Apologies, please

Apologies are maybe the best way to wash your hands off an affair- a sticky situation- if you are not so foolish as to bring in ego in between.

So it seems to be nowadays with every announcement in alternate metro stations asking for forgiveness in silken voice for yet another technical snag. And thus the Haryanvis and the Delhiites and the UP-ites recall your sister, say them a thing or two, but are placated. We don't complain, crib in front of the ones managing the train and even if we do, we won't get back the lost time.

On the other hand, a railway accident or an air disaster or a bomb explosion is immediately followed by apolo

gies in excess by the Mamata Banerjees and the Praful Patels and the Chidambarams. I am sorry that you lost your husband or your child in the blast. The family of the ones killed will be awarded Rs 1,00,000; the family of the ones seriously injured Rs 50,000 and the families of the ones with cuts and bruises, but in mental agony (sic) Rs 25,000. And that's the end of the chapter? No, of course not! We even have a Bravery award for the 'martyr', who laid down his life, trying to save a fellow passenger, and a promise that this kind of an event won't be repeated again (not in the next one month, at least) And we are left bereaving for our loved ones for the rest of our lives with the Rs 70,000 (The 1 lakh does not reach the family, I am sure, as it gets channelized in the way) tucked away in a corner. Because the candle-light vigils and the dharnas won't guarantee a stop to the disasters.

Gone are those days when you used to pour your heart out in an apology. A sorry, nowadays, is barfed only to save yourself of an affair, gone awry. An apology, sadly, does not mean that I will look into the matter and bring out a solution and try my best so that it does not happen further. The dwindling relevance of a heartfelt apology in today's social and moral construct is omnipresent.

And if you think I am sermonizing or being very cynical, well...what can I say...I apologize!

To coffee or not

The office canteen coffee was initially quite an attraction as I had only heard of automatic (and free) vending machines spewing chocolaty liquid which is to be had either as a refuel agent, or as a weak and harmful substitute for food, or a gossip booster, or just to kill time. But soon, I began to lose interest in the mechanical procedure which extended to the flavor, somewhat, too. The acidic taste in my tongue was ruining the taste buds of a Bengali and I soon walked away, without any bitterness in my mind, although a fair amount somewhere else.

But nowadays, I feel drawn towards the familiar quarters of the newsroom pantry again. I am not sure for what reason. Maybe, I began missing the bitterness I was used to. Maybe I was missing a butt of ridicule. Maybe I have become busier and thus enjoy lesser breaks and thus an alternative. Or simply, maybe because I am becoming an addict.

I shall think…over a cup of coffee, maybe.

A (really) long drive

I detested long drives and thought what kind of creatures have so much fixation for it, earlier. Then a few years back, I initiated myself along the same lines, which I loathed. Now, it was all too sweet for me. But, by the time the desire sunk in, I found odd companions during the almost 50 km ride from my place of stay to my work place in the place where I dwell (Did anybody say home? Tch tch!)

Here are some common conceptions of long drives and my take on it

Long drives and your love by your side

Well, I can't say i have too much affinity for the rash drivers and their pan-stained blabber, as an accompaniment while I cross 3 states, technically. The only love I show is when I have to reach my destination early and the driver honours my plea.

Miles after miles, some hugging some smiles

Well of course, I don't defend the 'miles' part of it. And you possibly can't hug a female colleague sitting beside you. Well, not me, at the least (Though I now seem to know a lot of people who would). And males are distasteful to hug. The scanty smiles are confined to the (sometimes fake) cordiality which i have to display in order to prove me as senile during a 1-hour of uneventful and conversation-less trip.

You stop the car and advance at her

Ah! This has happened many times. 1.30 at the night. The car breaks down. Alone, deserted on NH-4, cursing and spitting. Feel like advancing at the clueless driver and thwacking him hard

The winds, the kiss and the beautiful moonlight

The air around DND expressway emits the foulest of smell you can experience in the whole of Delhi. The stink stings you even in the apparently most beautiful of night with a distant haze(which you realise, soon, to be nothing but the over-polluted skyline of Noida)

And finally the desire to go on a drive again

No options here. You are a daily labourer in a mercenary firm

Of private tuitions

I always dreaded mathematics. I still do. So much, that I still have nightmares that I am sitting clueless over a paper of calculus, staring into the blank ceiling, while others scribble away to glory. Yes, numbers and I never went hand in hand. When I think of the possible reason, i conclude that it was more to do with a fear rather than inability. Guidance also matters and on that regards, my base was quite weak.

So, as far as i remember, Maths was the cause that I got my first private tutor. Rakhi miss. I was in standard 6. PCB was introduced and it all seemed greek to me (Sometimes, I feel quite near to Darsheel Safary in TZP :) So that was my first stint. Intially reluctant to be under someone's supervision, I found my teacher very cooperative and friendly. And she exuded solace. The thing I like about females. Soon I began to get interested and performed decently in exams. All thanks to this tutor of mine. But the relation ceased after a year or so as she got married and I lost a tutor whom I fancied close as a sister-in-the-making.

Mithu didi is still incomparable. The love, care, affection and the occasional scoldings that she used to display moulded me into a more matured pupil of economics. I began to love the subject and solved numericals in a snap of a finger. I used to love her handwriting. Wonderful-a reflection of her personality. She used to be very close to our family. Mithu didi gorged on the dishes prepared by Mum when she used to come and teach me. When i used to go to her place, her family offered me love. I enjoyed it a lot. Well, my reluctance was perennial but even then, now when I look back I seem to miss those days. I also seem to think that I should have changed or modified myself in such a manner which would have got me interested in subjects which i disliked. My problem was that I spent hours after hours (not literally...for me 10 minutes equalled to an hour sometimes) reading the subject of my choice, which was mainly restricted to english and hindi literature and business studies and economics, and never used to turn an eye towards the subjects I disliked (like maths, PCB, geography)Now when I look back and that I am in such a stage where bookish education is no longer a part of my life, i fancy myself to believe that I have developed a zest in me that would help me cope with maths much better, understand PCB and develop a liking for geography (geo seems so interesting to me now. Godammit! what kind of a person I was!) Coming back to Mithu didi she too got married after 4 to 5 years and is now in the States and has been blessed with a baby boy. God bless her! The years i spent under her guidance tempered me into a better learned individual. I miss her.

Then comes Suvankar da. There are few people in my life whom I have lost due to no fault of circumstances. Santanu (my old school buddy) and Suvankar da are the ones i can remember now. Exceptionally sensitive and very affectionate. Yes he was effeminate and I used to find him very wierd and also used to laugh behind his back and crack jokes at his 'infirmity'. But seldom did i realize consciously that I had found a great friend in him. Such was his heart, such his genuineness and such was his loneliness that I soon became fond of him but was never able to realize it consciously. Now that he has gone and I dont even know where he is, I feel a pang of meeting him and bringing him back to my very limited friend circle that i am left with now. People have come people have spread joy in my life and then they have left, leaving me spent and hollow. Suvankar da is one such person. i remember that he took me to a movie, a book fair and also treated me to hilsa in his house. He used to share his joys sorrow and loneliness to me. I could feel the pain in each of his words. He used to work a lot and said that he loves teaching. My grades improved and soon he left after a clash of tuition timings.

