The lesson

Certain girls don’t heed what they read.

A girl I know, who worships Wodehouse, who knows that whenever Bertie sleeps in his mauve pajamas he becomes the center of attention by some midnight incident involving an ex-fiancée or a burglar, will dare to dismiss these incidents as fiction. She will go out to buy curd in her bright pink shorts thinking it’s a two-minute job and that huge food store wouldn’t be crowded anyways. And soon she will be lying in a big pool of vegetable oil, flipping like a fish out of water and resembling a soap when it touch bases the wet floor and slips around for good twenty seconds. Of course, the crowd will click their tongues and shake their heads and will think twice how far they will slip before they offer a hand. And yes, in case you were wondering, those bright pink shorts change color to a dull magenta when well oiled.

Most fiction is adulterated with the potential of reality. Hope the girl heeds this lesson.

Pest control

It is easier to kill a roach than a tick
Back of the slipper will do the trick
Mosquitoes die in a clap of the hand
With speed their corpses crash land
Don’t spare the ants, red or white
Just crush their mud hills with delight
Swat the fly and blow on your swatter
That it took ten attempts doesn’t matter
Rats die after eating poisonous cake
Sweetness is something easy to fake
The worm that chews on your tree of wishes
Put it in a jar and feed it to the fishes
And after all this effort, they are all deceased
You sit down with the paper, feeling quite pleased
Don't fret over crashes, floods, bombs, flu, et al
We too are somebody's pest, after all

Pictionary friends

Look! Look! What I re-discovered after a gap of nearly two years!



My heart was so jumping with joy
That I could neither guess nor draw
I kept losing hands over fist
Caught curses in two full lists
Still, let me get all poetical and say
May pictionary intersperse all my bad days

It is a truth widely acknowledged that a real game of pictionary cannot be played without shouting at your team mates and almost strangling the competing ones! Maybe that is why the last line of the pictionary rule booklet reads "Remember: Friends are or life, not just for an evening of pictionary".

My dear blabbering brethren

Please note that my ears are not bins for your disposable small talks. You all speak just for the sake of speaking. Some day my brain is just going to explode. Red blotches of its remains will display art on the walls. Over the course of time, they will dry up and stink of unfulfilled dreams. Ideas, brittle, sharp, broken into million pieces will seep into the carpet, invisible from naked eye. Then when you walk, they will prick your feet in a bloodless way, enter your spine and remain lodged there. You will suffer from a weird disease where when you will open your mouth to speak, you will not be able to figure out what to say. It will bring in a new era known as ‘Fish Age’. And you will rue and wonder how the person who remained the most silent in your group somehow managed to have this lasting a last word – albeit in a self-destructive way.

This stinks of a sigh

Hairdresser puts down the brush, and rumples my hair with both hands. I feel nice, like a pampered dog. Then I look myself into the mirror. I see a pile of shredded paper. On top of my head. A pile of shredded paper that may have got an electric shock. Hairdresser informs that this is a new shabby look, quite in in colleges these days. I tell her keep rumpling. I am so very pleased.

Amid

I am standing on top of a divider. I feel a little... Ummm... uplifted... a strange thing to feel when what you are really feeling is down. To reach to the divider, I had to cross a road, which took me fifteen minutes. Or so. This time the culprit was not the non stop traffic. Quite the opposite. It was a standstill show, where cars are placed bumper to bumper, inter-meshed with cycles, two wheelers and an occasional bus. They will move unexpectedly, like random hiccups. Now, I have to cross another road to get home. I would much rather prefer walking on roads than crossing them, but do I have a choice? Some people are too brave to care about the trivial pursuit that life is. They will squeeze between cars or run past the speeding truck. Not me. I am content standing. Not because I have a soft corner for life or anything. It is just because I don't want death to be the center of that very thing that life avoided - Attention.

