A Canvas Full of Dreams

To All the Girls

2012-01-17T17:57:00.000+08:00

A large part of my growing up postthe Calcutta years have been because of the amazing women I have met on myjourney of life, and I am completely leaving out my sisters here. They havemoulded my childhood, but the women I met post 2001 influenced who I turn outto be as an adult.

They taught me the meaning offriendship. They taught me even in this age, how difficult it is to be a woman.And they showed me how they can take the world on singlehandedly. Their livestoday are a testimony to their achievement and how easily they can give it allup for family.

I can write a lot. And I have three hours to kill in the airport lounge. But as much as I love O.R.Tambo airport or the fact it's one of those last moments of self introspection, I realize that what I want to say can't be expressed in words. At least not in words of my own.

Gratitude often can't be.

But probablythis song by Julio says it better than anything else. As life passes on from one stage to another as per as the codes of Manu, “Ladies, it has been an honour knowing you all.”

To all thegirls I've loved before

Whotravelled in and out my door

I'm gladthey came along

I dedicatethis song

To all thegirls I've loved before

To all thegirls I once caressed

And may Isay I've held the best

For helpingme to grow

I owe a lotI know

To all thegirls I've loved before

The winds ofchange are always blowing

And everytime I try to stay

The winds ofchange continue blowing

And theyjust carry me away

To all thegirls who cared for me

Who filledmy nights with ecstasy

They livewithin my heart

I'll alwaysbe a part

Of all thegirls I've loved before

You did make me who I am today. Andthanks for being there – always.

The Letter Never Posted

2012-01-15T04:01:00.000+08:00

Dear Z,

How have you been? How has myMumbai been? It’s been ages since I wrote to you. Every time I pick up the penand paper, I realize I cannot stand the idea of writing one more letter to you.It never made any sense. I would never post it anyway.

But tonight, you know, I am in BeverlyHills once again. The ships are anchored in the horizon; the noise of the seais drowned only by the melody of the piano and the occasional chatter of thefamily behind me, flush with their newly earned money.

You can always tell New Money.

The lighthouse down the beachsends out the signals to the ocean. The beam tears through the darkness, likeripping off a thin sheet of paper and searches for lost memories in the night. Forthe last hour I have been trying to get the beam of light on a picture and havefailed miserably.

Like so many other things in life.Like us.

The candle flickers but fights onrelentlessly. It refuses to die out. Like the times gone by. Ideally, thesetting would have been perfect with a glass of the cherished South African Wine,a plate of cheese and some nice hand printed parchment and a fountain pen.

All that I have is a grapetizer, abroken ball pen, the paper napkin and a picture of us folded neatly in mywallet since the last time we met.

I was running by the beach todaymorning. The sun had come rushing in through the window and kissed me awake andsomehow I did not want to disappoint the sun and so I ran – the black sandsticking to my feet, the wind racing against my cheeks; pretty much the openingscene from the Chariots of Fire.

Except that nothing was nobleabout me.

It’s funny though. We were as faraway from water as one could be when we met. And the water in Mumbai is neversomething to write home about. But the waves seem to be singing our song. Andwhen I listen carefully, the winds whisper the same thing.

The other day I was watching AdamSandler’s Funny People and somewhere in the story an analogy was drawn betweenmen and serial killers. All have this one girl that got away. I sometimeswonder why I ever wanted to get away. I wish you were a serial killer –explaining it would be so much simpler.

I wish, selfishly, at least I am “theone that got away” for you. We never had a story together. But still.

The grapetizer and the waves arehaving their effects. The family behind is getting unbearable. They stare atthe only girl sitting alone at a table in this beautiful evening. They look tosee if someone has come over to join me. They look.

Over and over again.

A Noble Death

2012-01-12T20:39:00.000+08:00

Over the last few days there weresome pieces of news going around the world. To most it would have been of noconsequence. But to me, they were symbols of things I held dear, slowly passingaway. The first was about a company that was synonymous with photographic filmsfacing possible bankruptcy. The other was about bookshops slowly bowing out givingway to online retailers.

When I was home for the Christmasvacations, Mom made me clean up the mess I had accumulated over the last tenyears. From the loft things were falling off – I had even single brochureprinted in BITS for any fest. I had all the EPC articles that were publishedduring the seven semesters I had been on campus and I had a bag full of DOPYsnaps.

As I held the snaps in my hand, Irealized that they meant so much more to me than on my laptop. There was analbum with my favourite snaps which I had taken to Pilani in my first year –the one with my grandma, the one where C, S and I were standing together in theschool in our uniforms for the last time.

And there was one with thefavourite snaps I had of Pilani. One of them was of the two of us on our cyclesstanding just outside the Gyn G gates, the other was the famous 185 SK snapwith C and A, the other was the 201 SK snap of the three of us.

As I held them in my hand Irealized they were perishable, they were fading away but they would last me alifetime and holding them felt so much more than watching them flash past on mylaptop.

DOPY as I knew it has changed withthe advent of digital cameras. And slowly probably the concept of taking snapsduring the festivals be passé as everyone’s parents would have given them phoneswhich have cameras that can take decent pictures to be put up on Facebook! That’swhat people take snaps these days for anyways.

But then I read this blog postabout how important are those snaps and how important it is for those physicalcopies of the photographs and I realized how we love to hold on to ourmemories.

Visiting to bookstores andprinting a photograph might slowly be dying out but they are dying a Nobledeath. They did what they were supposed to achieve and they have left us withglimpses of our past. And I know I probably can order a book home at a muchlower price but till the day the last bookstore stands I shall always buy fromthere. It’s stupid but then every man has his quirks.

Dance Like a Man

2012-01-09T19:10:00.000+08:00

Last year my niece startedlearning Hip Hop and when she met me, she challenged me to dance with her. Well,as much as I love dancing and appreciate a twirl or two on the dance floor, mygirth does not allow me much flexibility. But I did start early, as early as inkindergarten where 6 of us were made to wear sarees and made to dance to Rabindrasangeet.That would have been the first time I did any form of serious dancing.

In school however, the bug wasdormant till around class 12 when we did not even have a team for theinterclass dance competition. We only had one guy who was really really goodand then we became the background movers and shakers and in an emotional speechbefore the performance we made it clear to all the judges how difficult it wasfor us to put this show up. And they listened. You see in a missionary andslightly snobbish boys’ school, the fact that someone was trying to put up aneastern classical dance show was extremely courageous. Men and dancing somehowdid not gel well together, unless you were claiming to be Mithunda or MJ.

The next was in Year 1 in Collegein the Music Nite. And mostly it was a wild flaying of hands rather than anycoordinated movement but by fourth year we had perfected the basic moves.Sridevi trained us on the Nagin moves, Govinda on the basic bollywood steps andthe Roshan boy gave the ones who were a little better something to emulate.

By 4^th year, we wereserious about dancing and the Dance Workshop was coming up and we hijacked T tocome and teach us the steps that would get us selected for DW. T was the bestdance teacher I ever had. He saw the bunch of us in our tattered dresses,gulped hard visibly a few times and then went ahead with his job.

DW was one of the most fun memoriesI carry back from BITS. And I loved every moment of it. Feeling the music,letting it control your body is something that helps you to release all yourinhibitions and your fears. But for the love of my life, I could not doCharleston! I loved Jive, I loved the Tango and the Waltz just blew me off myfeet. And I looked down upon the new age dances ever since.

I mean Hip hop was born in the70s. How young is that!!! At least we have seen Mithunda breaking to Bappida’smusic but Popping!!! Really Popping!!! And I am leaving Locking aside for thetime being. But my 5 year old niece loves her hip hop and I am the cool unclewho’s gonna take her dancing when she’s 13 and I’m well, I’m 14. So I needed tolearn Hip Hop.

And I walked into a class. In thefirst 5 minutes it was clear that the hips and their movement is an importantpart of the entire hip hop basic steps. Now both Shakira’s and my hips don’tlie. Her’s speak of the hours of gymming that have gone behind them and mine;well mine shows the effect of unhealthy eating habits on human anatomy. It wasall for a good cause.

Now there is something to learnfrom everything. There were lots of beginners in the class. And while the armsand legs were not exactly coordinated, the Indian women beat everyone is thehip shaking. I guess the years of watching the Bollywood stars help. I alsorealized that if Britney and I both posted our respective hip movement videoson you tube, mine might just have more hits due to its insanely comicalfeatures.

But not to disappoint my niece Itrudged on and I realized I am more prone to ankle injury while hip hoppingthan while doing kick boxing.

Long story short, slow down themusic a bit, give me a floor and I am ready to hop. The hip shall come in soon.

World Domination 101

2012-01-06T13:21:00.000+08:00

There are some cities which areregal, some cities which are vibrant, some methodical beyond imagination butthere are those rare cities where stepping out on the streets makes you realizethat a new world power is emerging. I have never been to any city in thedeveloped world of the West but my travels have taken me across the orient andthe so called emerging economies and never have I felt what I felt the moment Istepped into Shanghai.

Nothing in Shanghai at first sightis unique, but the combination of modern architectural miracle with a Nation’sambition is something worth mentioning. The skyscrapers look as majestic asthey should and they fit their role as the future beehive of the financialworld. Around 1990, China proclaimed that Shanghai would be the focus city andthey developed Pudong. For years, the vacancy rates of the buildings at Pudongwere alarming and yet as it expected of a culture dating back thousands ofyears, the Chinese waited. And the millennium got Shanghai what it hoped toachieve. The world set up shop in Pudong.

I stood on The Bund on a cold,rainy December evening, freezing to my bones and I beheld a Skyline beyondanything I have ever seen. Dubai and Singapore looks like mere child’s playwith Lego blocks in front of The Bund. The TV Tower, the high rises and theriver all come together in what can be termed as impressive but not majestic.This is what George Lucas showed in Star Wars as his city of the future. Thisis how cities will look like. I remember a young boy I had met once, who hadhonestly dreamt of urban city planning as a civil engineer. He wanted to buildcities. The boy is no more. (Well, he is very much alive and happy but he’s adifferent man like most of us now.) But if he was still alive in some distantdream, he would be able to wonder at what has been achieved in Shanghai beyondjust the financial buildings and the multilevel flyovers. However, the curse ofurbanization remains evident with people cooping up in pigeonholes just likethey do in every metropolis across the world.

I love Mumbai. One of my bestmemories will remain sitting on the steps of the NCPA and watch the Queen’sNecklace light up as the sun sets on the Western Coast of India. But as much asI romanticize with my Mumbai memories, possibly the only road worth mentioningin the city is what an average side street in Shanghai looks like. As the coldbiting wind hit me with its gusts of spine chilling rains, I saw Pudong lightup in the night. And I knew I was looking at a Nation that in all probabilitieswill dominate the world in the years to come and it will not even need the helpof the world’s largest army. On how many buildings on Marine Drive would yousee the Indian tricolour flying? Once the awed foreign tourist turns back fromThe Bund, she will see another line of magnificent buildings all proudlydisplaying the National Red Flag.

With Power come problems. AndShanghai’s dark underbelly is as active as any other city’s. Whether you are atourist at Pudong or on Nanjing Road walking around what claims to beShanghai’s Times Square, you will be accosted by pimps and prostitutes. Likemany other cities, prostitution is illegal and your hotels will have bigwarning signs and just like many other cities the police turn a blind eye.

Apart from that, there are thestandard scams that are characteristic to a city. If you are spotted as asingle tourist, someone will come up to you and offer to take your photograph.Once she has started a conversation with you, she will then offer to show youaround as she “loves to talk to people from other countries”. Since hearing flawless English is rare,people often fall for the student so willing to help. Then you will be invitedfor a cup of tea and before you know, the bill is at least 500 Yuan.

Shanghai amazed me. But Shanghaican’t be completed over four nights. It requires going back. It requires anotherindulgence over a hotpot and another post over the food.

Why He Exists

2012-01-02T19:03:00.000+08:00

2011 was a strange year. Well,every year since 2001 has been strange and it never ceases to amaze me how muchthe world can conjure up moments and memories that live with you forever. But2011 was strange because I could sense myself changing; for better or for worseonly time can tell.