Anindita ma'am was my tutor She used to teach me hindi for 2 years. A passionate lover of hindi literature, she was very motherly towards me. She used to scold me, care about me be indifferent and bitch about others in front of me. And I liked it all. I was the best student in her class. and everytime i got an 80 in my exams she used to be very happy. Her two sons were very nice to me. chotu was my friend and subho da was an inspiration. That episode too came to an ed after my class 12 exams. I took up english and hindi went off my radar. Now I am not in touch with her.

Two other tutors very significant in my life were nishat jethu and bimal uncle. Great people. Bimal uncle has been a family friend. He used to teach me maths and ocassionally ohysics and chemistry. needless to say, I hated the subjects like anything. So naturally I avoided his classes. But he was so very learned and good in maths (he spent his entire life working for LIC) that my grades improved. I attempted 70 marks of maths in class 10 and got 60-my greatest achievement in maths till date. Afternoon classes were very tedious and i hated the classes even the more for that. Sleep-deprived and reluctant and disinterested, i loathed going to his classes but he was a great friend of ours and still is.

Nishat jethu was a cranky but funny old man. A freedom fighter in his youth, he had lovely tales to narrate to us. i still suspect him to be an undercover maoist or something. i hated going to his classes in the evenings. my friends used to play in the field and I used to give it a last sight and hop onto my bicycle.

Of course, no body was so special like Partho Mukherjee. What do i say about him. First time in my life, I died to attend his classes just to listen to him in rapt attention. Every word was a sermon for me-many of which i still consider as a guiding light in my life. The lesser said about him, the purer the essence would be.

Barring the gayatris, poornas and the sandips, I had been quite lucky to experience the rest of my private tutors. Experiences which still makes me miss them.

Pothi da

Pathikrit da will be sorely missed in the newsroom from tonight onwards. It had been a little time that I had known him and I was quite comfortable speaking to him, the way I wanted (which happens very rarely with me) Professionally, he was extremely proficient in the english language and skilful in his area of activity. But I would wholeheartedly support his decision to move out in lieu of a plumper post and a fatter pay. but of course, the chances of his reverting to the channel cannot be ruled out at all. Last night I discussed feluda, tintin and topics of my interest with him and he gave me a patient hearing. The last time somebody gave me a patient audience and I too enjoyed conversing with somebody on these matters(which most of the people would find boring and juvenile) was with Arka and Arunava, two of my closest pals. Looking forward to his columns in mid-day(Delhi).
He said he's too sane for the society. Interesting.

Poor Brothers!

Delhi is a weird place. People say its warm. well its too premature for me to explore it interestingly, delhiites, almost all of them-the middle class singhjis, the next door neighbour, your office colleagues, the top sorporate-almost everybody have a strange fixation to incestuousness. and tries to thrust it on others. Almost everybody here use a commonplace expletive which accuses you of sharing bed with...your sister! irrespective of sex, position, level, friend or not.

So when you drive rashly, when you fail to impress others, when you fail to do something which anybody expects you to do, when you hit somebody, when you poke fun at somebody...and even when you do nothing...you can expect people to label you as an incest.its normal, natural, commonplace and fair.

whats funny is that females are also addressed by the gaali behind their back, thus either doubting their sexual preference or its just a mindless piece of terminology. and well, when they get tired of the sisters, they bring in the mothers which is worse. and apart from sisters or mothers they dont go beyond. variety is missing, deliberately so. they have taken the essence out of the expletive. it has become very common now. so much so that a day might arrive when it will be used in occasions also...so Mr Sharma can turn up at the republic day function and address Mr aggarwal as "arey sggarwal saab, aap to kal se zyada behen ch*d lag rahe hain! kya baat hain?"

When I was in chennai, the gaali from my colleagues used to disillusion me. Now I am used to listening to it from all quarters. its natural now.

But I feel bad about all the sisters of this world. its an accusation which all of the sisters (if not...) would find highly offensive. But I feel more bad about the menfolk who take such a charge so lightly and never raise a word. Maybe the fact that some of them are said in jest dont bother them. Yes delhiites are so warm that even an expletive doesnt draw any kind of foul reaction from the listener.

Yeh Dilli hain mere yaar...

The Neighbourhood Trilogy

It's amazing. For the 20 years I have stayed in salt lake, never before I have looked back and smiled. Now that I do, I miss those avenues, those boulevards and the brisk walk to my neighborhood...

Part 1: Labony

The closest and the most accessible. I still remember I used to be fascinated by those interesting wall patterns on the boundary which covered Labony Housing estate so intricately. The first memories go back to labony school-my first familiar landmark in the society-no because I studied there but because my aunt used to teach there and had a lot of tales to tell us about it. And who can forget Murari kaku's shop? It's the 'eastern oriental fair' which james Joyce talks about in his short story 'Araby' for me. Still incomparable and of a much much higher class than the glitzy and swanky mall outlets and branded retail stores in any part of the world for me. There was nothing that you could not get from his shop and the most alluring part was the benevolent smile that used to greet me whenever I used to visit it either for the month's supplies or a piece of soap or a loaf of bread. My mother's hankering over a couple of rupees was also met with the most cordial of all expressions and an unending desire to please his customers. Truly, retailing was a piece of cake for him and he succeeded all right! Just around the corner was a sweetmeat shop called 'dool-phool' named after two sisters one of them who got married and came to stay in our locality. It churned out the worst of the sweets but nevertheless, guests in house would mean a trip to 'dool-phool', since there were no other sweets shop nearby. The old dingy alleys led to the greengrocers with all their fresh splendours-potatoes, onions, lettuces, cauliflowers, freshwater fish, mutton, tender chicken and the list would go on and everybody used to have their own advertisements-either shouting to the customers to come to them and check out the freshest of the lot or simply howling their low price varieties. It was unmatched. Who can forget the stationary shop where a jovial middle aged person tended to the time taken by me to decide which pen to buy, with unparalleled patience. Labony variety stores' ambience was perfect, now that I revive, to relax in a shade when the scorching sun was making its presence unbearable for us. It was a welcome relief amidst the fragnance of the freshly grained lentils and the pungent but titillating mustard oil. These sights and sounds and smells transport me to the olden past world of charm and laziness, only to find my existence now in a drab and mechanical world of commercialization and unemotion. Quite a number of times, I have played criclket with the so called 'rival kids' of labony-alone, in thier team,as well as while representing vidyasagar. My record while playing alone, I would like to believe, has been unmatched. There was a day, I faintly remember, i whacked sixes after sixes to a bowler. Trips to Bimal uncle's home for tuition was a reluctant affair but nevertheless, I miss it terribly now, such a goo teacher he was. But most of the days , the ambience in the house was such-with all the curtains drawn and no one in the house, either of us would doze off regularly, leaving the avoidable RD Sharma maths book unattended. Those were the days. The joy of escaping from the drab world of tuitions was a high for me. I used to run back to my home, only to come down and start my evening playing session with my friends. Later on, Arka and me used to go to labony together-if the either of us had something to buy. Or at least cross the estate if we had to go somewhere else on the same route. The stalls of milk, flowers and Fuchkas outside Labony was a great place to stop by and hang out.Even now, when I go to Kolkata, I make it a point to find an excuse to visit it at least once. During pujas, we used to visit Labony's puja, which 8 out of 10 times was better than ours, thanks to the high budget due the number of residents they had. But anyways, we would find a thousand faults with their pandals, thier idol and a host of other things and leave labony with a sense of accomplishment, grinning ear to ear. We used to dance the hardest near labony gate on the beats of the most rocking tune during durga puja immersion procession (the nagin tune) So a relationship of sweet rivalry existed between vidyasagar and labony but an indispensable bond was unmistakable in its presence between labony and me.

