at me, eyes popping out of their sockets. The look on their faces made me cringe! Hey I wasn't shoplifting was I?! and I'm definitely not dressed in an 18th century ballroom gown! Oh now I get it. I was caught in a mall doing the unthinkable.. Reading! I somehow tried to forget that loathing look and got back to reading as if nothing happened, secretly wanting to make a dash for the door. God! where are you?!!

A couple of minutes later, a lady and her ten year old son happened to come and sit next to me. The lady was obese ( that was me being polite, so you can imagine ), falling in heaps over a rather stifling belt holding her mass together at the waist. Her bowling pin shaped arms had bags with every possible designer label on them. No wonder she needed a seat. Her son was plump, soon to turn into the image of his beloved mother, unless there was divine intervention. I thought about their poor exhausted hearts for a moment and went back to my pages.

Boy ( staring at me ): Mommy! I want a book!
Mommy ( absentmindedly ): Baby! Don't stand on the bench! ( making no further efforts to make him sit )
Boy: But Mommy! I want a book!
Mommy: You want Ice cream?
Boy: yay!! I want a hot chocolate fudge!!

They disappear into the distance; with Mommy trying to explain something to her son, frequently glancing at me. I wondered why the lady didn't once say , " yes baby! I'll buy you an Enid Blyton! How awesome would that be!" That's what my Mom used to say everytime I wanted an ice cream. Well tables have turned. I'm pretty sure the boy was being told not to be like the loser Bhaiya  sitting next to him on the bench and how smart kids don't read books and have ice cream instead. Yes lady, you'll realize what you're doing when your darling son grows up to be a football who would rather roll than walk, who would spell 'Vocabulary' with a 'K' till when he's 30, and who will call Gucci his dad!

I love my books and I'm not in the least apologetic about it. Go excommunicate me if you want, but I would rather be smart than be a mannequin. I'm a 'book'ie and I love it. I love those small print letters on a yellow moth eaten page. I love that occasional whiff of brand new books. I think I should marry Arundhati Roy. There I said it. You hate me now from the core of your heart right? Thanks! You can officially go and drown yourself now. You have my leave..

Living in a 'Metro'polis

Its been almost six years since I first moved to Delhi. At that time, the concept of a Metro was only a burgeoning thought here. Being from Calcutta ( yes, I like this one better than Kolkata. Sue me for it if you want! ) I only smiled when someone excitedly tried to introduce me to it. "You know why Delhi is cooler than the rest of the cities? 'Cos we'll soon have the Metro here!! How awesome is that ha?!" I yawned in response. Such sad, miserable kids.. Metro is so last season! Having travelled in the Calcutta Metro from the time i wore soggy diapers only made me pity the people of this city. But when i saw the first swanky, fully air-conditioned metro coach roll into Vishwavidyalaya station, I swallowed my pride before anyone caught a whiff of it! "How Awesome is that!?" screamed the salivating kid in me. If I had my way, I would have kissed the seats!! Ya, you can judge me now.. go right ahead.

Three years henceforth, Delhi metro was everywhere. Its like the skyline changed overnight. By that I meant, no sky was left to see. People used to look up to view birds, or clouds or empty starry nothingness. Now they look up to worship the Metro God. Well I'm not particularly religious myself, but that God I'm sure existed. Travelling became so much easier. Connaught Place became the new Kamla Nagar. Delhi in all its endless breadth, shrunk to a quarter of its size. So when I moved to Gurgaon, the Metro God heard my prayers and stretched his arms to embrace me in His fold. I said my prayers aloud and performed the jig..  I win! I'm Metro God's favourite child!

But this is God we were talking about, and by definition he never picks favourites. So my first ride back from Gurgaon to Akshardham was far from how I'd pictured it to be. At six thirty in the evening, when I was just rolling my sleeves up to do that ' I win' jig again at Iffco Chowk, I suddenly realized that my beloved country is the second most populated one in the world. All i saw was heads around me. Bald, oiled, pony-tailed, streaked, greying, veiled, gelled, spiked Heads. My heart skipped a beat. Not one. But many I'm sure. How the hell did they all know I was travelling in this metro?! Did they hire spies to stalk me? Dude! But I didn't do anything.. I was a regular, innocent, Metro God fearing boy.. Then why me? The train stopped before me. I had to save my drama for later, and make sure I got a seat. Yah! I was still dreaming! I was pushed into the compartment like I was a midget. and before long, the doors closed and I set out on a journey with no end. I had one foot over the other. My bag was squished like it didn't have any business there. I was dangling from one of those rods, with my other hand resting comfortably on someone else's head. That was my posture for the night. God had decided it, and I had no choice but to obey. I was a breathing, living fossil, and it wasn't pretty.

When I finally got thrown out of the compartment at Akshardham, changing metro lines in between ( yes, this happened twice! ), I felt like God had rejected me, and I never felt happier. If paradise was THAT, I would  choose Hell anyday. But something good happened. I realized I lost at least a kilo in an hour! Not because i lost calories trying to balance myself and simultaneously trying not to kill my co-passenger accidentally with an elbow nudge, but because that extra kilo got readjusted, and pressed into a needy pocket in my body structure. The cute little paunch, that my mom so carefully fed and nurtured during my days at home, was gone and I got back my lean and rugged look!! So all you guys trying to lose weight out there, scratch your names out from the Gold Gym rolls, chuck those Slim Sauna Belts in the bin, and hit the Delhi Metro. You'll lose a kilo in an hour! How cool is that!