Escapade*

Apparently, it is a crime to be twenty-five, an Indian woman and not willing to get married. People (read parents, friends, relatives, colleagues, neighbors and all the other completely unrelated sets of homo sapiens) can't understand 'why?' Because you know, getting married is the second most sacred thing to do in this world, the first being putting your head in the oven and setting the temperature to hundred degrees. Or maybe it is not. I am not averse to the institution as such, because I simply CAN'T BE. There is a whole matrimonial melodramatic battle out there, which is pretty inescapable, and sometimes I feel I am the ONLY one in the opposition. Parents go from threatening to cajoling, aunts from philosophizing to petitioning and neighbors from wondering to bewildering... And I ... I had to make such great efforts in keeping my sanity intact during a recent trip home that I almost died from mental exhaustion. You don't believe me? Then consider this.

Situation 1: In which your parents provide you with a list of online matrimonial sites you need to visit during your stay home.

The escape: Tell them you are undergoing internet detoxification. You can't even touch the computer... after having stared into it for hours and hours at work.

The side effect: Refrain from internet for full seven days… I mean no mails or chats or facebook or blogs ... do you get the idea? DO YOU? I almost achieved nirvana during those seven days... and I am NOT kidding!

Situation 2: In which your relatives call you for lunch, feed you well, make you sit on a comfortable couch, corner you, and start an avalanche of naming random prospective matches.

The escape: You tell them you will make a list of the traits you want in a guy, and distribute it to them, so that they can look accordingly.

The side effect: How do you start making such a list? And once the list is done, how will you explain the word 'straight' to your grandma?

Situation 3: In which your sister conspires against you, teams up with your parents and adds spice in the already simmering wedding discussions. Just for the sake of getting new dresses made.

The escape: You ask your sister is she interested in weddings? Is she? Because you can easily tell parents about her boy friend and then voila! She can get married herself! With lots of dresses!

The side effect: A tea-spoonful of guilt because you never wanted to be a mean big sister.

Situation 4: In which neighborhood aunties, who have some age deadlines in their minds, want to know the reasons behind matrimonial delay.

The escape: You are focusing on your career right now. You don't want the hard earned money that your parents spent on your education go waste. You want to first serve your parents for some time.

The side effect: You are basking in the good daughter glow till your mother asks when you will start serving your parents. And exactly how. In front of four aunties. So that your parents can have enough eye witnesses in case you did not serve them and they sue you.

Situation 5: In which every topic of discussion, and by every I mean every single one (including global warming, and don't ask me 'how on earth'), will lead to only this one- "Ten reasons to get married in the next four months"

The escape: You can't escape water in an ocean.

The side effect: You get wet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bottomline: Do you know what exactly are you escaping from?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* For Prachi, my runaway partner

My forward moving life

On an average, I get five forwards per day (too few? or too many?)... And I diligently read all of them. What a nice break to have during work! Cute babies served on a platter... the real definitions of friendship and love and trust and life... the various misfortunes that can befall if you don’t forward that forward to ten other people...how Amy Bruce is still battling some life threatening ailment since 1995... The happy cricketers when a fan’s top slips up... the virtual flowers... the provocations... the humor... the future in the sun signs... the talents pets can possess... aahh! Where else is such entertainment! Then, sometimes, I feel like cooking up a forward, sending it to random people and finding out how long does the forward take to return to the inbox of originator (something like six degrees of FW:?). I don’t know... but in next few days, if you receive a forward which has a girl banging her head against a computer, then probably I started that one, and that girl is ME and she is requesting you to STOP sending the forwards, because seriously, she could die if she banged her head for too long!

But on not-so-unrelated note, all my past forward-reading finally bore fruits today, when I received a forward which had poetry in it. Yes, actual poetry, by a real poet! I discovered a poet and some poems. Read this one... because if you are in two-minds to forward or not to forward, Piet Hein provides a psychological tip.

Whenever you're called on to make up your mind,
And you're hampered by not having any,
The best way to solve the dilemma, you'll find,
Is simply by spinning a penny.
No - not so that chance shall decide the affair,
While you're passively standing there moping;
But the moment the penny is up in the air,
You suddenly know what you're hoping.