Part 2: CA Market

Arguably, no why arguably, DEFINITELY, the best market that I have visited. When I talk about best market it doesnt mean that it has to have cool stores and heavy tech facilities. My idea of perfect markets is that it should have a warm, cosy and familiar feeling with accessible and comfortable marketing facilities. And CA market suited the bill perfectly. It still does in many aspects. And the charm has increased manifold after I and Jaya used to roam around in the alleys surrounding it. But starting from trips to CA market with Bhaisaab to Amma to my parents to Arka, every trip has been so very special that it is altogether a different experience. Mona kaka's shop was a direct substitute for murari kaku's in labony. I liked dipping my hands into the sacks of rice kept outside the shop and also used to enjoy the star treatment meted out to us. SO often my parents were offered a cup of tea and I, a toffee of my choice, which made my trips even more pleasurable. Another attraction was the cassette Cds shop where, most probably, the first Salman khan Cassette was notched up by me before anybody else. The fruit shop, the magazine shop(where the comic magazines laid neatly on slabs of stones), the roll centre outside, the chemist's, Ravi da's shop outside, Sudeepta on the 1st floor(where all the latest He-man and g.i.joe figures used to entice me), the dressers upstairs, the stationers where I used to buy my school books from-so special they are and so strongly they are etched in my memory that I find it very difficult apart from them now. The malls dont impress me. But now Ca market has 'developed'. The advent of modernity is good but somewhere the charm loses itself...

Part 3: EC market

Yeah it was dirty, disorganised and lacked maintenance. It still is and I dont appreciate the dark roads that lead to it. But nevertheless, without EC market, the trilogy wouldnt have completed. Regular trips to the market was a habit. Sometimes for buying the latest russian books, underpriced and exotic, sometimes to buy fresh and hot vegetable chops and out-of-the-world kheerkadamba sweets with flakes of kheer over it from 'amrita piyashi'. Rows of GIJoe action figures used to hang outside SNCL, an acronym for 'essential' used to live up to its name for me. Everytime, I used to nag about visiting the shop and deriving vicarious pleasure out of watching them and 20 other odd toys, showcased so intricately, glistening and seducing me so much as to give me dreams of them. Then there was the brothers shop which I still did not understand sold what? 'Aahar's' rolls were the one of its kind in Kolkata with tender dumplings of chicken golden fried with a dash of lemon on it.So when I have saleem's or kareem's rolls here, the zing is missing and overpriced still. The shops in all the three markets mentioned were generic in nature but still all of them had an individuality of theirs.

I did not mention Chhorda's store in Vidyasagar as it is in my own locality. The Duttabad market also deserves a special mention as far as charm is concerned. Of late, City Centre and Purbachal market also were favourite haunts but only because Jaya accompanies me to these places.


I long for these markets and neighbourhoods now. So when I doze off while returning home in a bus and wake up and lose the sense of time and place, I imagine that after a little while i will be visiting one of the markets to buy something. And then, I realize that I am miles apart from them and they wont be accessible to me. Only in my distant dreams, perhaps, where i could see them but not touch.

Working for the tube

Yeah, so its been more than 6 months that I am in the media profession. There used to be a time when I was enamoured by the field (mostly that of print...TV seldom interested me) and wanted to pursue a career in journalism. But that time I was a bit juvenile and naive to think that the profession would be a bed of roses. But later on with education, knowledge and a little experience, I discovered some thorns too.

So yes, life of a journalist is not heaven. Yes, you get a kick, u get respect from people but you have to slog and specially in TV the situation is crunch. Television, unlike print, competes for TRPs, eyeball grabbing and sensationalism. So the components (namely the workforce) that go into its realization need to be very efficient and swift, and thus the condition gets strenuous.

There is an unmistakable buzz in a newsroom which translates a situation of utter urgency and a life on the edge. Yes, outdoor reporters have a tougher life. I know a senior reporter of a leading TV channel who complains that she has to take her blackberry even to the shower, lest a phone call comes to her asking to go out and report or to do a live chat or give a phono. Desk work is equally hectic and active. But its localized in the newsroom. Production (online and bulletin) needs skill and thought and quick decision-making abilities. Life as a bulletin producer at News9 was very very tough, specially coz I had just passed out of college. But I personally feel that a promo producer, although needs to be creative and all, has the easiest and coolest working style and conditions ina Tv channel. Having said these, I would also like to mention that the policies and working style differ from channel to channel. So if in India TV the lead prime timer is 'barfili maanav:yeti", in Times now its the latest piracy by the somali buccaneers. So while NDTV takes you to the drought affected corners of vidharba, CNN IBN tells you about the latest train mishap in the country.

And how are the people? Well frustrated, I would say. If you are into the media business, you would know why. Most of them are foul mouthed and have a certain crudeness in them. I have heard my friends in the news channel which harbours the highest TRPs in today's time complain that some of the anchors in the channel are so full of themselves that conversing with them you would feel like as if you are talking to an important delegate or something (no offences). It comes to you. I know it does. There have been instances where I have gotten irritated in a click of a finger and after regaining my composure have realized the magnitude of my undoing. I dont know how strongly can I guard myself from these traps. I remember one of my professors in ACJ warn us that in newsrooms, we would discover startingly curious anatomical and familial terms hitherto unknown to us. I did. And also as P. Sainath said once in a lecture, that if the vidharba farmers really lost their lives by consuming liquor (as held by the government) then there would be no journalists left in this planet. i realized that too, though not in a very intimate way. Then ofcourse there are good people, willing to help you. But the number is less. By the way, I have noticed the abovementioned traits only in TV journalsts. I still have a fuzzy idea about print journalists.

I strongly feel that more than a decision, Journalism is an intention (others would say passion). Even if you are not a journalist, I think everyone should be updated with the latest happenings all around you through the extensive coverage of media today. But those in the profession may enjoy the luxury of keeping his mind shut off events as such in a off day. Be a journalist and you would soon know why.

There are a lot of other things that I would have liked to share in this article, but maybe sometimes later.

mukul scribbles and scribbles well!