Exactly 10 years from my firsttrip outside Calcutta, I made my first trip outside India. I went to Pilanileaving every friend behind and made new friends who will last a lifetime. Ilearnt the meaning of sojourn that might last lifetimes. I hope Singapore doesthe same. But the me of 2011 is a different person and I can’t be sure if he isas nice and the innocent as the boy who went to Pilani. Or maybe even he wasn’tthat good as I think him to be in hindsight. It’s strange – nostalgia not onlymakes me like my earlier self, it also seems to shade its many follies andblemishes.

2011 was crazy. I loved my work,messed up my personal life forgetting the small things that makes so much of a differencelike ensuring to visit parents at least every few months. But more importantly,somewhere along the way, my unflinching faith had waivered. I have never beenable to figure out if I am religious. But I knew for sure I am spiritual. Ibelieve in a power beyond human imagination. Depending upon my world view atthat point of time, I am at times a follower of Advaita, believing in the factthat I am His manifestation, at others I can’t believe that someone like me canbe a source of infinite power and then I start believing in God in the moretraditional sense of the word. Those are the times when self doubt begins tocreep in about the absolute goodness in this world which must win, in the end.Or so I believe.

What was worse was that I lookedaround to find people around me becoming intolerant, argumentative and outrightrude. And maybe people think of me in the same light. I really do not know. Werarely stop to hear others’ views. We want to shout and impose our views onothers. The earliest Greek philosophers and the Indian saints knew theimportance of the dissident voice. The Greeks might have fed a few to lions orgiven them hemlock but more or less tolerance was a virtue. Today, it’s seen asdiplomacy, a lack of spine or even submissiveness. What many forget is that anarrow that has been fired or a word spoken can never be retrieved.

One thing that made a realdifference this year was the viewing of Miracle on 34^th Street a fewdays before Christmas in China. When faced with the question if Santa Clausexists, the judge rules that the people of America have reposed their faith inGod and on every dollar bill they proclaim, “In God we trust.” All was asked ofus to have faith as small as a grain of sand. Sometimes, even that’s difficult.And we need to remember why He exists. This was the 1994 adaptation of the 1947classic but good nonetheless.

Nat Geo had this brilliant articleon King James Bible in the December issue. It was The Bible that defined theEnglish Language. This year around Christmas as I was cleaning up my attic, Ichanced upon my Bible from school.

Everyone interprets religion andgospel in different ways. Everyone reading this would remember the story whereThe Son of God says, “let who has never sinned be the first to throw thestone.” I always thought it was the best proof that God loves us. I have notfound anyone yet who can throw a stone. Allowing such a species to exist isperhaps the greatest demonstration of a cosmic filial love.

Of Cats and Dogs but Mostly Cats

2011-12-22T15:55:00.000+08:00

The question has been troubling mefor a long long time. Am I a cat or a dog person? Well, for no apparent reason butfor the fact that more often than not this is a question which was asked in almostall random tests in Quizilla. I wonder if the site even exists anymore! Also,genetically I was confused. My dad will shudder to have animals prowling aroundand my mom is the self professed saviour of cats, dogs, crows, sparrows, almostevery living creature near our house.

Somewhere last year, I figured outmy answer – thanks to Sheila and Munni. Of course, their slave prefers to addressthem in more anglicized names of Tiu and Whiskey. Now when Sheila came to stayin our house, we had all thought it was temporary. She had been abandoned,would have died if left behind and my friend, who perhaps will not bother tocome to Cal to meet me, suddenly had this epiphany and got Sheila home.

And I loved him for it. Behind thehard, tough exterior was always the man I knew he was and it took a kitten tobring it out. The conversation had gone as follows:

He: “Dude I am bringing home akitten.”

Me: “Niceeeeeeeeeee.... you wantme to leave the house?”

“nahhhhh. Why should you?”

“Dudeeeeeeeeeeeeee... Won’t youneed some privacy?”

“Mehhhhhhh”

“Niceeeee..........you and yourkitten”

“yeah. Just found her”

“Dude!!! Are you serious? How longyou’ve known her? It’s not safe you know.”

“I know. Have to figure out thevaccination bit.”

“Hang on!!! What??? You meankitten as in some babe you are seeing right?”

“What!!!”

Well I should have known better.

And then after few days Munnifollowed as he studied and figured out, a cat needs a friend beyond him.

So while I shared my house withSheila and Munni, I realized I was not a cat person even though they arefascinating creatures. They like their own private space. If you are the onewho is feeding them, you should feel grateful that she is allowing you to. Catsare royalty. And it shows. Animals who move in packs, like wolves and dogs, can’tclaim to be so. The way a cat arches her back and gets ready to spring isergonomically beautiful and if you press their paws open, you see the clawscome out. It’s scary. The feline species are amongst the most gorgeous in theanimal kingdom and not without reason.

They don’t love you. They tolerateyou. They own every minute of your existence. You must be at their beck andcall, not like a dog who you can train to fetch. You can never be the master ofa cat. Their cleanliness is legendary. I still remember, V had to show Sheilawhere to poop just once on the night he got her home and a kitten barely a fewdays old never once missed. Way smarter than human babies!

Sheila slowly dominated thehousehold. She was the undisputed queen of our lives. Munni was reduced to beinga chambermaid for her Royal Highness. And Sheila realized very early that I amscared of her. So while my room was out of bounds, Sheila like the Queen she is,never once tried to get in while I was at home. But Munni, the little lost chambermaidwould always try to snoop in. She epitomized the story of the curious cat.

I love Sheila and Munni. Theystayed with us only for a little while before they went to stay with V’sparents. But while they were here, they made our lives a little more humane inMumbai than just going to office and coming back. Swati Didi loved them too anddid not ever once complain. And that’s a big thing.

But because I myself fall amongstthe proletariat, handling royalty becomes a challenge for me.

So I guess, it’s Bow Wow for me. GetPluto home next to figure out!

One Less than the Dreaded

2011-12-17T15:53:00.002+08:00

Apparently turning 30 is a bigthing. I guess I will figure it out as and when I turn 30. But the year before hasbeen no less awesome either. The day I turned 29, was pretty big, at least forme. I was not just in a new city, it was the first time I was out of thecountry for my birthday and it felt like some long forgotten dream of a schoolboy in Calcutta was coming true.

When I was growing up I was hookedon to the idea of wanderlust – but like so many of us growing up in theeighties and the nineties, I could only travel to the Pyramids in my mind andthat’s why I read. I read to feel what it would be like to stand on the shoresof a different ocean, what the world beyond my window looked like. This yearwas the one when I actually became what I had dreamt of becoming, well not inits entirety but to a great extent. And it feels nice. The best part is howevernot visiting new countries but about meeting new people, understand how theyare living their lives, how the world is so different, yet so alike. To behonest, if I ever visit Egypt, which I really want to, I would perhaps choosemeeting an Egyptian mother talking about her vision for her kids rather thanstand beneath the pyramids.

I guess priorities change as wegrow up.

To be frank, birthdays don’t meanmuch to me. If I believe in the Advaita philosophy of life, it’s just one moreillusion. I really like what was said of Osho (Osho and Advaita are asdifferent perhaps as Megan Fox and me) when he passed away. It went somethinglike, “he was neither born, nor did he die; he just came to travel betweenthese dates.”

I do believe I am on a journeyhere. I meet people on the way, have a great time and then we continue on ourown respective journeys. Some people we spend more time with than others butultimately it’s all about being alone.

This is why I probably don’tremember anyone else’s birthday either. But I really respect people who make itan effort to remember birthdays and ensure that their friends are not alone onthis day.

While I was in college, mybirthday marked the beginning of the exams. And it took away peace and tranquillityfrom my life as everyone came together to spend their pent up frustration on myposterior in true BITSian tradition. When I started working, it was typicallyworking till late on the night before, trying to finish stuff before theholiday season. This year the good part was that a very close friend took the timeout to make sure the date it not forgotten and somewhere you do begin to feelgood about the fact that you were born even though you know it’s all anillusion at the end of the day.

I was woken up around 5:30 in themorning being addressed as the female species of the canine family. When Mallusgo to Nigeria, they typically acquire a new sense of humour. Anyway, apparentlyI had committed a grave crime by not putting up my birthday on Facebook. Sowhile on the phone, before the sun was up on World Aids Day, I was updating myFB profile. Now you actually can’t think clearly that early in the morning.

This year has been kind to me. Ihave seen the best and the worst a professional life can show you. I have made friendsbeyond my usual circle. I have started my journey to understand numerouscultures beyond my own, I have sung karaoke, I have done kick boxing! I havefinally figured out the order of my cols preferences with Pepsi Max winning thetop honours.

On the flip side – my grandmotherstill can’t figure out what I do for a living.

The Football; The Bong

2011-11-28T12:43:00.000+08:00

Last week after ages I played thegame and kicked a ball so hard that my shoe threatened to fly off. And whilekicking I started calculating the angle at which my side of my foot needs totouch the ball. And in one of those moments, in the turf laid down at the EastCoast Park, I realized I actually miss football.

Every bong is born unto this worldwith the conviction that he knows football. So every 4 years, he or she tradesthe Indian nationality to support Brazil, Argentina or at times (surprisesurprise) Germany. And when the world is normal, he supports Mohun Bagan, EastBengal or Md. Sporting. The reasons why Bongs love Football are many, but Ibelieve it’s mostly economic. Cricket you see was a game that requiredsignificant investment even at the very basic level. For Football, it’snothing. In fact, if you get a chance, do watch a movie called Africa United.It’s fascinating to see how a football can be made with a condom, a plastic bagand strings. Across Bengal, poverty has been a reality and that’s the reasonwhy we chose to play football over cricket.

Of course there are these newbreed of bongs, me included, who act as if they were born at Wembley and playedGulli Cricket with Alex. These guys support typically these teams – those bornin the eighties support Liverpool as they had seen the Nineties, the nextgeneration support ManU, the next Arsenal, the new breed without any respectfor pedigree support Chelsea and there are whispers that some have begun tosupport the other ‘chesters this season. Few of the bongs seem to supportNapoli and if you wonder why, please stop reading and never ever claim to havea Bong as a friend.

Now my football journey lastedevery day since 1989 (till around 2001) for 5 days a week with balls ranging from an innocuoustennis ball on the basketball court, to half the playground as the juniorclasses, and finally with an actual football, to being the Class 12ers who could play alongthe entire field, whether they could manage it or not.

The best part about those days wasthe fact that at any given point in time there would be about 400 studentsrunning after 25 balls on a fairly large field with 6 goalposts and 50 goalieswho preferred to call themselves “Flying Goalies”

The 2 guys the entire class of2011 of the greatest school in Calcutta looked up to were Asif Pasha and NiloyMitra. Of course there were other players, even better players than these 2 butsomehow since the beginning till the end of our school life these 2 guystypically were our captains who chose the teams. Somehow I always ended up inAsif’s team and I am yet to figure out if it was because Asif chose me or Niloydid not :)

Anyway, as I said I have had along and fruitful journey as a footballer. I started as a striker, given thefact in the penalty shoot outs I could shoot really hard and in the 30 minutesrarely did any match have any outcome :) Then as usual with other things in mylife, duty called. And I figured out that my services were needed in the midfield. About the time when the world cup was happening I realized that myfootball idol, Kaizer had made Lothar a Libero. I still don’t exactly know whata libero does, but it sounded a pretty cool thing to say to people. (Or was itnot Kaizer who invented it but was in the edition after Italia 90?) Being a libero was of course tiring and I decided to be a back andthen a full back, which I defined as never having to go beyond the midfield. That’swhen I made my most famous football quote, “the ball might pass, no one elsewould.”

But as we grew older, the effectwas telling. I mean how many footballers have a 12 year long illustriouscareer? So that’s when I became the “Flying Goalie” though to be absolutelyhonest I never did much flying.

So I stood under the goalpost andthe years flashed before my eyes. Was it this reason for which I had beentrained? Was it for this reason that I had become a goalie? To salvage lostpride for the Foods team? I almost could hear Hollywood Sports movies go onaround my head (and a little bit of Chak De India) – you know the inspirationaldialogue bit.

And yeah these days the goaliedoes seem to get the captaincy, the cup and the babe! So fate had got me herefor a reason.