Remedy

Have you ever been angry? So angry that your brains shut shop than rather bear the brunt? So angry that the quickest remedy you can think of is to call the anger-inducing person names over the phone? You pick up the receiver, absent-mindedly dial your own cell number, get more angry that the person isn't picking up your call, and even more angry because your cell phone has to ring at the same time when you are on your way of doing some serious anger management...

If yes, then, next time, drink some water and then crush the bottle… it just might work...

...

I never could really understand her.
There were six screaming decades between us.
Sometimes, I made an effort to place myself in her shoes. But of course there were no shoes then. She was a teenager, like me at that time, but barefoot, doing household chores, cooking, cleaning, washing, accepting everything as it came. She used to talk of her village, of hills and beautiful valleys, and I would wonder if one can really visualize that distant a past, especially when one is half blind. I always thought she made up a lot of stuff, but I believed nonetheless. Because if I would not believe, she would not tell me her stories, and I really wanted to listen to them, fact or fiction, because the undertone of her tales was a heady mix of nostalgia and hope that made them almost always better than the stuff in my novels. She did not know how to read and write, and sometimes, when she caught me laughing on a Wodehouse, I would try to translate and read out to her… about places she would never go to and people she would never meet. She loved to meet people, and that used to irritate me, because she could not speak Hindi, and I had to play a translator for her precious tales, knowing that people were not appreciating them as they were meant to be appreciated. I always felt that she loved my sister more than me, and this would be the basis of all our small and big fights. When we were done fighting and I would threaten that I would not ever speak to her and she would cry and I would say sorry… then in her characteristic deep timbre voice she would say that I had her exclusive love for the first four years of my life, and that should be enough to last me a lifetime.
It is.

First Impressions

The day starts early. Sometimes I wake up the Sun and sometimes the Sun wakes me up. I go the balcony to breathe in any remnants of yesterday. Mostly there are not any. I live on the sixth floor. If I stand in the balcony and look straight ahead, I can see the concrete jungle the city is. If I look down, I get a glimpse of a human zoo. This daily exercise puts a lot of things into perspective. Except for the fact that why birds are never ever bothered about anything except flying.

The company bus departs at sharp quarter past eight. I have learnt to live by the clock. Mostly. Though there are days when you will find me running after the bus shouting “Stop! Bus! Stop!” with my hands full of newspaper, handbag, bottle and an umbrella.

The rains here are of a different texture all together. It’s a fine spray … more of the aerosol variety rather than the hose. If you use a good big umbrella, you won’t get wet.

I commute for nearly three hours everyday – by buses and autos. That is my share of adventure in the otherwise routine life. I will give you a bravery medal if you travel by an auto in this city and not squeeze shut your eyes once in a while bracing yourself for imminent collision. I have had my whole life flash in front of my eyes a couple of times…and considering how interesting my life has been, it has been a good thing. Except for the fact that bones rattle too much for comfort and I might have to shop for a wig anytime soon.

On both sides of the road for nearly all the distance I travel, there are either shops or restaurants… punctuated with really huge hoardings. Most hoardings are promos for local Telegu movies. Others are about ‘sales’ happening here and there. I feel as if I am traveling through a huge super market. I have seen wholesale retail shops of pearls in Hyderabad. Yes, they are sold almost like groceries.

Every Sunday afternoon is a trip to Monda market to buy vegetables and groceries. I live with four other girls who I didn’t know before coming to Hyderabad. They also work in the same company as I. Except for this fact, there is nothing at all common between us. As a wild animal marks its territory by peeing, I have sort defined mine through silence. They don’t bother me much. Except for one time when I caught them watching my highly prized F.R.I.E.N.D.S CD on my very precious laptop without my permission. People who know me know how unreasonably possessive I am for my laptop. What happened next is not the kind of stuff to be discussed on public forums. I will just say that when these girls will be mothers, they will take my name to make their children behave.