I find my friend Sid's tidbits about his life a nice read in his 'bits from here and pieces from there' blog category. So I learn that he will be off to a new place for a new job in a few days. The news satisfies me. I really feel good for him and wish him all the very best in his work and fun. He's been a brother to me and even though we are miles separated and he hangs out more with his other friends and I with mine ( whatever scarce I am left with), he holds a special place in my heart. We have been friends right from the beginning-from times that I dont remember even. And we have been great pals. Lots of things to write about our memories. It would take ages. I will, eventually, one day. But in a nutshell, he was among the very few in our school who was so passionate about Bollywood, so he was a storehouse of gossips, news, scoops and infos. And being in his company sure did me well in whipping up my interest in the field. A man with an array of creativity. astounding handwriting. I still remember that he used to pen down the details of the book cricket entry with such painstaking care and details. I hope he still treasures those diaries. And he was fun, alright! There wasnt a single dull moment with him. Now we have grown up and we meet rarely. But each encounter remains etched in my memory for long. His blogging habit is very commendable. And to learn the fact that he is reading books like 'the white tiger' and is keeping himself updated with the latest movies in town deserves an applause. Way to go, bro!

to the people who scans my posts: please visit www.mukulscribbles.blogspot.com

Fruit and nut

I remember that when I came to Chennai to pursue my post graduation, I had written in a blog entry that blogging would be a luxury from then onwards. Now i am afraid it is time that I revisit the emotion. Though it sounds fancy, but its a fact that I have little time at my disposition to pursue my leisurely activities. So blog entries could be scarce now. Sometimes when I am in the midst of paraphrasing the latest comments of arun jaitley on the 2G spectrum allocation 'scam' into TV language, my mind wanders off into portals which supplies me with rich content for a prospective blog entry. But alas, the call of duty and the overseeing CCTVs forbid me to translate my passion into practice and by the time I reach home late way after midnight, my mind becomes numb, insusceptible to any ideas or drive.

The princeton dictionary defines 'testimonial' as 'something that serves as an evidence'. Well, so the 10-odd testimonials that I have received in my orkut account is meant to be evidences for me, if somebody questions my integrity and suspects the nobleness of my mind. But hasnt it already been questioned and suspected and reached to a conclusion by some people who had once written me testimonials? This is just an ounce of the reason why I shrugged off a couple of them a few minutes ago. The other reason is far more important for me.

social networking sites are a good invention. people have less time now and they want to display their daily trapping and achievements in the form of messages, taglines, pictures, videos etc on such sites. So when I see a photograph of a lonely girl sitting on a cliff silhouetted by the evening sky in ranjeeta's profile, i ascertain that she is missing home. When I see sayan's profile name changed to 'Salman Khan rocks' I conclude that he must be one of the lucky ones to have seen the my hero in city centre mall in Kolkata a couple of days back. or when i see simantini uploading her album with photographs of her friends from C.U, I understand the joviality that was showered on them during her riend's birthday bash. I can cite numerous egs like these. I feel good when I scan through the recent updates of my friends section. smiling pictures greet me. sad taglines worries me. a shocking revelation conjures up in my mind, the different possible reasons for it. But nevertheless, it feels refreshing. Although I havent ventured into any other social networking sites like facebook and twitter other than orkut (I feel that they would be a little confusing for me).

I am reading Jhumpa lahiri's 'Interpretation of maladies' right now. And I have stumbled upon the fact that every Bengali word can have a corresponding english word to it. The style is impeccable and the flow very simple and gripping. 'Mrs Sen's' is a personal favourite. I am not so much exposed to good literature and there have been very few stories that have brought tears to my eyes. Mrs sen's is one of them. As I could not control my tears at the rear seat of my cab when Mrs sen wept yesterday, I felt miserable. This happens with me sometimes. That is why I feel horrified to read rabindranath, to watch a sad foreign film. I stil cant erase the depression that i had developed after consuming the impressions from 'pikur diary', 'the seventh seal', 'bicycle thief', 'pather panchali'. I dont want to dwell in the domain of music, whose reactions on me are even more difficult to veer my mind from. But I do have complains. I didnt like the ending of 'mrs sen's'.

Faces

Interview day: Among the new faces, one was extremely alluring. She was a namesake of an Indian beauty pageant winner but was more beautiful than her. Of course, that time i was committed and I didnt have any excuse or willingness to flirt with her. And another thing which was stopping me was the fact that she was almost a 6 footer and was quite charming to not to be proposed before or not to be engaged at that time. As these thoughts clouded my mind (Note: without any intentions to lech), we picked up a conversation which veered around the time tested and 1000 times heard prospects of journalism and stuff about it. She was working with some channel in Mumbai at that time and said that she was very casual about ACJ. It wouldnt matter to her if she did not get through. Anyways, She didnt and I dont know whether it mattered to her or not. It sure didnt matter to me. Also because, later on I heard from a common friend of that girl and mine that she was once knocked-up. There was another girl from Calcutta at whom almost all the men in our college leched about afterwards. Another bengali girl from Pune became a good friend later on, more so as she went on to replace my room buddy's girlfriend and become a source of my inconvenience whenever I strolled in my buddy's room in shorts and tee. There was another bong from Asansol, at whom I looked and made up my mind to make her my sis in college. Well, i coudnt help. She looked so much like a sis. Maybe that's the reason why I almost made up my mind to hit out when a drunken bastard on chennai street teased her, when i was interrupted by my friends. There was another guy who later on went on to become one of closest roomies and i still miss him a lot-the quintessential F-1 expert and a know all about business. He is working with reuters now and is being paid a whopper. He was a guy's guy, really and is currently mending a broken heart due to a girl whom I never thought would be a perfect choice for him. There was another guy, a passout from jadavpur university who I hoped would make it to the college as he was turning into a friend. But he didnt. In the midst of all this sat a mouse-faced guy, smiling at everyone from a distance but never opening his mouth to utter a single word. I felt weird and he didnt looked like a bong, though he was one from Silchar. He turned out to be one of my best friends in ACJ and arguably, the best guy in our college. When I was ushered into the longish room, with a longer table and men and women with even longer and well fed faces, I was a little taken aback seeing the sight of around 8 to 10 people sitting opposite me and the thoughts of them trying to grill me after a few seconds. But then they were sweet and they believed that I was made for television-a thought that did not for once crossed my mind in the last 20 years. I was aghast and said that I want print and only print. But later on, I was offered television and within a few months I found myself fumbling with a microphone in front of a camera which looked like a scary sten gun. But then, such was the environment and our instructor and the ringing faith in me of the teachers, that soon I began to love the medium.

I still remember the interview day distinctly, a day which was a sort of prelude of things to come in an eventful and learning period of 10 months.

A Rick-ety ride back

Friendship for me has nowadays made me a little wary before plunging in it, though I still retain my old habit of making people feel comfortable in my company.

In Gurgaon, I prefer my computer to friends.