All such notions were soon laid torest. We conceded 14 goals in 4 matches. 10 of those were through my “safe”hands. To be fair to myself, I did save quite a few and apparently we faredmuch better than last year for which we promptly treated ourselves to ascrumptious lunch at Scumpy Murphys but still...

Fate got me here to have a nicelaugh on a Saturday morning! Even she needs her funny moments!

Damn I should have remained astriker :)

Will You?

2011-11-23T11:00:00.000+08:00

Will you let me look at you

Without a care in the world?

Will you smile again and hold

My hands as if we never left?

Will you let me have your worries

That bind you to the ground?

Will you laugh at the sun and sand

As we build our castle in the air?

Will you let me feel your pain

That makes me cry at night?

Will you believe in us once more

Even while we remain apart?

Will you sit with me, silently,

Tired as the day goes by?

Will you hold my daughter

Telling her a story about us?

Will you smile again with me

And believe I ask for nothingelse?

Will you let the years between us

Seem like moments?

And as the sun goes down

Will you speak to me of yesterday?

Loo-Natic

2011-11-16T12:00:00.000+08:00

Thedoor opened by itself and I walked in to the soulful music of Dire Straits. AsI slid my hands under the tap in the restroom of my favourite restaurant inSingapore, I realized this is also number 2 in my list of favourite restroomsacross the world.

Workingfor SNDU has scarred me in ways more than one :) Fascination with restroom isjust one of them. Very rarely does a job require you to look intently at asquat style Indian toilet with deep reverence in Andheri West and ask the ladyof the house, “aap acid kyun use karte hain? Achha... saath mein detergentbhi?” and then on the next day admire pictures of squat toilets in South EastAsia and understand similarities and differences! (True Story)

Thatwas the moment in end 2007 when the tryst with restrooms started. And that’swhy I get really irritated at times. What’s with the restrooms around theworld? I mean has no one ever noticed how confusing signs can be? Given thatselecting the wrong door can lead to some of the most embarrassing moments in aperson’s life, I would have hoped that someone would have done something aboutit. You know, at least have some kind of standardization?

Let’stake one of the ad agencies I worked with. You had to stand in front of theirdoors to figure out whether the image was of a man’s or woman’s. Fantasticcreativity! In fact, the first time I guessed it, I went WOW! But then when youare rushing, you can’t actually appreciate creativity, Can you?

Inone of the now defunct pubs in South Mumbai, I was sitting with 3 people whohad by that time drunk enough to visit the restroom multiple times. But what Iwasn’t prepared for was scared shouts from grown up men as they ran out of themale restroom as my friend walked in straight into the last male bastion andlater claimed famously, “it showed a figure wearing pants. I was wearingpants.” She later, when sober and in office, refused to accept that she hadmade this statement and the world lost one of the greatest feminist icons ofall times!

Oneday, I was sitting peacefully in a restroom wondering about the world around meand then suddenly I heard voices. Now that’s not strange in a world with 7billion people. I am sure very few people have personal restrooms in thisworld. In fact, that’s when I figured out one of the reasons I love travellingalone on work – I am the master of my own bogs!

Theairports across the world can be rated according to the cleanliness of theirtoilets. Chennai and Calcutta would be amongst the worst while Dubai, Delhi T3and Singapore can claim to be amongst the best. Sometimes in Changi I feel atfew given points in time, there are more restrooms than travellers in theairport.

Istill remember the awesomeness I felt at a Dubai restroom. It was my firstinternational trip and I could feel the difference. In India, except perhaps atT3 in Delhi, you would shudder to use a public restroom. Women in India have itthe hardest and more often than not, if you are observant, you will realize howwomen in India have learnt to cope. It’s a rare moment when I feel anger but Istill remember I felt extremely extremely angry and helpless at that moment inDubai. And that’s why I love Sulabhs in India. Maybe not the best amongst theworld but for an average Indian, they often are lifesavers.

Iblame it on our use of water without going into too much graphic details aboutit. Being both a water conservationist and a paper conservationist, you might choose to savepaper, but do remember that water spreads. What does your culture ask you to use? With that disturbing thought I stop!:)

Enoughabout restrooms so here’s the last bit. My favourite restroom is the one besideWimpy’s near the D gates in Jo’Berg Airport. I have been there about 4 timesnow and that’s the only restroom I actively seek out. It’s a place where thegentleman in charge of the restroom welcomes every passenger with a glitteringSouth African smile and a statement – “Welcome to my Office”. I really tried torecommend him for his fantastic attitude towards his work but I could not finda feedback kiosk in Jo’berg.

Itfeels nice to be in a restroom beside your own where you know it is cared for.

The Queen of The Zulus

2011-11-06T01:25:00.000+08:00

Seldom do we find people who do not revel in theircountry’s history and its glorious past. Countries which have been split apartin the twentieth century also speak of a nation from the past. The GreekOrthodox Christians in the Middle East remember fondly the Byzantine Empire inall its glory, the Latin Americans remember the grandeur of Chichen Itza,Indians can’t stop talking about the glorious heritage, the heritage varyingdepending on who you ask.

But there are Nations and People whose history has beenlost in the sands of time. The fiercely independent American Indians remembertheir past only since the pale faces came in; the aboriginals of Australia seemto have lost the memories of their forefathers. Only legends live on in folktales and traditions and art. Africa, the birthplace of humanity, too lost herhistory and also her pride along with it. The Zulus were once a martial race that defeated the British Army with just spears in the memorable Opening Battle of The Anglo Zulu Wars in Isandlwana.

I realized after some thought that strangely history issaved by our monuments. If a certain kingdom reigning in the Western parts ofIndia had not decided to pay their respects to their Gods, an Island off thecoast of Mumbai would not have the Trinity looking over the city from theirhidden caves.

It might have been faith as was the case with manytemples in India, it might have been a boost for the ego for most of the rulersonce faith had deserted them, it might have been the aliens at the Stonehenge,it might have been technology in case of the Incas or the residents ofMohen-Jo-Daro or even at attempt at afterlife by the rulers of Egypt.

But wherever history has stayed it’s because of themonuments of the Generation. The only other way to safeguard your history isthrough the stories passed on from father to son, from teacher to pupil, frombard to bard, till someone decided to note them down as in the case of KingArthur or the Epics of the Greeks or the Indian epics.

Most of Africa’s history lives on through her proverbsand little else. It’s tragic to imagine that few would know how the Bubuoriginated in Nigeria or why the Zulus were able to establish a great kingdomeven before King Shaka. This is one continent where I still feel the primalcall of the wild in my blood even though I may be sitting in one of the mostmodern hotels with perhaps one of the best views in Umhlanga in Durban. Thedrum beats which I never heard seems to echo from the sea, beats that resemblewho we are deep inside.

At night, the winds howl and whisper in my ears, thestory of a Nation that lost her pride – of a Queen of the Zulus who will comeone again to ensure that Pride Rock gets back her former glory.

Perhaps it’s this connection with nature that madeAfricans from the central and southern parts stay away from the grandeur lovingnature of the Egyptian Rulers. Africa strangely has little architecture thathas survived the onslaught of time (except perhaps Great Zimbabwe). Somehow italso leads me to hypothesize that the land was so bountiful that beyond savingtheir tribes from the blood thirsty nature of the early African rulers, therewas little that one needed to do in order to survive. They lived as one withnature, not against her and thus while the Masai tribes went for hunting; theynever killed to decorate their houses with lion heads.

I love the South African greeting – they are always“Proudly South African”. The bringing back of their pride is what the continentis waiting for; to unlock the chains of corruption that is binding them. Theills here are numerous – AIDS, teenage pregnancy, dependency on grants, hugecredit pressures and the list goes on. Hope flickers, dim and rare to find.

But that’s the beauty of hope. Maybe my story is true. One day, perhaps, onceagain, The Queen of The Zulus will rise to take her rightful throne and leadthe Nation to glory. Till then the drum rumbles as the world slowly begins torealize the potential of Africa beyond just her diamonds.

How Movies Are Made

2011-10-31T11:32:00.000+08:00

Having had some rare free time on myhands, I used it last weekend to catch up on the Hindi Movies I had missed. Andas I was about to write about them I realized that there was a classicmasterpiece that I had forgotten to tell you about. I had watched it in Manilaand it opened my eyes to the possibilities of human imagination!

This is how the story started – 2teams were called into the office of the Big Boss (BB) of a movie studio aroundJan this year

BB – Guys, Ihave seen your proposals for the rest of the year. Great news! We love themboth and we will make them both. Just ensure that you don’t experiment toomuch.

And so our two teams went and made the most awesome filmthey could think of copying at will from the best in the genres they had chosen.They both felt that they had the blockbuster of the year. They had the rightmix of tragedy, drama, action, suspense and a sprinkling of romance.

It was July and they came again to BB’sroom to show him the storyboards, shaking hands with each other, being verycourteous, a bit anxious and hoping that BB loves their script a bit more thanthe other. The sort of corporate ego battles you typically would expect.

But BB seemed to be preoccupied. Andwhatever you do, never walk into your boss’ room when he or she is preoccupied.

BB – Guys beforewe start, I need to tell you that I have just discovered that Banjo has movedto Singapore.

Team 1 andTeam 2 – (Groans) – Come on. You must be joking!

BB (noddinghis head sadly) – Yeah! We are really worried. Our South Asia movie ticketsales will take a huge hit form August onwards. So we have decided to make somebudget cuts. We will make just one movie.

Team 1 and Team2 – Oh No! We worked so hard. Can’t we just ask his boss to keep him back inIndia?

BB – I knowhow you guys feel. But don’t feel bad. Let’s do something. Let’s combine bothyour scripts!

Team 1 – Areyou crazy? Ours is a western. Market research shows that after True Grit, peoplewant to watch westerns again. We have guns, babes getting captured and rescuedand we will sell lots of cowboy hats!

Team 2 – Areyou insane? We have made the foolproof alien invasion movie. Lots of gadgets,babes getting captured and rescued and we will surpass transformers. We havecopied the Ben 10 watch and added a laser pointer to it!

BB – Guys,Guys... Let’s not panic. I know Banjo leaving Mumbai is a shock to us all. My friendin Imax Wadala just called and said they are planning to shut down, but trustme we will survive.

Team 1 andTeam 2 (in unison) – HOW!!!

BB – Let’s lookfor common themes. Oh wow. Look! You both have babes getting captured andrescued. Here is the idea....

Let thealiens capture the babe and let the cowboy rescue her! We will manage the restof the story as we go forward.

And Cowboys and Aliens were born. AndI decided to watch it.

True Story!

Defeating Ra.One

2011-10-26T02:45:00.000+08:00

Diwali or Deepavali in India is associatedwith the return of Lord Ram after 14 years and celebrates the homecoming postthe defeat of Evil. Every time across the World the question has not beenwhether good can triumph over evil, it has always been ‘when’? Ra.One turns thequestion on its head where Sekhar Subramanium develops a computer game wherethe villain at all levels is more powerful than the hero as his son believesvillains are “Kick Ass”

Ra.One when written in Hindipronounces Raavan – the first of the great Indian mythical anti heroes,supremely powerful, who is destroyed every Dushhera in India to celebrate thetriumph of good over evil. But Ra.One asks the question – if he could bekilled, why would we need to destroy him over and over again?

If there is an anti hero, there mustbe a hero and for us, it’s G.One, again pronounced in Hindi as Jeevan meaningLife. And he is not super powerful, he just has a 0.01% chance of winningagainst Ra.One and yet he fights, to ensure the shadow of evil does not fall onus.