But really, how difficult is it to remember my two syllable name? Before coming to Hyderabad, I thought I will have difficulty pronouncing the local names here. That I have, all right, but the fact that I have been addressed as ‘Samir’, ‘Uma’, ‘Sania’, ‘Sonia’ and ‘Seema’ is something which I do not understand. It is high time that people with four-word-twenty-five-characters names start practicing simple-four-letter-names as a pastime.


The past few months have flown at a speed which will put time to shame. It feels like I have been here forever. I never expected change to settle in so quickly. I feel I have spent nearly my entire life working and now… now would be a good time to retire on a rocking chair with a soft blanket and some warm poetry. But then if you are in Hyderabad, a mosquito sting invariably brings you back to reality and back to work.

As far as work goes, the only relevant problem till date is that there are a lot of times when I feel like a mosquito in the swarm of people here. The sheer number of people an IT company recruits is quite overwhelming. Anywhere you look, you can cover at least twenty people in your range of vision. Faces are similar, names are similar, dresses are similar…Sometimes, I have a feeling that I really don’t matter…that I am just a tiny bubble in an ocean, floating away to nowhere. Getting lost here is a child’s play…though becoming invisible might take some time.

By the time I reach home, it’s nine, it’s night, it’s dark, I am exhausted, I am hungry and the door is invariably locked. Jim Morrison said that there are things known and things unknown…and in between are the doors. I agree. It is just that I am always standing outside, with my head in the handbag, searching for the key, which is never there.

In transition...

They say a week is a long time in politics. Yeah, right! Talk about the last week I have spent here and it probably will stretch from Lucknow till Delhi. And me, not even in politics! Anyways, talking of politics, its election time in U.P. and the newspapers reek of half-page ads of who has done what (and who has not) and what targets have been achieved...its boastful branding at its best! And the people who least benefit from this political mumbo-jumbo are the ones who are most concerned. Like the maid who comes to our house. The other day, she asks me, which party is the best and what promises are they making. I tell her I hardly know. She says that maybe because I was in Delhi that I wasn’t able to keep myself abreast of political happenings in Lucknow. So can I tell her something about the political scenario in Delhi? I tell her that I really don’t know. She asks, “Kyon, aapke MBA mein nahi bataya?”I am shell-shocked...not only she knows the MBA-word but questions MBA education too!! But then a lot of people do that. Among the whole lot of relatives that I have been meeting since I came, an Uncle very fondly asks, “So, What are your key-learnings in the two years of MBA education?” Hmmm...Key learnings...I try to find the answer somewhere in between the blades of the ceiling fan but as all mothers are, my mother is sort of omniscient. She knows all my answers. “Key learnings!!! The only thing she has learnt is to spoil her lifestyle! Sleeping late...getting up late...uff!” Someday, when the Supreme Power will descend to grant me my three wishes for being such a good person, the first thing I am going to ask is, “Why, why are parents so very allergic to late-to-rise-in-morning routine?” I mean, its not that I am going to change the world or something by getting ready at eight in the morning...and the more late you get up, the shorter the day automatically becomes. Short days are good. There are less number of things and events that trigger the memories of people and the last few months spent in hostel. I realize that at the end of the day, memories are just a miniscule part of your equation with friends. Sometimes, you just start where you left off. I have met some of my school and college friends in the last few days. These are the people I have not met in the last two-three years, even more. But we bond beautifully...as if we had been meeting daily all this while. Not that I mind having a lot of memories...but they should at least be the regular ones. Not like the other day, while I was sipping some sprite after dinner and instead of missing my bunch of friends or the terrace parties or those dance and song sequences that ensued...I was missing the dull, aching, lukewarming taste of chilled vodka. I think I am in for some serious trouble.

Now playing...Thaasophobia!