Although for the past few months, my spirits are feeding on to some passing chunks of delights. Precisely when I get up on a rickshaw queuing up at IFFCO chowk, thirsting for a passenger, and more so for a fat customer like me. They are all Bengali Moslems from Malda district in West Bengal (a fact tat I have known for the last 6 years) And invariably, they know all the people among their cluster very well, which provides a little consolation to their longing wait for a passenger, when it doesn’t rain. I am a hot property among the Rick wallahs in IFFCO chowk. They know that every day this guy in thick specs and carrying an oversized bag would approach one of us and take a ride till Supermart area for a fair (according to them) or a fat (according to me) sum. It’s a treat to watch their excitement that who will be the lucky one to ply me to my destination as soon as they see me approaching me from a distance. At times I feel embarrassed and very indecisive when a bevy of dark skinned nerve protruding reed like structures, with flies hovering around their uncleaned body stand in front of me advertising themselves and their rickety ricks, and unfailingly cursing other rick wallahs who try to lure me to that hard wooden seat, seemed to be made comfortable by a cushiony cover. But its unmistakable to notice a gleam of fun in their day long strained faces, highlighting poverty, dissatisfaction and a million wishes unfulfilled, as they start their bids. Its fun for me but I still feel the pangs of maybe upsetting the others as soon as I board a rickshaw. To solve this problem I always try not to repeat taking the same rick for consecutive days. I believe it’s a fair practice. After crossing the first polluted and smoke blurting signal, I always offer the rick wallah a biscuit from my tiffin and we continue our journey munching those simple snacks. I have heard so many stories on the way from them about them-family, monthly income, an accident that they have faced; about their families back in Malda-their properties, the feuds within their brothers, how Didi has brought in smiles to their faces after decades of fearing the left and so on. Yes the roofs are low and the ride is a bumpy one, but I seem to enjoy these simple, carefree and unpretentious conversations with them. Moreover they also feel good to steal a discussion or two with their passengers, that too in their native language. As I pay them after the ride, I don’t look at their faces lest that I see a glint of disappointment in them.

But a strain of undercurrent still remains. They are not totally devoid of that money minded mentality. And there have been many days that I need a rick desperately, maybe during rains or something, but don’t find them.

So I still don’t trust them, neither do I try to be really close to them. The old, unassuming, demanding, reckless unsuspecting and unaware-of-my-own-doings nature of me has subsided…for good.

Before it rained channels...

We got our cable connection in the year 1999 during the England cricket World Cup.

Maybe now its unthinkable but I still cherish the memories of the loads of fun I used to have while switching channels from doordarshan 1 to metro, 10 years back. That was a time when our televisions didn’t have a cable connection. I used to be a TV freak then (Now I limit my viewing to impeccable stuff only) I still remember I appeared for an interview to get an admission in Calcutta Boys school, half hearted and my mind wandering off distractedly to the Shaktimaan episode I was going to miss. Yes, I was rebuked, scolded by my parents for doing so but I never regret the fact till now. And of course, I did not get the admission, less due to my allegiance to Mukesh Khanna and mainly due to the fairly large sum of ‘donation’ asked by the principal from my father.Apologies for digressing. Yes, Television, even if restricted to two channels, was a treat for me to savour everyday. Fond memories are attached to the incomparable Chhuti chhuti which used to be aired on DD 1 during the summer holidays. From puppet shows to cartoons, from children’s movies to informative capsules, it had it all to hook me on to the tube after a reluctant study session and a brisk bath. Ahh those were the days. As the golden sunshine came streaming in through the flimsy curtains used to block it in our drawing room, I used to have sips of lemon cordial made by my Mom and devour the show attentively. Sometimes I wonder, the kind of attention I have given towards Tv and Cinema and books, if a certain percebtage of it was contributed towards Mathematics, Sanskrit, tuitions, classes and studies in a whole, then I would have been a topper of sorts. I was attentive. I had concentration but number one it was short lived and number two, it was directed towards the pursuit of seemingly alluring things which the society and specifically parents consider, or used to consider, as useless. Now of course the perception has changed, partly due to the indispensable medium of communication the Tv is and the maximum attraction of the parents themselves towards the so called idiot box. So Chhuti chhuti was one such program. I was introduced to Feluda and Goopi gyne Bagha byne and Satyajit Ray per se thanks to the wonderful program, which I strongly feel should be revived today. Trust me. Even if the advent of reality shows, soaps, cartoons and 100 odd channels have made their mark on the minds of even toddlers, a fair dose of a chhuti chhuti season would be lapped up with equal significance and curiosity for the things lost and suddenly found.

And of course, who could forget the cartoons in the afternoons? Starting from the 4 o clock slot. Well, I am still unaware of the cartoons that used to precede the 4 o clock timing as I was forcibly made to take a nap during afternoons which I completely abhorred and now passionately long for, by my mother, and which failing to do so attract a thwack out of nowhere on my cheeks of anywhere on my body. So there were many afternoons when I used to lay down, pretend to sleep and in the core of my mind, desire the crawling minutes to speed up and pass on quickly. So whether it be the mickey mouse cartons or swat kats or duckwing duck or duck tales or even super human samurai, they were jewels for me. An everyday treat to my huge appetite for cartoons at that time, which was curbed and eventually was lost after the horrible afternoon tuitions started and instead of watching cartons or playing in the field with my friends, I had to sling a bag and with a heavy heart bid goodbye to my passions and enter the dark dingy world of private tuitions. I can find the flicker of that passion for cartoons in me today in flashes, if I spot a spongebob squarepants episode or if I pick up a calvin and hobbes essential. That time, I didn’t used to miss a single carton any day. I was reluctant to visit my relations due to it, which would draw flak from everybody, and embarrassingly from my relations too.

And then as the day proceeded, there were the serials. Those nostalgic pieces of sunshine which are still deep embedded on the storehouse of my fond reminiscences which make me up and feeds me when I long for my past, uncluttered simple existence. Shrimaan Shrimati. All the best. Naya Nukkad. Non-stop nonsense. Dekh bhai dekh. Bengali soaps which I used to share with my teary eyed mother sitting beside me, like janani and janmabhoomi. I used to be delighted with the background cackling audio which would be set on after each dialogue of hilarity mouthed by some of the best TV stars. I used to go crazy if I wasn’t allowed to watch non-stop nonsense, the comedy series which employed animosity as one of the principle tools of tickling your funny bone-a german extravaganza and an exotic delight for me. When I saw the series a couple of years back or so in a TV channel with its original name of ‘didi’ retained, I was not only bored but also surprised of my lack of interest in the show which was more attractive to me in my childhood than anything else. I guess my passion has left me and have been usurped by News and other shows on TV today. And then came two whoppers of a serial-the danny denzongpa starrer feisty Ajnabi and the family drama Junoon. Both of which was a must watch by me and my mother. The haunting track of Ajnabi still lingers in my mind and the powerful performance of Danny was a true achievment in his career. I didn’t find such an interest in junoon though. Sea Hawks, Captain Vyom, Captain house were the other adventurous soaps which were good timepasses. There was another soap starring neena gupta and a person whose screen name was Mr. Bajaj (I forget its name) loved by my Mom. News, I abhorred at that time. I loathed it if my Dad used to see the 7 o clock DD bulletin, a common practice among Bengali families at that time. Friday night movies were appealing by I had my own limits which restricted my Tv viewing till 10 in the night lest I fail to wake up at 5.30 in the morning next day and go to school. And weekends were not an exception. I also remember having a trifle interest in watching a Japanese soap aired generally during the odd hours of the afternoon.