I feel very tempted to tell you thestory, but that would be unfair as this is one of the most original stories Ihave seen coming out of Hindi Cinema in recent years. It is worth a watch anddefinitely worth your money, many times over. And here’s why –

The dialogues –witty, funny, sometimes forced but so very Bollywood. You are tensed in your seats watching SRK enter the screen as a super hero and he says – mere saamne Bruce Li ke teen behne – iski Li, Uski Li aur Sabki Li. “Size does not matter, Ask the person who spent one night with a mosquito” They are not thought provoking deep ones i.e. not like Swades perhaps, but has their own rustic charm.
The Special Effects – the best in Indian cinema so far, even beating the likes of Spiderman and Batman Returns. The scene where CST in Mumbai is destroyed should go in as the top 100 scenes in Indian cinema. Ganpati Bappa Moriya
The storyline – gripping and yet so Bollywood. Imagine an intense situation as the Joker has a knife held at Rachel’s throat and suddenly Bruce Wayne goes into flashback and a song starts about their childhood! Has fantastic twists and turns that keeps you guessing and makes you laugh just after an intense fight sequence.
It does not preach – it’s an entertainer, it remains so. Easily it could have fallen into the trap about giving gyan (it does on quitting smoking. Apparently SRK has promised to quit smoking after Ra.One) but it remains what it is – a Diwali Potbolier
It’s classic SRK all the way – he shows us again that he can act better than most, but at the end of the day – he’s King Khan. He’s who both the class and the masses love. After Raj Kapoor, here’s our showman.
Kareena Kapoor looks more beautiful than ever before – All Shiela, Munni, Jalebi Bais can take a break when Chammak Chaalloo is on stage.
SRK and Rajnikanth share the space as G.One and Chitti and the adoration we have for Rajnikanth is documented and accepted and all of us bow before Chitti – Our Superhero Number 1.
It could have been a fantastic Sci Fi story with mind control and form change. But it remains simple so that everyone who watches the movie in any of the 5000 screens worldwide understands what’s happening.
It’s SRK after a year. Last time I heard so much cheering in an SRK movie was in Om Shanti Om.
We all need to know that even if there’s a 0.01% chance of good winning over Evil, it still will. Always. Every Time

Happy Diwali.

Grief

2011-10-23T13:51:00.000+08:00

When I was in school, I had readsomewhere, “if there was no pain to hollow out our hearts, where would be theroom for joy.” And like so many things you read back then, it made for good browniepoints when you put in the essays and debates. Somehow, you never understandfew things to their entirety; you just used them and sounded smart.

Last week, I just realized somethingdifferent. We all react to grief very uniquely. Not one person in this worldcan possibly handle grief like his next door neighbour. We react differently atdifferent forms of grief as it strikes us most unexpectedly.

Some of us need noise. We shout, wewant to the world to know we are sad. It helps us cope when we know thatsomeone else other than us knows what we are going through. Some of us turnreligious and accept the fatality of it all. We blame God, we blame ourselvesand we find an outlet. Some use humour, using it like a shield behind which wecan hide our pain. Some refuse to admit it, trying to continue life as it is,as if not acknowledging it will make it unreal – almost as if it neverhappened.

Some of us become silent. Weinternalize it. A short sniff on a phone call to a friend and then the pain iscontained deep within. Life goes on as always. We move on. I had never understood the concept of Rudaalifrom Rajasthan – a group of women paid to cry at the death of the rich. Todaysomehow I understand their role. Sometimes, you need other people to showexternal signs of grief when you yourself can’t show it.

Grief changes us. It might or mightnot make us stronger, but it does take something away from us, something thatcan never be restored.

Sometimes one of the four little ratsremind you what you forget -

“There is neither happiness normisery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another,nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supremehappiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciatethe enjoyments of living.”

"Live, then, and be happy,beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when Godshall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in thesetwo words, ‘Wait and hope.'--Your friend, Edmond Dantes, Count of MonteCristo."

Sometimes you need to face your griefand understand who you are...inside.

And then we wait and hope.

Theories That You Pick Up

2011-10-20T11:30:00.000+08:00

There are theories you pick up as youwork. And a few days back someone asked me, after spending 4 years with India’sforemost marketing company what are the new theories that I had picked up. As Ilooked back at the time spent in SNDU, I realized that the theories closest tomy heart had nothing to do with marketing – they were more about how to liveone’s life. And like most life theories these are my interpretations of thesame.

The first was Chipkali Syndrome. Toldto me by the Mother of The All Knowing Little Girl, Chipkali (Lizard) syndromeis all about giving oneself more importance than is necessary. Sensing meworking one Sunday, she lost it and on Monday blasted me away. Her point wasthat the Lizard hanging on to the roof feels that it is holding on to the roofand if it moves away the entire roof might fall on the room below.

We often tend to be chipkalis,imagining that we are so important to the business that the work will stopwithout us. If one is a junior, she doesn’t know how to let go and allow thedecision to flow down. If it’s a senior, she never knows how to trust hersubordinates to take the call and move on.

Tagore of course knew it, havingnever worked in an organization though – “You don’t hold the fate of the worldin your hands. There’s a boatman manning the stern, who will see you through”

The second was about Pal Money – toldto me by a Mallu Salesman in Mumbai sitting on the Carter Road promenade.Wherever you work, you will always be unsatisfied with what salary you get asthere will be someone who will be earning more than you. This remains to thisday, the major cause of dissatisfaction in a human life. Often we do not takeinto account that probably to earn this extra money, the other person hasprobably a tougher life than us and works thrice as hard as us. Pal MoneyTheory accepts the fact that one will always continue to make this comparison.

But what it says that because of themoney you earn less, you gain moments in life or Pal. And a Pal spent well isworth every bit of the money you don’t make. For example, on a Sunday evening,without bothering about the next presentation, I am actually blogging about PalMoney. The worth of this moment to me is almost 100 SGD. (The theory insiststhat you put a monetary value to it) And I am happy that I have this moment formyself, speaking to through this blog to you.

The last theory is about The Man.Almost everyone thought in college that they were going to cure cancer, savethe world, eradicate poverty – in effect do something worthwhile with theirlives. Everyone wanted to change the system and make the world a better place. Mostof us are not doing anything half as noble. And yet in the late nights when theworld seems to have made old men and women out of us, we really want to shoutour hearts out. It’s like this silent monster that gnaws at you and you knowyou can’t let your cries be heard.

At that moment you need an object todirect your frustration and Give it to THE MAN. You know really make him payfor all that’s not right with your life, for it’s never you that is at fault!It’s always the system! So once you have found The Man, you boss or yourdoodhwala, you just give it to him but then once it’s out of your system youneed to sit down and take stock of your life as you see it. And then probablyyou’ll realize that you are not a chipkali, you can always manage some time andyou have the right to earn some Pal Money.

What’s more, next weekend you mightfind yourself teaching a few kids for free at the nearby school and reallyfeeling good about it. At the end of the day, it’s about being happy withoutcausing hurt to others.

Life’s really that simple.

Choosing your Brand

2011-10-17T11:29:00.000+08:00

Whenever I have debated what makesone choose one’s brand, I have often wondered at the different answers I myselfhave given at different forums. The one reason which makes my job interesting,day in and day out, is the fact that there is no definitive answer and theanswer might contradict each other across categories. In fact, the answer mightcontradict even what I was thinking a few years back.

This weekend I tried to put myselfunder the scanner and tried to figure out what sort of a Brand choice I wasmaking. I deliberately left aside any category where KSS is present so thatthere is no conflict of interest.

Let’s start with the laptop. My firstlaptop was a Think Pad and till today I swear by my Old Faithful. A fantasticproduct experience has not taken the shine away from the fact that IBM hassince sold the business. I probably will look at ThinkPad as my first choicewhen I pick up my next laptop.

I will be posting this throughMozilla Firefox. Ever since Mozilla came to me in 2005, I have never let it goaway. IE was for oldies. Chrome is for yuppies. The supporters for Open Source stillswear by Mozilla and its extensions and add ons. That’s strange since Mozillaprobably today is slower than Chrome. But every time I switch on Chrome on myscreen, it seems to tell me that Google knows everything about me and I can’tlet it rule my life. And again a fanatical love for Open source comes to theforefront.

This however is contradicted by myphone choice. Since 2004 Dec and my first phone, I have never strayed away fromNokia. Just a moment before, I was in the Ovi store trying to find a few apps.And I know for certain that an android phone would have been the smarter choicetoday or even an Apple but the strong loyalty I feel to Nokia just makes mepick one up every single time. When I hold a Nokia I know it won’t let me down.And it’s a brick and mortar Brand and probably has nothing to do with OpenSource.

I could never figure out why I neverpick up an Apple. I remember I was one of the first guys to own an mp3 player –those were the days when you needed a battery to power the music. Times flew,and ipods were everywhere but somehow I still love my Philips GoGear which wasa very late entrant but the Brand was something that was familiar, being one ofthose MNCs which did not move out of India during the License Raj .

Same was the case with Airtel. Oncethey had me with their advertisement campaign, I have never moved away fromthem even though I was faced with horrible customer service. But I think when Imove back to India, I probably will give it a long hard thought. Sometimes, youpush the consumer’s patience just a bit too much.

Coming to more tangible productcategory, I had to move on to Branded Clothing once I started working. It wasthe first selling out of my life but I realized that since now I am being paidby someone else, somehow, it does put a curb on freedom of choice. Anyway, justto understand my wardrobe, I went back and saw a strong preference towardsLouis Philippe and I have no idea why. Somehow the Brand seems familiar andclose to me and it’s one of those indescribable feelings. Of course it doesmatter that somehow they have remained traditional in their choice of coloursand designs and while choosing Office Wear, I still am a conservative.

It feels funny that my job is to makepeople prefer the Brand I work for and yet this exercise just made me realizethat any normal human being might in essence be a combination of many faces,each choosing a life that it would like to live, along with a Brand that goeswith the choice.

My work becomes even moreinteresting!

The Quest for Dharma

2011-10-13T11:30:00.000+08:00

Dharma (or in some form Dharm) is thequintessential question that has plagued Indian spirituality since TimeImmemorial. I have been grappling with it ever since I came across TheMahabharata, my all time favourite book. If I leave aside the existentialquestions it asks, The Mahabharata is perhaps the World’s Greatest EntertainingStory and thus it can proudly proclaim, “Whateveris here, is found elsewhere. But what is not here, is nowhere else.”

My fascination with The Epic beganthe day I understood for the first time in my life that in this world there isnothing finite – Every saint has his past and every thief his future. Thetelling image of Yudhisthira’s chariot touching the earth for the very firsttime after he resorted to a White Lie to aid the killing of Drona shattered theimage The Ramayana had created in my mind – of an age and time where Truthalways prevails.

The Mahabharata suddenly seemed tosay, “Hang on! The jury is still out on this one!” My first idea was then toreject the image of a Supreme Being as a Master Puppeteer. “Aham Brahmasmi” –That’s what the Upanishads had told me. The recurring theme of Mahabharata wasDharma. And I suddenly realized it was not just about being good or doing gooddeeds or doing what was right – it was also deciding for yourself what wasright. And The Mahabharata is the mirror of the World as it existed once,telling us how every single individual chose the path that they chose.

And the funny part is almost everyonebelieved they were following Sva-Dhrama or the “Dharma of one’s own.”

Somehow being born in a culture thatworships the Mother Goddess I have never accepted the way later day Hinduism brushedaside important questions raised in The Epic as God’s will. And suddenly TheMahabharata and The Gita was synonymised with the concept of “Work withoutworrying about the result.” It almost had made me a fatalist but somehowreading deeper I had found it to mean so much more than a submission to divinewill. To me, it was detachment of oneself from the results, not renunciation ofit.

And that’s why I cringed when Arjuna’sdoubt is almost bulldozed by Divinity when Logic fails. Krishna shows him his CelestialForm – “The light of a Thousand Suns”

Withoutbeginning, middle or end, of infinite power,

of infinitearms, whose eyes are the moon and sun,

I see thee,whose face is flaming fire,

Burning thiswhole universe with Thy radiance

Which human form can resist thecommand of such divinity?

Recently I have come across anothertreatise on The Poem – The Difficulty of Being Good by Gurcharan Das andsomehow it’s striking a chord. It seems someone else has gone down the sameroad taking the same journey like me and hoping to find answers. Halfwaythrough the book I do hope he has found his for I know now, The Mahabharatawill present its answers in varied ways to whoever asks for it. I know I willfind mine and I also know that my answers will change every time I change. Butthe answers remain for those who seek, for those who will always believe that themeaning of Dharma is beyond just righteousness, religion or even goodness.

After all, “Whatever is here, is found elsewhere. But what is not here, is nowhereelse.”