Ever wondered the number of things a person can be afraid of? I mean one can be afraid of death and diets, dogs that bite, confined places, putting on braces, flying high, saying good-bye, etc., etc. Pretty normal stuff! You crawl towards me one day and tell me you are afraid to stand up because you suffer from something called stasibasiphobia and I will sit down besides you and say, “Not to worry! Happens to the best of us!”
But what happens to the rest of us?
Even before the “sixth term” (definition: Usually the last term of an MBA, characterized by marked disinclination to study, attend classes or be remotely associated with any academic activity) started, there was this constant fear of getting bored, of what-will-happen-if-there-is-nothing-to-do, of having oh-too-much-time-on-hands( nearly all sixth –term MBAs might refer to this as ‘bliss’ when they start working). So, January beginning, lest one gets bored, one goes home and over-stays. Quite pleasant...the home-turf...until one day, one accidentally knocks over a table...shouts ‘Oh boy!’...and mother, rather innocently, asks, “Which boy?” Time to return to college because of aberration in lingual wavelengths but...what if one gets bored? Then let’s go on a trip – to Goa and well, Goa! That is a story in itself! So let’s not digress now...we are talking of Thaasophobia – the constant fear of getting bored – and it is being well conquered. How? Well, throw in an occasional college fest, source and watch movies, plan (please don’t read ‘go on’) trips, roam around in markets, sleep till late (so that half the day is as it is over when you get up) and have a bunch of friends you can play pictionary with!
Still suffering from thaasophobia? Then, why don’t you check out the list of the blogs I read... right on your right!

A good year?

So, the year end is here.
Have you bought a new calendar yet? No? Neither have I…ever. Since times immemorial, I have left this task to various shopkeepers and organizations…who give me 365 days neatly packed…sometimes all on a single sheet…sometimes on twelve. I prefer the ones that have 365 sheets…they are more convenient because only one day comes at a time. And if you are lazy and forget to tear yesterday’s sheet, you can fool yourself into believing that maybe time is standing still. Even if it is for a day. Is that too much to ask?
Then there are newspapers. They will tell you exactly what all happened in the entire year, what was good, what was bad, what went right and what went wrong. It is good…refreshing memories. But when I tend to do this for myself, it is such a difficult task. I tend to forget the details. And details are very important because they make the plot interesting. Maybe I should be more curious about my life than remembering trivia about celebrities. Still, even if I am unable to remember the finer points at this moment... a good year? Yes. The best year? I hope not.
And because every year end is another year’s beginning, I will now go and have chocolate cake.
Hope you have an interesting 2007.

Because definitions change

Confused
5 years go – it’s me
A year ago – it’s me
Right now – Well...you guessed it right...it’s me again

Crazy
My sister, who stays in Mumbai, telling me on Friday late night that she is coming to meet me and I should come and pick her up from station, Saturday early morning.

Love
Hmmm...Have never been able to define this heavenly concept but I guess if it were to take an earthly form, it will come in the form of chocolate truffle cake.

More love
Definitely, more chocolate truffle cake.

Non-verbal communication
Best form – A smile
Worst form – A backslap

One more reason why I should exercise
Earlier, the only reason to lose weight was that maybe if I am fit, I can have chips more frequently. But I guess if I become thin, I will be able to talk more too...
Because a few days ago, this happened...
I was sitting on a bench at the station, waiting for my sister’s train to arrive. The train was an hour late, maybe more. I was sulking...in general...because of cold, having to wake up early in the morning, on why trains are never on time, etc. Now, when I am normal, I speak little but when I am angry, the person who is (trying) to make a conversation with me might as well as go and bang her head against the water tank at the station. So, I was sitting quietly, when a lady came and sat besides me.
Lady: “You seem to be feeling very cold.” [Ok...I am looking like a mini version of Eskimo but isn’t it so cold...and why does she not mind her business...]
I: give lady a very cold stare
Lady: “You are wearing a lot of clothes...cap...gloves...good...its very cold today”
I: “Hmmm...”
Lady: “I am from Allahabad...blah...blah”...in short...a fifteen minute monologue...I am not interested...and I am generally staring into some space behind her.
Then suddenly, something like this...
Lady: “In Delhi, people are so fat. You should take care not to put on weight.”
I (at my curt best): “I think it’s too late...I am already overweight.”
Lady: “Fat people are very rude. So, if you became fit, you would be talking more and feeling happier...”

That was the point when I got up from my bench, went and stood near a water tank and contemplated how seriously would it hurt if I banged my head against it.