Of course, apart from my daily diet of cartoons and comedies, bollywood used to be my staple too. From that time onwards I tried to track the happenings around the tinsel town, partly from shows on bolly news and scoops (the names of which I forget) and partly from scouting the entertainment pages in the newspaper. Though I was not so particular as I am now, still I made it a point to watch those shows whenever I was not watching anything else. The epical ‘Durga Durgatinashini’ aired on every mahalaya was a visual and audio wonder which I used to savour with my sleepy eyes at 5 o clock in the morning. Byomkesh bakshi was an occasional treat for me. A word about the brilliant advertisements that used to come on TV at that time. Who can forget the nirma super commercial which I chant even now? The energy of Lifebuoy, the simplicity of spredit margarine, the melody of vicco turmeric, the curiosity of deluxe nirodh, the fun of lijjat papad, the freshness of pepsi and coke and so on and so forth. Those gems are still considered as some of the bests by different admen today. But there were times, when I used to be saddened by the fact that a cricket match was not telecasted on doordarshan and on a private cable channel instead. Or when my friends used to chatter ceaselessly of topics related to programmes on cable channels. But a sneak peek of a half an serial on DD would revive me instantaneously. And when I began longing for cable TV, after its widespread appeal began to entice people from all quarters of life, I knew in my mind that no amount of shows on DD can hold me to it any longer. The pure innocent childhood days were slowly starting to get corrupted by the advent of modernity and advancement.

So that’s the long and short of it. It was a classy episode in my life where I infused a spirit in a seeming lifeless matter. Two channels and a lot to explore. Nowadays, there have been several occasions when I have surfed the 100 channels on my set top box and haven’t been able to stick to one due to the uninteresting drab shown in the channels. That is when I wish that the DD serials and the cartoons be re introduced for people like me who still swear by them. Television was a passion then, Now it’s a tendency.

Dekho baarish ho rahi hai

21 August 2009

Heavy Rains lash across the capital

It was a day when all the emotions and the heart wrenching feelings associated with the rains went out for a walk and we…never came back that day.

Delhi recorded 74 mm of rainfall in just 2 hours on Friday. And commuters like me were stranded in the city, clueless about how to reach home in the torrential downpour and the waterlogging, traffic jam, lack of transport, in short, the calamity that followed.

Here are some excerpts from the dampener of a day.

4.30pm: Howling is on full blast outside as strong winds lash on my office window and all of us queue near the window in disbelief and worry. Rumours travel in the department that Akshay has slipped and fallen while trying to run on the slippery road outside to return to the office. Meanwhile, in the congress headquarters, water seeps and literally pours from the ceiling, fans and from the AC vents also soaking the Sonia Gandhi photograph nailed on the wall.

5.30 pm: The rain recedes. But it’s a literal flood outside my office building. I set my mind clock to a late return back home. And I also leave the office a little before my schedule time.

5.45pm: Waiting for the bus, any bus in fact, Shuttling between both the sides of the road following the haywire diversion of buses from their usual routes due to a serpentine traffic jam near South Moti Bagh. I see my office colleagues leave one by one. And I envy the ones who are escorted by a car.

6.00pm: “Nahi saab. Dhaula Kuan ke wahan bahut jam hain”. A crisp 50 rupee note fails to lure the auto driver, thinking of petrol consumption and time-passenger efficiency ratio. Calamity. It seems diasater has struck. The sun peeps out after a dark afternoon. My mobile phone flies out of my hand, thanks to a push from a harrowed person in the bus stop. Nokia is a strong phone.

6.20pm: I start walking towards Outer ring road and after reaching there in 10 minutes I do get a bus to Dhaula Kuan. Thinking to compensate the disastrous ride which I foresaw, I called up my Dad and asked him to order a pizza for me.

6.45pm: the passenger standing on my left is carrying his dirty, wet and muddy pair of shoes in his hand and which is constantly brushing against my expensive formal trousers. Curses! Never ever I am going to wear formals to office during monsoon. I am not needing any support to stand. The passengers all around ma are quite supportive, physically. The bus is moving at a speed of 2 cms an hour. The only respite is the Salman Khan song blaring in the bus radio.

7:00 am: I reach Dhaula Kuan finally after what seemed like an endless ride. I would have been able to reach faster had I walked. An aerial view provided to me, while in the bus, atop a flyover made me witness an astounding sight. Below me were 3 or 4 huge flyover lanes, choc a bloc with car tops-a colourful sight but nevertheless threatening. And in front of me I could have an endless sight of cars honking away to glory.

7:15pm: Finally I board a chartered which was less crowded, although I did not get a place to sit. Again a Salman Khan movie, Judwaa, which was played on the Bus, accompanied me. I could not view the monitor though, due to the rows of heads in front of me, but the soundbox, poised near my sight was the only source of what I could follow from the film, assisted partially by my memory.

7:40pm: A dead duck! The bus has moved only around 3 to 5 inches on the last 30 minutes or so. I am crammed up again needing no support. My low back’s aching like mad. Dad calls me up and says they wont deliver pizza under a particular amount and no one else in my family eats pizzas. Mum says she has prepared Afghani chicken. Ahh at least something to look forward to.

8:00pm: The bus crosses the airport, where the roof shades had flown off, thanks to the gusts. And then it picks up speed and for the first time in hours, cool winds caress my face and I begin to feel a little comfortable.

8:30pm: In no time, I reach IFFCO chowk to my utter delight. Though the pain in the back is worsening. I tale a rick and head towards home after the end of a battling journey.

8:50 pm: Home at last!

I dedicate this account to those Calcutta dwellers, who constantly complain about the lack of proper maintenance in the city when it rains and also the poor traffic situation when it pours. Believe me, I have been also through that grime but Delhi is worse during the monsoon. The water level took hpurs to subside. Sewers overflowed. Traffic jams took everybody’s breath away. So the next time you complain. Go through this account before that.