Five Days of Bongness

2011-10-09T00:07:00.000+08:00

Technically it’s not just Bongness.It’s also about being a true blue Calcuttan whether you have bong genes or notand if you are unlucky, it’s also “I am unfortunate to have more than one Bongfriend”-ness. October typically is the month when this virus spreads across theworld from as I call it, “Beleghata to Baluchistan”. The only rare exception sofar has been Colombo but I am sure it’s because we have not searched intensely.

Anyway, according to last desktopresearch done through the highly scientific “Eenie, Meenie, Minie Moe” method,I have come to the conclusion that 98.675% of the bloggers who would have writtenabout Durga Puja would have written on the following topics – Durga Puja inCalcutta, Durga Puja outside Calcutta, How awesome bongs are, how awesome Calcutta’speople are, how awesome whoever who sees an idol is, how they miss home, howthey miss Cal, how it is never the same. You get the drift. Bongs revel intheir nostalgia.

So this year, I decided to writeabout the 5 things I dislike about Durga Puja.

The fact that the food I yearn for during these 5 days is so very hard to get outside my home in Calcutta. The rolls, the puchkas, the bhog - everything seems different and seems to fall below the standards that a young you would have set up. Money can’t buy you the khichuri on the morning on Ashtami made by your mom, for everything else; you can use your credit card. I dislike the fact that we have put a man on the moon and yet we don’t know how to ensure chhanar payesh does not go bad within 2 days!
The fact that every self respecting bong starts shouting in a very strange North India influenced way – Durga Mai ki Jai. Now clearly Bongs and Hindi pronunciation don’t go together so it ends up in a form of “Doorga Maaeee Ki Joy”. Now while going to Vaishnodevi you start shouting this I have no issues; in fact if I ever can make the trip I can outshout you. But seriously for us core “Karonbaari” drinking Shaktos it’s cringing to shout Jai Jai instead of rolling all over the floor crying like a baby “Ma Ma” (The Tantric influence is strong in us. We also worship Goddess Kali you see)
The fact that all Bong women suddenly start wearing the gorgeous sarees. All through the year, the British taught Bong will be stuck up in his Victorian morality and will not even look up even if Paris Hilton walks past him. But deep inside him, as taught by most of his great ancestors, there is a hidden romantic. And these 5 days the women of Bengal decide to test the resolve of the Bengali man. Age no longer remains a barrier (upwards I mean) and if by chance the woman has decided to let her hair out of the natural work day bondage, the Bengali man starts reciting his Jibonanondo, imagining the long black hair to be the darkness that hangs over the ancient city of Bidisha. Again by desktop research I have found out that in North Calcutta, 76% of the para romance happens when boy meets girl at Pushpanjali.
The fact that everyone turns a dancer. Dhunuchi naach is an art. The fire held in the hands is a symbolism of the fire within. But every Ajoy Babu, Bijoy Babu and Sujoy Babu, after their 2 pegs of Old monk will become a dhunuchi dancer. And sometimes, there is flower inside the dhunuchis instead of fire! This is more scandalous than Messi being called the new Maradona. The burn on my left foot starts itching and all I desire is to give the gentlemen a kick like our God Pele had given the phootboll when he had come and played in Calcutta.
The fact that there is a logical discrepancy in the prayer. Now having had the Marxist influence on most of our upbringing, these are perhaps the only 5 days we pray. (and also on Christmas but that’s more for the cake I guess) First I dislike the fact that contrary to everything that Howard Roark stood for all neo capitalists start saying dehi dehi. I mean I seldom have seen a race to be such a strong believer in being a Momma’s Boy (I am a proud one) but to even pray asking the Mother of All to just give (almost everything you can think of) is taking it a bit too much. Now I could have survived even that. But the fact remains is that after all these years and carefully listening to every priest I have figured out that nobody knows what the correct “mahastami anjali mantra” is. It completely depends on what mood the priest is in on that day. Since 2000, I have not heard the same mantra being repeated even once!!! I mean the only difference in the Christian call to the Trinity is that some people love to call the Holy Spirit the Holy Ghost. Now that’s still manageable!

But God Bless you Singapore and Bongsof Singapore. You have lived up to the tradition that if there are 3 bongs,there will be 2 political ideologies and if there are 5, there will be 2Durgapujos. To find 4 in a new city is what I would call a miracle.

Pompous Ass

2011-09-30T11:25:00.002+08:00

Yes, you heard it right. I finallyused a profanity in my blog. But to be very honest, today something happenedthat made me look back at my own self 9 years back in October 2002 and Istarted laughing. If anyone had peeped in through my window, they would nodoubt think that this guy has gone crazy. Lying on his back on his wellflattened bean bag, he is laughing away as he reads intently through somethingthat looks like a magazine.

9 years back I was a pompous ass andit took me all these years to finally get it.

(If you areinterested in something called Cactus Flower, dear reader, then go on. Elseaccept the fact that I have acknowledged my shortcomings and hope you come backfor the next post)

Believe me, normally I am not one.Not even when I manage to win a game of Ludo against my sister or burn 402calories in the occasional trips to the gym. But there was this one instance inmy life when I had to be one, to uphold the dignity of something I treasure tothis date, to survive.

Every college magazine goes through acycle which I have termed the Rise and Fall of Pompeii. It reaches its zenithin terms of quality and brilliance of the individual and the collective tillthe team that guides the magazine becomes more and more estranged from thepopulace they are about to serve. They glorify their False Gods, they begin tobelieve in their invincibility till one day suddenly a hand, often that of themasses they have begun to despise, destroys their high pedestal and all that’sleft is dust. The worst part? They don’t even realize it.

The task of rebuilding is painful. Iknow it. Getting trust back in an institution is something that requires majorsacrifices, but more importantly it requires time and a proof of the rightintent. Humble steps are made till all lessons are forgotten till Historyrepeats itself and once again the mighty Hand comes crushing down. The eerinesswith which this pattern plays itself out is unbelievable and yet we don’t learnas human beings are weak in nature and in memory.

2010 and 2003 were similar in manyaspects. The Mother Ship was agitated with the nonchalance of one of its mostimportant arms. The stewards of Gondor had come to believe that they were thetrue heirs to the Thorne of the Great Kings. And Boromir had left them. TheMother Ship could easily cut off the arm.

Gondor, the last refuge of sanity,the last bastion of truth was left to defend for itself and it was left to the sanityof Faramir to protect Gondor.

And Middle Earth will never know butGandalf knows what the cost of resurrection was. And Gandalf felt proud.

Anyway, coming back to the story – alittle girl called Hema one day met an old man called Banjo. They wereseparated by years. She wasn’t even born when Maradona scored the Hand of God,yet as fate would have it, in the small niche of a group of men and womencalled Cactus Flower Editors, she was the newest flag bearer. Nothing connectedthem except a crazy ManU fan and a dusty old magazine which has the immensegrit and determination to survive. The moment had come again. My gushingemotions on seeing a previous edition was short lived. I had posted on thisvery blog how delighted I was with what I thought was one of the better effortsin recent years. What I did not say was the path at the peak was the mostslippery.

And slip it did, 3 years later.

When I had sat down to write myeditorial in 2003, I was a changed man, perhaps a little bitter with the entireexperience and it had poured out straight from the heart – for two pages andthen one page of Epilogue! And since then, true to ancient traditions,thereafter broken with a vengeance by the New Age, I had never written anythingfor the magazine.

And here was another young comrade,facing the same crisis, perhaps worse, coming out victorious and yet all thatshe says while paying her tribute is, “the eras go by and we, so often,overlook their passing.”

I felt a little ashamed and that’swhen I realized I had done the task I was assigned but I could not rise aboveit. That’s what being a pompous ass is.

I leafed through the magazine thatwas delivered at my office desk in an extremely busy evening. I knew it had towait. It was late by the time I was back but I read through the pages in onego. The brilliance of language was still evident but so were the paucity ofideas, the glitter of individual talent was dazzling and so was the dearth inquantity of that talent. It had tried going back to its roots, talking topeople who mattered about the things that mattered. All in all, it was amagazine that seemed to reflect what my alma mater was and it does not matterif I subscribe to what it now upholds as its spirit.

After all, the definition of spirit doeschange with the ages. What does not change is the Truth.

There are a few things that remaineternal and it is their ethereal magnificence which ensures that whenevertrouble looms, a steward will come again to hold the reins and keep Gondorsafe.

I was about to turn to the last pageand cringe at the random words that seem to have been a part of every editionsince 2005. It’s like an internal joke of the team but what people fail torealize is that those random set of words destroy a year’s worth of qualityliterary efforts at one go. And then suddenly I realized the last article waswhat I would have called an epilogue! And that’s where the Editor became amortal like a few before her. In an article extremely human, straight from theheart, she prays for remembrance if not for immortality. And that makes herendearing to all who walked before her.

And yeah, that article shows aglimpse of her being a pompous ass as well.

Here’s what best resembles all thatwe feel every year. The last 15 minutes of Toy Story III.

Here’s to memories, here’s totravelling back thousands of kilometres in a matter of hours. Here’s to hope.Here’s to eternity. Here’s to immortality – not for ourselves but all that wehave lived for.

(PS: Thanks to Google. The almost right picture came up)

After 34 Years

2011-09-29T12:06:00.000+08:00

The change is there in Bengal for allto see. Perhaps the last bastion of communism in the world beyond Cuba hasfinally fallen down (and the only popularly elected). Of course, there alwaysis the possibility of a comeback but if there was ever an age that could claimto be the end of an era this is it.

34 years is indeed a long time andthat is something that has always fascinated me. All through my growing years Ihave tried to understand what made successive generations of Bengalis embracean ideology which remained mostly confined to trade unions and tea cups atuniversities. It also was easy growing up in Calcutta. Communist literature waseasily available and every Durga Puja stall of the communist party would havetranslations of everyone from Tolstoy to Marx.

So as I was growing up, the NehruvianSocialistic ideals in me were strong and I could not accept Ayn Rand and herpassionate support of Capitalism; or even free markets. The Government Ibelieved was still of, by and most importantly for the people.

Ever since Kush had told me aboutKalbela, I had been searching for it and last time I was in Calcutta, he and Itravelled around to pick it up. It is perhaps one of the most honest accountsof the turbulent times of the seventies and what made it special was that itdid not accuse anyone. It was a tragic account of dreams turning intonightmares, of the youth asking questions but not understanding the answers.

What started as an outburst of angeragainst the system confused everyone around. But there were so many of them whowent ahead with the hope of believing the answers would come one day if theystayed true to the ideal. It did not. An entire generation was wiped out andthe world almost has forgotten them dubbing them as the first naxalites.

As I see the support for the AnnaHazare movement, I am suddenly wondering – do we as a nation require a solofighter to rally around? Do we need heroes to lead us to battle or can wesustain as a colony of bacteria where the collective decides for thecollective. But probably that’s the reason why the first Vedic Societies aroundthe Indus elected their first king and it became etched in our DNA.

When I was growing up, I also heard alot about Hollywood propaganda - how Hollywood hoodwinked an entire world tobelieve in The American Dream. But a chance viewing of a few films made mewonder. The first was “College Ties” – a story of the deep roots of anti-semitismin the early days of the “New World”. The other place where I had seen mentionsof it were in “Acts of Faith”, one of the lesser known Erich Seagal novels. TheSecond was “Mao’s Last Dancer” – an autobiography of a ballet dancer from Chinawho defected to the US in the eighties since he wanted to dance and be free.The film accused no one, did not try to make a point, it just tried to showcasethe fight of an individual for his dreams. There was a portent scene where Liasks someone in the US, did he love his President? And when he is told, “Love?I don’t even like him.” Li in his innocence asks, “Are you not scared?” Thethird movie was Charlie Wilson’s War. Classic Tom Hanks, I think there are notmany movies which openly accept America’s involvement in arming the Afghansagainst the Soviets to end the Cold War. “We want it to be their Vietnam”

The reason I came up with this wasbecause while watching the movie I suddenly realized how so many people werecastigated for doubting Anna in a democracy! How posters were torn down when“Fire” was released, how Karan Johar had to get his blessings from politicalparties before he released “My name is Khan”. And there was Hollywood who couldopenly make a documentary called Zeitgeist which doubts the very existence ofJesus Christ!

Suddenly I realize nothing comparesto that freedom. Not the best gilded cages in the world can compare to the openskies.