Proxy
Earlier defined as – “I don’t believe in proxies...I mean...how you can be both in the class and outside it at the same time...”
Now – “Well, I don’t believe in proxies...but I guess we all have to survive in the system...and you see...sometimes one faces crisis in beliefs...”

Self – help books
While growing up, I got a lot of books as gifts – both fact and fiction. Every year, invariably, I got at least one self help book. All of them gave a lot of tips on how to start conversations, make small talks, become public speakers, make friends and influence people. My definition of any self-help book – “Oh! Crap!”
Then the other day, my sister tells me that I should maybe buy a self-help book on ‘How to make proper introductions.’[A typical introducing-my-sister-to-my-friends scene – I introduce my sister or I introduce the other person to her. I have not yet done both together. Sometimes, if two people are sitting on the same table, I introduce my sister to just one of them]. I wonder how many social faux-pas’ is a person permitted before she is socially boycotted. But even then, my definition of any self-help book – “Oh! Crap!”

Very Lucky
Around two years ago, if you would have asked me what is being lucky, I would have replied, “Oh! Lucky is getting a call from an IIM”. A year ago, I would have said, “Definitely...Lucky is surviving BS end-term”.
I think “very lucky” is getting these three books that I have been really wanting to read -- all in a span of seven days.



Wait
If you would have asked me last Thursday how was it like waiting for twenty days to get placed, I would have said, “ Countless moments of despair, hope, fear, tears, hugs and backslaps.” Ask me today and I will tell you, “Oh! Well... twenty days were like twenty days...no big deal.” Five years down the line, after I have seen better quality struggles than a 20 day wait, I will most probably reply, “Really? Did I wait for twenty days? Don’t seem to remember now...though I wonder why I didn’t wait more... I mean those were some good old days...”

Hmmm...Why does the way we define some things keeps on changing? I don’t know...maybe because our circumstances change...or maybe because we just keep growing up...
So, have any of your definitions changed recently?

A watchman who steals wallets...hmmm...pretty interesting

There are a number of ways to start recounting an experience – let’s see...
I can begin with a fairy tale style – “Once upon a time in District Park...” or a blunt detective -style – mystery – inducing – “ A red fake-leather wallet got stolen...” or a clichéd, oft-used – “ Let’s begin at the beginning..”
I like that. Without much ado really, let’s begin at the beginning...

First the cast of characters –

CG, DK, MC, SW, me, SC (he had told me that he hates when I initialize people. But then, SC, when the actions have spoken loud enough and courage graph has been so high, names can afford to be abbreviated...can’t they?)

Scene 1:

District Park (located in Hauz Khas Village) is a beautiful place...ruins and water and yellow and green...a page torn from a history book...a place SW so very wanted us to see that we didn’t think twice before going there. We were climbing up and down those narrow staircases when suddenly we encounter a lot of bees. Now I have had my share of hysterical moments with dogs and confined places and so on...but I guess bees were on the list too. I shriek because bees were born with a sole purpose of stinging me and want to put on my sweatshirt and other protective gear. Handing over my wallet to DK, I come out of the ruins. I have had my share of adventure (or that’s what I thought). But people with me were no timidy-bums. They braved the bees, climbed up the ruins, and clicked snaps...only my poor wallet was accidentally left behind.

Scene 2:

We realize that the left- behind wallet has been stolen. There was a person hovering around for quite some time and he clearly was the suspect. And he still was standing there. Let’s question him, we say. Two of us run after him but he does a momentary vanishing act, reappears and runs away in front of our eyes. Meanwhile SW kept calling on my number while SC went upstairs to investigate.

Scene 3:

Ever heard a wall ringing? SC did. And because cell phones were not prevalent during the times of Mughals, he was quite curious. What does one do when a random wall starts emitting cell phone sounds? One tries to feel the wall gently, with the help of ears and hands. Then one discovers a spot from where the sound was coming, removes a rock or two, shifts some grass...and voila! My phone is nestled there nicely, under the rubble. The wallet is missing though (and it is imperative for the wallet to be found because people like me have their every available identification proof plus their driving license plus their debit card in their wallet and carry it everywhere). We search for the thief but in vain. Then some people tell us that he was a watchman. A watchman who steals wallets...hmmm...pretty interesting.