Spare a thought

The covering deprivation classes in our college was not something that I was very fond of but yes it was an enriching experience to know about the plight of the poor and the downtrodden in our country and the lack of amenities and assistance by the state and the central government to them. like the tragedy of the Vidharbha suicides, the Kosi floods, the 2002 drought etc. And P. Sainath's lectures were the ones that all of us so waited to hear. The impressive personality and the plethora of knowledge that he displayed was very difficult to ignore. Many of my colleagues, especially my dear friend Siddhartha, considers him to be their hero. And why not? after the immense contribution that he devoted for covering deprivation. Even the trips to Sunderbans, Nagapattinam( I belonged to this trip team), Vellore and Kanchipuram were rejuvinatingly different from covering national and local stories. Coming in contact with the aggrieved Land owners in Nagapattinam, the fishermen community which had lost their catch and land due to the tsunami, their satisfaction and frustration stories on the rehabilitation was brilliant. The way the women's group worked in certain pockets were very laudable. The problem of water and state government subsidies were the main threats and disappointments for those poor farmers. And also the beautiful countryside, the fun travels, the visit to the organic farming grounds-all these were really an eye opener and a different experience for me. No I dont cherish any dreams to cover rural areas like my friend Siddharth in the future, but still now when I see the bold initiative by NDTV and some dailies in covering deprivation issues, I feel proud that yes, at least some group of the media is giving weightage to this issue.

Independent...Are we really?

My Mom was the only person who said 'Jai Hind' when the flag was hoisted in the Gurgaon society that we exist in. While some looked at her, probably finding it over the top, dramatic, comical or even...below standard, some of them repeated with my mother, feebly.
Even today, the main topic of debate after the flag has been unfurled and respects have been paid, is whose husband works where?how much does he earn? what is whose latest extravagant possession? what happened to the tender that the company thought to buy? who is younger than whom? why does Mrs. Chawla stay indoors?etc etc. I am sure if it were not for the free food, no body would have disturbed their bonus slumber and come down to witness the event, once a spectacle.
62 years...are we at all independent?
No, I think. The newly married, who has to, even today, face the rebukes by her in laws. is she independent? the girl who has to do whatever her father decides. is she independent? the boy who wants to go to the states for further studies but doesnt have enough funds. is he independent? A local electrician who has to do duty at odd hours to feed his family...just to feed. is he independent? the Gorkha Janmukti Morcha people who wants a seperate state for themselves. are they independent? Is India free from its foreign big brothers?
The common people or the UPA's mascot-the Aam Aadmi (or mango people as saif ali khan says in LAK) is still shackled by the chains of poverty, unemployment, inflation, poluution, crime, personal insecurity etc. Culturally, our blind aping of the western culture doesnt make us feel that we were once colonized by the British and we were slaves to them.
There are others who dont want to be independent. Largely dependent on the society and its functions, a government employee would never think of starting up his own business. I still wait for my Mom to serve me food on the dinner table. Why?
I am not being cynical but being pragmatic. Independence is a weighty word. what we achieved 62 years ago is a portion of it. We are yet to be free.
But still and always, no matter what...Jai Hind!

A disgusting piece of random shit !

...........................Enjoy...................................

A plush drawing room in a Melbourne service apartment. Its 12 noon. there's a comfortable couch in the middle, a red swanky carpet adorning the floor, three glass cupboards with mementos, showpieces and photographs inside them. Priya is sitting on the couch, reading a woman's magazine. In the background, a light music emanates...'bade achhe lagte ho'...

Enters Prem. glances at priya. smiles

Priya: Switch on the lights, prem

Prem: But when will you ruffle my hair?

Priya: Off o Prem, Cleopatra was a very beautiful woman...(shudders)

Prem senses a chord of anger in Priya

Prem: You bitch! why why why didnt you give me eggs in my breakfast?

Priya: (sobbing) Merry Christmas Prem ! Please dont kick me like this.

Lights dim. humming in background

Prem: (croons) jaane na kaha woh duniya hai, jaane na wo hai bhi ya nahin...

Priya: (laughs out loud) Oh Prem you are such a cutieeee...

Both embrace, wipe each others' tears. Prem slaps Priya. Priya laughs.

light dims. end of Act 34

Act ** (a balcony overseeing the juhu beach in Mumbai)

enters pyaare. he is crawling.

Pyaare: Hi ! mujhse dosti karoge!

Priya: Dont talk to me

Pyaare: (angrily) Of course,. Do you know what has happened? its recession time. Shiney has got jailed. China is declaring a war on India. Beitullah Mehsud has died. Swine Flu has become a global pandemic. The WADA is such a pain for us. And you expect me to believe that you are innocent...

Enters Prem.

Prem: Hey Pyaare! wassup buddy? hows life?

Pyaare: what are you doing here?

Prem: Oh I am sorry very sorry I just followed by heart. Its ok. i will go away to the alps. chill out there (cough) umm do you have a ciggarrate?

Priya: Oh Prem. I...love you so much.

Enters Piya in a smart dress.

Pyaare: Oh Piya...I love you so much.

Piya: what's going on? what crap are you guys talking about? I was sitting in my balcony and overheard you people's conversation. I coudnt help barging in and shaking you up guys.

Prem: Oh its morning already...

Priya: We were discussing.

Pyaare: (pointing at the audience) And these guys were listening intently, ,nodding intelligently. So we continued.

Piya: oh great! can I have some juice then?

light steadily dims.curtains.

End Title: Thanks you for reading this slice of life.
Life is sometimes meaningless, but we participate in it and carry on.

Credits:

Prem: Mr. Salman Khan
Priya: Ms. Kareena Kapoor
Pyaare: Mr. Sohail Khan
Piya: Ms. Preity Zinta

Special thanks to Mr. Ronnie Screwwala and Mr. Prem R. Soni

Source: 1. Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing (Macbeth, William Shakespaere)
2. Life is a tale told by all of us, full of sound, fury and echoes signifying ...well, quite a few things (ABC, Yash Sengupta)
3. Mr. Partho Mukherji

............... That's all, folks!...................

BREAKING NEWS!

I was shocked to find that a close relative of mine did not have a clue about what swine flu is and the massacre it is resulting in throughout. I rebuked her, chided her (a license which I hope I enjoy, 'friends' that we are) for not following news on TV or print. But after hanging up the call, I was taken aback by my own introspections. Here's a lady who does not follow the news of the day. I felt nice. Just thought about it. A simple life, where you dont know anything about the world except for your close acquaintances or family, your immediate neighbourhood or your charming salt lake paara. rewind to those ancient days where life used to be without clutter and you dint wake up in the morning scanning through the day's top news, which invariably resorts to some bomb blast, or some case of rape or a govt. misdoing etc.

Which leads me to today's scenario in the media. The Indian media-specially television-thrives on sensationalism and the far too treaded concept of Breaking News. There's no degree of objective reporting. Not an iota of stating plain facts. The debates are over the top and the anchors are literally screaming throughout the day. If a different news channel is showing some live footage of a press conference or some first shots, all the other stop whatever they are showing and switch on to the particular news. In an increasingly competitive environment and for a mad scrmbling of TRPs the channels are sacrificing their ethics, which keep on changing everyday, and in some cases every hour.