While tolerance to differingviewpoints is slowly becoming a rare trait in India, I suddenly feel proud ofmy state. After 34 years there was a regime change. And yet, contrary to allthat was being prophesized, there has not been any major backlash orretribution in Bengal barring sporadic incidents of post poll violence.

I hope we rebuild our state. Themandate that was given to a calm and composed Bhattacharya 5 years back yieldedno results as the system crushed all hopes of a turnaround. Today a mercurialBanerjee has been given the same mandate and if the press reports are to bebelieved, the scum has just changed colours at the lowest levels of society andcorruption continues unabated.

But I believe and this year whenBengalis pray to their Mother Goddess in Durga Pujo, they will pray for thekilling of more than one demon.

Subho Mohalaya.

Stop Over 2 – Bangkok – Part II

2011-09-20T08:57:00.000+08:00

It must really be unfair if I talkabout a city without talking about how lively its night markets are, how innovationspills out from the imagination of its street vendors, how the food that getserved on the streets attacks all your senses at once.

KSS typically puts us up in decenthotels, allowing us easy access to the city centre and for Bangkok, it must beSukhumvit. From the Sukhumvit Station, down to Chitlom and onwards to theNational Stadium, the streets are as close to heaven as it can get for ashopaholic. From the glittering malls of Paragon, Siam Discovery, CentralWorld, to the Indian favourite MBK, all that you can ask for, is under a fewroofs.

I remember when I was still inPilani, Tantra T shirts were a rage. And then like all industrious Indians, theshops in Palika BAzar started hoarding up on T shirts that proudly proclaimed –“Beer Belly” or “My Dad is an ATM”. However, they were still very expensive fora college kid who had spent up all his money buying T shirts from everydepartment in his college.

As I walked around Erawan, I realizedthat same kid had grown up just a bit. His T shirt collection had changed to amuch sober, much branded and completely collared version of his former self. Hehad the means now, but not the heart to wear T shirts which said, “King Size”with an arrow pointing downward!

And I sighed and walked on.

But surprisingly, a few shops downthe line I was thrilled to wear a strange shop, selling a Brand of T shirtscalled “No problem”. Somehow, it resonated instantly. You see, my teeny tinyego always refuses to accept that there might be a problem. So for me it hasalways been “No problem.” But the catch lay elsewhere. This shop was made forwell nourished people. The Large T shirts that they had were the ones thattypically would go for a XXL in other countries and brands. What followed is easilyimaginable.

The street food in Bangkok issomething to look forward to. Where else will you have bananas in a stick,fried over the fire and then beaten down to release the aroma to lure thepasser by? And it does not end in just that. Take a walk in the wet markets ofthe city and you will find exotic fruits and vegetables you probably wouldnever had thought of, if you were from the Western World. The vegetarian in youwill shudder to see the variety of meat on display and the Bengali in you mightjust want to kiss the vendor, not only because she’s super cute, but alsobecause she has the most amazing variety of fresh Fish.

Madam Tussad’s is something perhapsbest seen in London, but if you have never been to Europe, you might just headthere like I did and click a photograph with Mr. Gandhi who you meet as soon asyou would have bowed to the King and Queen and yeah, perhaps sit at the Oval Officewith The First Family in Washington looking at you.

Strangely the roads in Bangkok arebroad but the traffic is worse than Mumbai, so it’s always a great idea to takethe trains or walk. You will come across the huge statue of Rama I and thebeautiful Lumphini Park. It’s a peaceful area and you will find the Thaiscoming there after a hard day’s work or to jog in the mornings. And in theevenings if you have some spare time, you might want to head to the ErawanShrine (named after the celestial elephant) where the Four Headed Buddha (Actually the Hindu Deity Brahma) watchessilently as devotees pour in. The faces are the “Face of Peace and Health, Faceof Good Fortune, Face of Good Relationships and Face of Protection against Evil.”It’s also the place where probably you will find the traditional dancershelping you to make a connection to the World beyond, helping you get your prayersbe heard. It apparently is sort of a customized prayer service that you can requestfor. Bangkok is also the place where I have seen devotees place bottles ofFanta as offerings along with traditional coconuts. Maybe because a lot ofshrines were traditionally spirit houses which protect the land and its inhabitants.

Music fills you as you walk thestreets of Bangkok and you realize that there is so much to see and so littletime that you will yearn to be back... soon.

Stop Over 2 – Bangkok – Part I

2011-09-16T20:32:00.000+08:00

There is a place in this world,unknown to most, where the King and the Queen still reign supreme. And thepeople love them and adore them and celebrate the monarchy. It’s not themountains of Bhutan or the Sultanates of the Middle East or the loyal subjectsof her Majesty the Queen. But in the farthest corners of the Eastern World,there is a country which has never been colonized by any western power or Japan.In the days gone by, the maps of the East India Company used to call the land –Siam.

Having never faced the humiliation ofa foreign rule, the Thais are a proud nation and yet the most respectfulamongst all the races I have come across in my life till date. While Japanesedemonstrations of respect are well documented by Hollywood, the Thais can matchup to the best of them.

At times, I feel ashamed as anIndian, who considering himself a global citizen, always extends his hand outfor a firm handshake. And yet, I feel a strange sense of joy when completestrangers in a corporate setting or outside, fold their hands together, bow andgreet the traditional Thai way – Sawasdeeka.

Namaskar might be dying in India,except perhaps during weddings and family gatherings, but in a country far faraway, it lives on. I love the concept of Namaskar as to me it embodies the verybest of the Hindu way of life. It tells the person you are greeting, “I acceptthat there resides a God within you, and I bow to that Supreme Power.”

Coming back to Bangkok and the Thais,I sense an inner struggle so very common to India and many other nations whichare grappling with a changing world view. The best example of this confusion isperhaps the Suvarnabhumi Airport. It is a beautiful airport, one of the betterones that have been built in recent years across the world. As soon as youenter, you will come across relics of the Budhha and huge statues straight outof the pages of mythology. And once you are done with immigration, whiletravelling out of the country, you will be greeted with one of the most amazingscenes from Hindu Mythology – the churning of the Oceans. And you will feelexcited that this airport perhaps has something unique to offer, something thatyou can take back and treasure. Yet, in an effort to entice the globaltravellers, the airport loses itself in the standardization that is slowlybecoming a curse in this world.

You might be wondering why a post ontravelling to a new city is about an airport. I have realized over the last 2years, my priorities in travel have changed. From the wanderlust backpacker, asI grow old in my job as a marketer and start having my first grey hairs, I havebecome a student of human emotions. I like nothing better than to understand acountry from her people, from what they think, do, love, like, hate and eat.And that’s why I spend weekends in consumes’ homes learning about them,observing them and finally falling in love with my job all over again.

The city is surviving better than theairport. The Orange robes of the monks are often noticed, so are the eveningchants from a temple in a busy street corner. Bangkok may be a modern city butit seems to have not forgotten itself in the process.

The Thais are of course the bestcooks in South East Asia, in my humble opinion, but perhaps I am a bit biasedbeing an Indian after all. The Thai cooking is full of herbs and flavours andthe fight over whose mom makes the best Tom Yam Soup is still a bone ofcontention amongst friends. If there’s a recipe that can create a symphony inyour palette, it must be Tom Yam.

You must have made multiple versionsof “authentic” Thai green curry, but to me having a green curry at a roadsiderestaurant in Thailand is almost the same as seeing The Taj with my own eyes,rather than on the internet. But there are 2 dishes I have fallen in love with– first the Thai Omelette. Extremely unhealthy and supremely delicious, it cangive Egg Bhurji, the Indian favourite, a run for its money. The second is theburnt coconut. Apparently, the Thais burn the coconut while it’s still in itsshell and then peel the outer coating out. This gives the water a strange butbrilliant flavour and while I have drunk almost litres of it, I am yet to put afinger to it – Barbequed Coconut Water is what I call it for lack of a betterexpression.

Till I figure it out, happy imaginingthe burnt coconut water, chilled in the freezer of Master Chef of KSS Thailand,Penrung, slowly moving down your throat to the ultimate goal it was destinedfor – your stomach.

Stop Over 1 - Manila

2011-09-11T00:31:00.001+08:00

The first stop in a journey that promises to bring back memories of late ’08 and early ’09 was in Metro Manila. Well, at least that’s how everyone in Manila calls it. A city made up of multiple cities, Manila is just as throbbing and chaotic and stuck in traffic as it should be. My new boss gets reminded of Mexico, I remember the traffic snarls at Peddar Road, the world refuses to move around us and we watch the Jeepneys pass by. (So the Jeepney is an elongated jeep, much like the elongated autos you see in the hinterlands of North India. For 8 pesos, they will take you from point to point, much like the Tollygunj to Garia autos in Calcutta)

The Filipinos are extremely helpful and typically you’ll not have trouble finding your way around. The taxis can be a bit of a hassle but where in the world are they not? After all, everything can’t be as picture perfect as Singapore. But if you don’t mind hopping on and off jeepenys and have done your homework, you’ll be able to get around Manila easily.

Everyone in South East Asia is always eating. At least the shops seem to suggest that. And the Filipinos, perhaps the most carefree and “bindaas” of all of them are probably eating and drinking with a song and dance thrown in for good measure. From J Pop to K Pop, they are experimenting, learning, re-learning and yes, uploading probably everything on Facebook.

The food is full of surprises. Starting from the Sinigang, the tamarind soup to the Nilagas, the Tinolas and the Adobos, the names are good enough for you to want to try. But that’s where you will figure out if you are a global foodie or just a fraud butter chicken eater from India. The Filipino food is single minded in their flavour profile, each dish has its own dominant taste direction; something which is very difficult for us to understand having grown up in an explosion of spices. For example, to understand sinigang, I had it for dinner 3 nights in a row till I could finally appreciate the sourness. Well, you will be in a little bit of a mess if you are a strict vegetarian as fish sauce becomes an important part of the cooking process. Spices are surprisingly absent in most parts of South East Asia, but even herbs are used in moderation in most places outside Thailand.

If you are in Manila, you must go to Chow King and Jollybee. Though fast food outlets, they have a character of their own and often can give the KFCs of the world a run for their money. In Manila I also found Bubba Gump. I never knew it existed beyond the movie and it felt so nice to see the restaurant of Forrest actually stand up in front of you. You’ll find your standard Indian restaurants here as well, but you may suddenly find Belly Dancing going on while you have your dinner. Greenbelt is an upmarket shopping district and while you might not want to shop there, there’s nothing stopping you from dining there.

Manila – it gives one a relief and a sense of an emerging economy different from the picture perfect Singapore and you heave a sigh of relief.

And if a country names it's laundry services as Mr. Quickie and Let's talk Dirty, you know this is a nation that knows a good laugh.

Born Again

2011-09-05T10:39:00.002+08:00

“You can close your eyes to things you don't want to see, but you can't close your heart to the things you don't want to feel.”

I wish I knew who wrote that. I wish I could write like that. But I don’t think I am capable of words that tug at your heartstrings. If I did, I would have used words to heal the scars. But even if words fail me, friends seldom do.

Sometimes you need to remember things that are important to you. And sometimes if you are lucky, then you get reminded about them at times you need them the most. Somewhere at the beginning of the year, I realized that it had been a long time since I had really laughed, really cared for anything outside work and life was seeming like a dreaded weekend to weekend to routine. Just then like a breath of fresh air they descended.

Led by the “Gaurav of The Kachhi Beer Drinkers”, they came one after the other. Sometimes they came with their friends, a few times there were friends of a friend and in their “just out of college” way of looking at things, my last few months in Mumbai took a life of their own. In those last few months, when almost every friend had been moving out of Mumbai, they came in as family.

Often life surprises you in strange ways, you never know how the bonds that you have created can come and lift you up from your self-inflicted misery, the bonds suddenly are no longer shackles but a pathway to a life that once was. It was during one of those times that one is confused that the newly anointed alums of the Department of Photography descended on Mumbai.

The words “DOPY blood” has been misused regularly for a variety of things. It’s sometimes used for people with general enthusiasm which is typically shortened to “Gen Enthu”, further shortened to “Genthu”. It’s sometimes (on those rare occasions when there are more than 3 people coming for the shifting work post a festival), just a sigh of relief from old timers who thank the lucky stars that the department will survive. But to me Dopy Blood means a calling that you can’t resist when you meet someone who once shared a passion that you did.

They made me shake off years of lethargy; sunrises in Mumbai had never been so beautiful and suddenly I was clicking again, with one of that age old cosina, shooting with films like I have always loved to.

Life had changed, the love for “writing with light” had returned and redemption was bestowed on a soul parched for what it loved to do.

Here’s To Dopy Blood. Here’s to a bond beyond words – with ink or with light.

A Month Young

2011-08-30T16:37:00.000+08:00

So, a month’s passed since I moved to Singapore and it feels nice to be posting from my new apartment - a place hopefully will be my address for the near future. That does give life a sense of stability. That one’s a strange word – you run away from it all your life and suddenly one fine day you begin to crave for it. I crave for my bean bag. I hear it’s coming this Saturday.

I realized Dara House had given my Mumbai life a strange stability and G was the anchor in my life. As I look around trying to figure out what all I need for the house, I miss him terribly, a little selfishly perhaps as well. It’s not easy to understand out how many dustbins will be good enough for one man and his apartment. The space looks empty; perhaps a 6 ft 6 inches human is missing as well. But luckily for him, he would not have fitted into any bed in Singapore.

Settling down in Singapore has been easy thanks to quite a few people, J the first and foremost. Starting from Day 1 when she ensured that she meets me at the station so that I can reach office without hassles and know the routes till ensuring every time I travel that I don’t forget my tickets to the airport, she has been God’s helping hand. I made new friends. Friends who took really good care of the strange Indian who doesn’t like to eat lunch before 1:00 pm, who always is looking out for a snack in between meetings and an excuse to postpone going to the gym. You know it feels nice when suddenly you are in a melting pot of the strangest of cultures where everyone is accepted as they are and there is no set rule for anything. And you realize this was the reason you chose selling soups as your career.

The friend networks came strongly to the rescue, from offers to give an accommodation if needed to financial help if required, from inviting a lonely friend to Janmastami celebrations to showing the joints to satiate the cravings for home food - friends sprang up and made me feel at home even while they were spending nights at their offices. People called from back home to check up if I had settled down and did not believe me till they had probed long and hard enough.

The freedom to be completely alone has given me the permission to do something I have been meaning to do for some time. I have decided on an interesting experiment. Starting September 1, I intend to go on a no “traditional media model” which essentially means I will be off TV primarily. There are a couple of reasons to this – I really want to understand how the mind works when it has to source new sources for information and entertainment and somewhere in the process I want to find out more about digital media – how it works, how it gets its users, how it interacts with our lives. Staying alone helps to take such calls. Let’s see how long I survive given the fact even compres could not stop me from watching Oscar Fever on Star Movies!

Every journey of mine has had its connection with a book. This was no different. C has been a friend for a long long time now and quite a few of my favourite books have come to me through her. Just a couple of months before I left, she gave me an amazing collection of articles which documented the 50 years of South Asian journalism. Every morning in the bus, while taking the 40 minute ride, I used to read the articles one by one and remember the home I left behind.

It was during one of those journeys that I realized why I fell in love with Liverpool in the first place – for football I had Mohun Bagan, for camaraderie I needed to know...

“Walk on

With hope in your hearts

And you'll never walk alone”

I did not walk alone in Singapore, even while trying to be the lone wolf I fancy myself to be.

Enter Sandman

2011-08-26T07:45:00.000+08:00

"The Lord of Dreams learns that one must change or die, and makes his decision." – Sandman.

Sandman was your favourite novel. In fact, without it, we would never have met in college. It was not often that you find someone sitting with your favourite book which not many appreciate. Today I have one more choice for the Lord of Dreams – to neither change nor die, but to hold on in the secret corner of your heart, something that is more precious to you than anything else in this world.

Tonight, I don’t have them with me any longer, just like I don’t have you. I have spent ages wondering how I screwed it up. Minutes had passed into hours, the hours had passed into the morning when finally my wife of 25 years stirred in her sleep and gave me that angelic smile of hers. Probably she knew I was up all night, probably she knew I was thinking about you.

I wish that perhaps you would suddenly come back one day; sometimes I wish you never had left; sometimes I even wish that you had heard what I had never said.

We've been through this such a long long time

Just tryin' to kill the pain

Music helps. It helps to make you bring out the emotions within. Sometimes, it’s best to let others say what you could never say. And that’s when all these years of walls that you had carefully built up, falls down like a pack of cards – and I roll over as Humpty Dumpty would have. It’s funny how even when writing about you, I can make fun of myself. I know that’s what you would do. It was always a joke to you.

I tuck you in

Warm within

Keep you free from sin

'Til the sandman he comes

I did try to protect you from all things evil. Today, in those rare moments of sanity, I realize how stupid I had been to trying to save you from the world. I ended up losing you altogether. It’s hard to kill the pain.

There are those strange nights when I suddenly realize that we perhaps are still searching for something; maybe not one another, but maybe what we wanted the other to be – an ideal image; perfection. I know for myself. I was searching for you in my past.

It was really hard to hold the candle in the cold November Rain. But..

I know that you can love me

When there's no one left to blame

We’ll meet our Sandman one day. And he won’t be the bogeyman. He’ll help us find ourselves, where we’ll be old, stripped of our egos, bathed in nothing but light and then slowly...

Exit, light

Enter, Night

Take my hand

we're off to never-never land...

Being Superman

2011-08-24T00:25:00.000+08:00

Apparently sometime back a poll was conducted which told us that Superman was the greatest comic book character of all times. In a way, it made no sense. He’s the “goody two shoes”, the one who can do no wrong, the always virtuous, one woman man, rather Superman. But the world around us had superheroes with their shades of grey. The Black Spiderman was just in a movie, but the entire life story of the Batman is about being The Dark Knight. Ironman is a pompous spoilt brat, while most of the rest come and go as the latest flavour of the season.

And really, why would you like Superman? He has no moral dilemmas. He knows his rights from wrongs and even when Lex Luthor dangles a kryptonite ring in front of him, Superman remains the greatest champion of humanity. There is seemingly nothing that can make him falter even a bit.

And we know that we love our shades of greys.

But then, I have been thinking. What if, deep within, beyond all our metamorphical blog posts and our devotion to graphic novels and their moral dilemmas, what all of us really want is to go back to the simplicity of black and white and live in a world where the choices are not so blurred, where dreams are more real than nightmares and hope still lives?

What if, in reality, we want the Superman to win over the others, even when we are scared to accept it? What if we know that the Superman is the only true superhero, the one who is incorruptible?

What if the hope for a Superman is our only hope?

Because I Trust You...

2011-08-18T00:49:00.000+08:00

Respected Dr. Singh,

It has been a tough 24 hours since the news reports started coming in; news about the arrest of an old man in the world’s largest democracy.

But this mail is not about him. This mail is for about you and for you Dr. Singh; you who I have admired since 2001. That’s actually about 10 years later than I should have, but growing up in a communist ruled state where Marxist literature was easily available, you often have an one sided view of the world outside and I really believed at that point of time that you had messed it up. Nehruvian Socialism still had its hold on me and I really believed in the Public Sector to be the commanding heights of the economy.

As I grew up, I realized what you had done, maybe you were forced to the edge and had to do the unthinkable or maybe you actually had a plan. I believed it was the later. You see Dr. Singh; you were the one responsible along with the Chankya from Andhra to create my generation – the most confused generation in India’s history since the Midnight’s Children.

We grew up without McDonalds and with Doordarshan but as we went to college and started working suddenly we saw the world around us change beyond recognition. We got opportunities which were unimaginable to our parents. We finally believed that we were given the wings to fly and yet the 70s and the 80s held us back. We were born during the “License Raj”, we grew up in a country ravaged by terrorism and yet in a nation which some liked to call “India Shining”. We feel disconnected to those born in the late nineties; we are shunned by the ones born in the early seventies. We want to take on the world and yet we are afraid; we want free market economy where industry and merit will win over nepotism and yet we actively search for someone with a “connection”.

We are the ones forever indebted to you. And that is why, we believe in you.

You have the most unenviable job in this world and thus when you spoke little I thanked my stars that in a world full of “Argumentative Indians” here was my Prime Minister who did more than he spoke. Yours was the first government that was returned to power since Mr. Nehru in 1962. That’s how much we trusted you.

I respect Mr. Hazare. He has taken on the system almost single handed. But I respect my nation more. It gave him the opportunity to voice his dissent – till the arrest. And that’s when for the first time since 2001, my faith in you faltered a bit. “Life is never free of contradictions”. You had said it yourself. And this was so contradictory to my image of you.

Today, middle class India is baying for your blood. My belief is that they are less bothered about Lokpal or Jan Lokpal (though I must admit the bill presented to Parliament is not enough to control rampant corruption) but they are frustrated with the degree of corruption at every level of society and government and they want it to end. And they want you to end it, at least try to end it. But all they see is an old man taking on your government and asking you for an answer which seldom comes. And they rally behind him.

I do not today believe that the Lokpal can control corruption in office. If the CVC, CAG, CBI and an independent judiciary has been rendered ineffective by our system, there is little chance that another body will succeed. But I do hope that you take note of the sentiment and work towards strengthening the institutions that we already have. The 4 pillars of democracy - legislature, judiciary, executive and a free press – today are under siege because we have lost faith in the legislature and the executive, we are tired waiting for the judiciary to give its verdict and the press is slowly getting caught up in the race for TRPs. How can one trust the parliament if no one trusts their own elected parliamentarians? And we are ourselves to blame for this. We get what we choose based on who we choose.

Even after multiple allegations against your government, I have always believed that you have preferred to work in the background trying to work for us, the people, instead of wasting time and energy in answering every allegation.

Today I hope I was right in assessing you. I do hope you still are the right man to lead us. I do hope Dr. Singh you will remember your promise to us – “My top most priority is to deal with India's massive social and economic problems, so that chronic poverty, ignorance and disease can be conquered in a reasonably short period of time.”

In today’s world trust is an important currency Dr. Singh and I have put my entire life’s savings on you.

It’s not much but it’s all I have.

Yours sincerely,

Madhurjya Banerjee

(written by a very disturbed me after the entire country seemed confused over what was happening. Searched for the email address and mailed Dr. Singh the above letter. Not sure if it will ever go to him though)

There’s No Food like Home

2011-08-14T17:57:00.001+08:00

So the last couple of weeks have been a gastronomically delightful one. I have tried authentic Filipino, Japanese, Thai and Malay cuisines, all within a week’s time. There are many more countries to explore, many more fears to conquer. I love understanding new flavours, new cooking methods and new ways you can turn the same old broccoli into something completely different. But as I went around experimenting, I realized that to let your taste buds go wild, understanding flavours you have never tried before is an experiment not many can appreciate. We don’t like messing with our taste buds. And that’s the biggest concern for food marketers around the world. You are ok to let go off your mom’s skin care regime, replacing it with whatever new technology that the skin guys come up with. But there’s no way you’ll ever let go off what you think as great food, what you tasted as you were growing up.

Tomorrow my nation celebrates her independence day and as I walked around Little India with half of what’s left of an old friend and his future better quarter (half of half is a quarter right?) trying to find hair oil in this country with more versions of shampoos and conditioners than I have hair left on my head, I realized that the only great insight for Food was taste of home. And home for me will always be a clumsy juggernaut of a democracy called India that rumbles around destroying all hopes of order and decorum but which always vibrates with life and a million cuisines full of spices that ensures that by the time you are ten, your taste buds have been numbed to the extent that anything mildly spicy will be bland for you.

Singapore is a great place for food. It lets you understand multiple cuisines; it showcases fusion food like no other place, (except perhaps Gujju Land which has No Onion No garlic Pudina Pizza) it lets you experiment. But after 2 weeks of experimentation, when I sat down at LN for an Andhra meal with friends, I found bliss. Food that reminds us of home is our umbilical cord as we grow up. It keeps us connected. The food courts in Singapore are a great place to observe food habits and as I looked around while sitting near the Fortune of Wealth, it struck me. We might love to experiment with food while we travel, we might have a cuisine that we love back home on our weekend nights but when we are away from home, there is nothing more pleasing than finding the familiar smells and sights and then lose ourselves in the food that we grew up with.