Having critiqued that facet, I would like to counter a question-do you like sensationalism? do breaking news hooks you on to the tube? do fist banging and howling discussions ala Newshour give you an adrenaline rush? Invariably, all these questions should be answered affirmatively. Nobody would like to revert back to the days of mechanical newsreading in DD before the advent of 24X7 news.nobody. Today we have anchors, who does justice to their portfolio as they do anchor the show in its real sense. Watch a Arnab Goswami or a Pranoy Roy or a Rajdeep Sardesai-the stalwarts. I wouldnt think of even glancing my sight to some other direction if they pronounce (i am not using read) some news on air. Its a granted fact now. Tv channels thrive on sensationalism and we buy them coz we like them. Everybody likes Butter chicken better than sushi. I dont want to talk about the hindi channels but the leading eng 24X7 channels have a distinct quality of their own. While I like the style and the vocabulary innovativeness of Times Now, I respect the causes which NDTV upholds. And CNN-IBN I believe balances both the aspects and treads between the sensational and the straight. While Arnab has a rare quality to engage his viewers while he's anchoring, Mr. Roy , I think, is very conversational, a rare trait again. Increasingly, today, even the usage of graphics and teasers enhance the marketibility of the channels. Panel discussions need a high production input and I must say Times Now and NDTV does a good job of it.

But the BBC training in my college was an eye-opener. We were asked to dole out crisp and OBJECTIVE reports for our television stories, an element missing in the Indian media. It was the greatest experience ever. It was TV. and it was simple. two highly contradictory terms in one basket. which made the experience even more exciting. I believe if we can have a little bit of objectivity,coupled with a conversational anchoring style and employing good visuals in news, we can have less detractors of the Indian media. But I am afraid whether people will buy into it. It needs very high production capability and a brave foot forward. Its risk of a high order. very high. But if one channel enters this foray, many of the others are sure to follow suit. And then we will see another revolution in the Indian media.

About the infrastructural domain, I believe that the intolerable conduct meted out in the news room is an unavoidable thing, because of high ego associated with a brand and specially due to the crisis situation prevailing throughout the clock in channels. Job security is non-existent, partly because of the flexible nature of the org and the unscathed policies that it undertakes. Pay scale is good once you are up the ladder but they also drain you out and squeeze out the last drop of your energy, Social life diminishes and some become irritable. Its a baggage which come with the pros of working for a TV channel. Expletives are commonplace and so is your high social standing.

Rakhi, what !

Bhaiyya mere Rakhi me....something something!!! Today as I was meditating on this useless beginning to a script, written by my colleague, on how is the B-Town celebrating rakhi today, I looked at my watch, saw that it was time for me to head back home...and then realized that my wrist didnt have a single rakhi tied to it.

A few days back, one of my team mates proposed that she would tie me a rakhi. And well, I was happy. Its difficult to believe that guys feel happy when they get a rakhi from their 'friends'...given the less number of males you get to see on the street nation wide on this day...yes its a fact, there wouldnt be any guys in the gym to check out hot women on this day, lest...anyways pardon me for the digression but as I was saying...so yesterday I thought the whole day what to gift her. maybe a cadbury bandhan (thanks to its massive publicity campaign). And if other girls in the office follow suit then I have to settle for something which doesnt burn a hole in my pocket. So finally I decided that it would be a chocolate kit for her, which I shall buy after she ties me a rakhi, so that it doesnt melt during the day. I was also rehearsing a catchy line to say when she would tie me the rakhi while on my way to the office this morning in a DTC chartered which did not take tickets from the ladies today (You talk about the govt.being chauvinist!)But alas! My prospective 'behna' didnt turn up. Not that it upset me a lot. But I was hoping for a real one tied to my wrist after my sister from Calcutta send me a virtual one through SMS, the last night.

My girl always says that there are very few people like me who gets happy if a girl expresses her desire to entwine me in a relationship where I am supposed not to lech at her. I will tell you an anecdote. During my school years...This is during my plus two years...when I was the only one form my friend circle to opt for commerce and ended up in a class full of people whom I have not talked to before. The tiffin break used to be my only time when I would capture that 20 minutes to go and meet my friends in the other floor. So there used to be two classes I used to visit to. One, the science dept and the other, humanities. In Humanities, I had my three of my female friends with whom I liked to hang out with (One, particularly, but nothing to contemplate about it) So, during rakhi day, I, unsuspecting, walk into the arts dept only to be welcomed by the trio with hordes of rakhis in their hands tying it to the wrist of each and every boy of the science and commerce stream (which was very lame) And needless to say, I was also made a rakhi brother, whatever that means. I was a little perplexed by the sight of the charging females tying those strings to the wrists of the guys so that they could not pronounce those three golden words to them. Anyways, after piecing myself together, I was very happy and I still remember I got some gifts for them, the next day, which they liked and which might be still gathering dust in some corner of their storeroom still today.

During college, again most of the friends in my friend circle used to be girls. So invariably I used to be tied a rakhi to my wrist by them in the first two years (I dont remember whether anyone did so in the final year) and well...it didnt used to bother me coz someone had already put it into my ears that rakhi was nothing but 'raksha bandhan'. even a mother can tie a rakhi onto a son or daughter's wrist. Boy! this was impressing. So its just a thread to protect you that's all. After all, it doest have any word in it which smacks of sibling ties ala bhai phonta and all. So I wasnt bothered. I have been blessed with amny sisters (maternal, paternal, colony-ial, collegiate, school-ial etc etc) and it feels really good to have so many sisters and being a proverbial brother who is to take care of all his sisters.

So even while returning home in a crowded bus, as I gazed on to each and every male wrist with mangled rakhis adorning them, I didnt feel bad. I looked at my wrist and saw the presence of the love of all my so called sisters, neatly embedded in it. And a few minutes ago, I received two very unexpected rakhi scraps from two of my juniors in college and I was really delighted. So Rakhi or no Raklhi, it feels great to be a brother...!

While returning back in a rickshaw, I was thinking about all these and munching on to some biscuits when I offered one to the rick wallah and he took it smilingly...and THAT made my day!

A new Dawn

(On a distressed and disturbed night, I wrote this half-baked poetry but did not complete it. Reasons? My mood improved, I felt lazy, and well...some things are left unsaid...enjoy)

28.06.09

Pitter-patter on the rooftop

And little shyam opens his tired eyelids

To greet the dim light of a bright new day

Struggling to see from behind the cobwebs of a tired night

A distant sound of tinkling bells

Leftover from last night’s dream

And a smell of burnt eggs coming from the kitchen inside

And the Lord hath said those who cometh to this world has to undergo sorrow

The steam escapes from the pressure cooker lid

With a lot of hue, cry and tears

Of a prolonged claustrophobic existence between destiny and expensive dreams

Meanwhile Shyam’s back itches

And the more he tries to soothe it, the more he fails

Honking from outside the window fills the chasm of space inside

Black, dusty and flimsy, cobwebs adorning the greasy walls

And the lord hath said those who cometh to this world has to face darkness

The papers scream out the agony of thousands of other shyams

…Or much betters

In the front page, of the powerless vortex Delhi traverses through

Of sweaty housewives and ailing elders and restrained young folks

As the old ceiling fan creaks and groans and

Sends some soot cascading through the heavy air

Smelling of amrutanjan and steam

It looms over shyam and his mother

Sitting in the dining, the table covered with dust

And the shine peeping in from beneath…

(to be contd...conditions apply)