As much as a Foodie I can become, the heart always tugs the stomach along to the memories of childhood.

Week 1

2011-08-09T18:49:00.000+08:00

So a week and a couple of days have passed since I have landed in Singapore. And I have to say it was all because of the men from 2006 that I have found settling in so easy. In 2006, when the 5 of us came down to Singapore, we never thought we would have so much fun. Those 2 weeks turned out to be one of the most memorable ones during my stay in IIMB.

And thanks to them I had walked every nook and corner of Singapore during those few days. So when I finally landed here to start this new phase of life, I was not at all apprehensive. In fact, it felt like smoothly getting into a mode I once knew. Yes, probably life would have been easier if Kushal was here, he is just amazing at figuring out life with just a Lonely Planet and wikitravel. And with Kushal around one never needs to bother about logistics. He is the best travel planner I have ever met and I think his camera and him have been parts of some of my most memorable trips. In fact, I don’t even know if RL, the only wiki editor I knew then, still does the editing. He was the one who led us to wikitravel. Or Wipro, who experimented with every form of food that was or Prasanth who always brought sanity back. Or for that matter one who I shall not name, who used to leave us in the night and return back in the morning with fantastic tales :)

Singapore gives you a culture shock once you land from Mumbai. The roads are not only devoid of potholes, they are also devoid of any kind of dirt or grime. The cars drivers have not been trained in Delhi, so they know how to follow lanes and basic traffic signals like red means stop. The pedestrians have never been to Calcutta so they know that a road should be crossed only at designated crossings. The citizens have never lived in Bangalore so they get agitated if a metro line is delayed by just one month. The trains run on time, something I still need to get used to, the buses are comfortable and come on time. So all in all, if you know the rules and follow them you can very easily survive here. There are stores that are open 24X7, the life in the city, at least near Orchard, where I stay presently, seem to be alive, reminding me of the Bandra that I left behind.

There are people I miss, most importantly Swati Didi and Yogesh. In my realm of self sufficient awesomeness, I get worried only on two counts – if I have to cook daily or if I have to do my own ironing. Cooking breakfast or weekends is not a major concern but cooking daily is and there was Swatididi to take care of us like the Mother Hen. She was there with us for three years and has taken care of us like her own family. Life in Mumbai was so smooth mainly because of her and the brilliant food that she cooked. It’s not easy to take care of a bachelors’ pad but she did it with so much ease and panache. She might not be reading this but I thank her from the bottom of my heart. The other was Yogesh – the day we realized that there was the reliable IFB Laundromat near our house, we let go off all laundry work. Since then, till yesterday I have never done my laundry, leave alone ironing. Now doing laundry is not difficult if you have a washing machine, but ironing is such a pain. The last time I did it was perhaps before the campus interviews in BITS! Anyway, Yogesh was God’s gift to us. He always called up the night before to check if we would be home and then punctually would come in every Saturday morning. We would forget, but Yogesh would not. In fact, the last Friday night in India, even though he knew we had left, he called up to check.

There are things I miss about home – the most prominent amongst them are chewing gums. The city has no chewing gums! Mints are just not the same. So if there are any separation pangs that tugs at my heart, it must be gums. My life suddenly has no gum and I am not happy about it. It’s actually making me full of gham.

Anyway, there seems to be an unending range of food choices and I have not even started scraping the tip of the iceberg. But that has to wait as I fly to Manila tomorrow.

And Happy National Day Singapore :) May you and I fall in love soon.

The Decade

2011-08-07T00:26:00.000+08:00

Suddenly over the last few days everyone from the 2001 batch has been getting psenti over facebook on how a decade has passed since we all went to Pilani and I guess it does deserve a post. 10 years is a long time but somehow I have a feeling in my heart that perhaps it’s not just about the fact that we went to a place which has shaped our lives, but it is about who we met, who we fought with, who we loved; brotherly and not so brotherly; who left us along the way and who we remember even today.

10 years makes sense only when you have comrades who have made a difference to your lives as you walked. Why else would 3 grown up men, one of them now a father, block tickets in advance to watch another movie about 3 men going off to Spain. They might not have made the road trip, but they never left each other’s sides. Coming to never leaving sides, you might just want to reconsider staying by your friend’s side when she decides to showcase her driving skills while trying to get it up on a ramp, 10 years and closest bro or not.

10 years at times makes you realize the worth of a friend, (with whom you have behaved in a sulking childlike fashion and tried to hide those tears of joy at her wedding) who calls you up the night before another coming of age movie releases and you suddenly realize that you owe her your last Book Quiz trophy and also your initiation into Hogwarts.

10 years is that interesting time when you leave a friend in need and yet shamefully carry off her book as your only reading companion in a new world and a book which beautifully captures the history of your nation. And then you message her making it her fault that you never met.

10 years can do a lot of crazy things. Friends go off to the B schools in the US and you know it might be a long time since you can have a Bisibelle bhath or perhaps finally get to taste those amazing recipes that another claims to have picked up from in laws in Jharkhand.

It makes the first chap I met on the rickety bus ride to Pilani come back from his extremely tough job on the oil rigs and all of us drink our lemonades to the fact that his risk profile is now doubled. While monetarily it might be exciting, the question remains what does it do to his profile on mallumatrimony? And everyone shakes their head and promises to double our search efforts.

The journey that began in Shankar continues, but somehow the Vyas New block facing mess which later became the revered Budhfront seems to have stayed true to one another. That wing was one of its kind – extremely non regionalistic/departmentist in nature, which was pretty rare in those days, with GPAs ranging of near 6 to near 10, half the cultural association office bearers of the batch giving away free grub coupons, clubs, departments, future politicians (Jai Maharashtra) even Department of Spectator and Audience or DOSA as we called it and a possible future Noble Laureate. Sigh that’s probably not me, but I am hoping in the memoirs I am mentioned as the guy who the Nobel Laureate chased with a broom across Budhfront.

Batch of 2001, it has been an honour. Happy Friendship Day. This post had to wait till today.

Here's to perhaps the only thing we learnt in common - a new language. Courtesy - someone in FB :)

ID - 2001*, PR No., Timetable, FDs, Refli, Centli, ID Mom/Pop, IPC, pine, IC, Audi, Grubs, Lachcha, Niteout, Vetti, Guss, Tests, Compre, Tut, Sup-T, Av+2, CT, Zuk, Makeup, RAF, Stubs, Common Hour, Bhavans, Gate Call, ThermoD, CP, GenB, SPM, MuP, APOGEE, BOSM, OASIS, Razzmataz, FashP, Juke Box, Depts, Clubs, MAMO, BOB, Redis, SamChat, Jamun Rabdi, ANC, Cnot, PPW, SKY, SAC, ShivG, DW, PS, Senti-sem, Writeups

Curly Fries

2011-08-03T01:07:00.001+08:00

This was meant to be the Goodbye post to Mumbai. But as I started writing it, I realized that I had so many memories of this place that it will remain with me forever and ever and there can’t really be any goodbye. As someone just wrote to me today morning, somehow if you don’t wish someone farewell, you are not really saying goodbye. Mumbai has been good to me, it has taken me on a ride, it has frustrated me and it has hurt me in ways unimaginable only to wash away all my pains.

As I was packing, I felt really proud of the fact that my material possessions do not account for much in this world. All my worldly possessions can be packed into 3 cubic meters of space and then I would have 2 bags to travel along with me. It filled me with a strange sense of relief and power which told me even today I can just walk away – from everything and everyone and nothing would be missed. That freedom to be able to walk away without a care in the world makes a lot of us stronger. It’s like being Jonathan Livingstone Seagull; when you know that you do not have anything to pull you back, you can soar higher than ever.

But more importantly Mumbai – it all began with Wadala Sheraton, where SNDU puts all its trainees to make them believe life is all rosy and nice :) And then slowly the city grew on me. The old office at Backbay, the walks on Nariman Point, the late nights at Jeffreys where G always had to order a Bloody Mary as I wanted the nachos that came free with alcohol, the confusion as to what was so great about Bade Miyan, the absolute delight of slurping on a Kala Khatta and checking if my tongue was blacker than others. In fact, in our fair skin crazy country, that’s one of the few moments when black rules the day. Everything about the city seemed magical at times. And as the city grew on me, I was able to show visitors around the city with a pride that I thought was reserved only for Calcutta.

Slowly I became a Bandra Boy, at least hoped to be. There was no longer any need to travel out as everything you ever need to survive in life, you had at arm’s distance. But that also means that it’s a place that makes you weak. Slowly you forget that sometimes you will not be able to find coffee at 1 in the night. And we roamed the streets of Bandra on our cycles. From Motappanpalya to Bandra, it was one hell of a journey. And thanks to the 4 corners of the amazing Delhi rectangle, you never were short of a friend, either for a movie or ever if you wanted to go dancing.

There was always the traffic, the rains and the slush, spending almost a day if I needed to meet my cousin at Thane, a trip to town that can make one go nuts, friends all over the place and no one wanting to travel out, life can become complex in Mumbai, especially if you do not know when the city is suddenly going to flare up again.

I have made some of my best friends at work in Mumbai, something I would have never thought possible while studying in Bangalore. I have reunited with old friends who had drifted apart; I also have lost friends to the crazy pace of the city.

And while SNDU moves me out and I join Khana Shana Singapore (KSS) I am really not sad that’s it over, at least for the time being, I am ecstatic that it ever happened. (I read that somewhere) And I would go back again to the city one day, even if I can never afford a place to stay there :)

Bombay has been my curly fries – maybe fattening with the complete lack of exercise, maybe unhealthy with all the pollution, but at the end of the day, one bite into it and you are in for an amazing taste that will remain with you for the rest of your life.

Midnight in Midair

2011-07-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

So a new phase of life finally begins; in a city I had no idea I would come back to. It was 2006 and there were 5 of us who had come to this city for a short project. Without much money in our hands, we had walked through the length and breadth of the city, trying to optimize the MRT fares. We all were a living encyclopaedia of what to do and not to do in Singapore. It was the first international trip for most of us and we wanted to ensure we made the most of it.

As I was flying into Singapore, alone and just a little scared, Woody Allen came to the rescue. Singapore Airlines had Midnight in Paris playing on their system. One of the recent quirks of the master film maker has been to romanticize Europe. And he paints the most seductive picture of Paris. But the best part was the originality of the screenplay. Suddenly, it occurred to me, this was so very Bengali – Loving the past, always reliving the golden ages, wishing that one was born before his or her time. The treatment was exquisite and Owen Wilson managed to pull it off to a large extent. Yes, probably someone else could have done a better job at showing his surprise. Imagine me running into Tagore. I would have fainted then and there.

The protagonist is a writer facing a block and one night he suddenly meets all his literary idols, and is transferred back to the golden age of Paris – 1920s. He has an option to stay there or come back. The subtlety with which Woody Allen shot the movie was sublime to say the least.

But most importantly, as I was about to land in a new city to start a new phase of my life, it taught me to treat nostalgia as it should be – like a memory that helps to keep you going, not hinders you by pulling you back.

5 years ago the city had struck me as being operated on clockwork. Nothing seems to have changed much. Yes, it’s a bit more crowded, definitely warmer, the Changi Airport keeps adding terminals and there are trains to take you from one to the other, the roads are smooth, chewing gums can’t be found in grocers, the food is super costly, the food courts are buzzing and the MacDonald’s have the ability to come to the rescue of a hungry nomad.

How the story turns out to be only time can tell. I believe stories make their own paths. They are alive and even if we try we can not dictate how they will turn out to be. Maybe yes, the best we can do is to give a nudge here and there. But that’s about it. A nudge. Life ensures that every story goes through their own twists and turns.

As the plane was getting farther and farther away from my country, I sipped on the most brilliant mocktail I have ever tasted - Awaiting the Golden Dawn. Maybe, it was just the mood, the memories, but somehow, when I said cheers to myself, as Owen Wilson decided to stay back in Paris, I realized I was lucky to be able to fall in love with the cities I go to.

Best part? The weighing machine in my room shows my weight to be 10 kgs lower than it was last week in Mumbai. Now that’s one welcome that can floor me any day. May the good times continue.