Scene 4:

Imagine a six feet by 3 feet man. He has full beard and curly long hair. His voice has a timbre. He sees us, senses the commotion, asks what’s going on, slams his ID into our faces and yells – “Well, it is me who is the watchman here. If you people are careless enough to leave your wallets unattended, not my problem.” Now, here, let me sum up the speaking abilities of SW and DK in a sentence -- When they speak, people listen. The six feet by three feet man was so over-powered by their voices that he wasted no time in shedding off his hey-I-am-the-boss attitude and took us to the park office.

Scene 5:

Since we had a wee suspicion that our thief could be...well...a watchman...we were shown a stack of passport size photos of the employees. After looking at a few, six fingers pointed out to one photo and six voices chimed in unison—“He is the one”. Had we been starring in Matrix, we would have received accolades. Anyways, I digress. So then, we got our thief’s name – Ratan Kumar. We wrote down the details along with a complaint letter, got it photocopied and were about to leave when guess who walks in the office – none other than Mr. Ratan himself – in flesh and blood ( and carrying milk packets).

Scene 6:

The joy of discovery is a superb feeling. History records that it has induced men to jump out of their bath tubs and run naked on streets shouting – Eureka, eureka! When we discovered or rather re-discovered Ratan... to just say that we all shouted will be an understatement. It was more of a 4356 words-canon salute to Ratan...and here let me take a moment to describe Ratan – he is a pitiable, meek looking fellow. A strong gust of wind could have blown him away...a tornado of words left him speechless. Before he could say anything, that six feet by three feet watchman comes and starts abusing him with choicest abuses(ask SW the abuse details)....and wham! He gets a very audible, almost thundering slap. He, though, is made of stronger metal. He does not confess. So, they take him to the office and beat him up. They fire him and ask us to file a police complaint.

Scene 7:

Ok. Police station. I am quite skeptical...what if Ratan is innocent...and when five people give me are-we-fools-that-we-have-been-pursuing-this-for-two-hours glare...I shut up (and thank God I did!). As we start leaving for police station, three different people approach us.

1. Woman who is Ratan’s wife – “Oh! He is like this only...crazy...wallet must be in the house...I will definitely find it and return it.” We ignore her.
2. Man who is a lawyer – “Oh! Ratan must be innocent. Once I had lost my bag full of notes in the park. He returned it.” We ignore him. To quote SC – “If the man is stupid enough to carry a bag full of notes to a park...then they both deserve each other.”
3. Another man...who is well...Ratan himself – “I know the people who have stolen the wallet.”(Excuse me! Let me guess...ya ...wasn’t that you?). He continues, “Yes, there were two people who were there too, I know them...Come with me...but only Bauji (SC) should come....” Bauji is very interested...but the girls are not quite in sending him alone. What is this alone business...huh! But we let SC go...with DK’s ultimatum that if Bauji didn’t return within fifteen minutes....then straight to police station we go!

Bauji did return...and returned from hell...so to speak.

Scene 8:

But then, they say that heaven and hell is a matter of perspective. Colours of most things in life depend upon the tint of shades you put on. Ratan took SC to some slums where the following things were available for a price – booze, drugs and women. Call it heaven or hell...your choice but what was missing was any sign of wallet. Still, Ratan had the audacity to ask SC – “Do you do these things?” SC said no...Thank you! Wallet...please... Ratan says – “Ok...Meet me here at 11 in the night...alone...or 5 in the morning near IIT flyover...alone.”
Now, now Ratan, we don’t like doing anything alone. We are MBA students...and we are made to work in groups till we learn to adjust or free ride...and therefore off to the police station we went...together.

Scene 9:

Police station was well a police station (All right! Stop scrutinizing the merit of this sentence and forming opinions...This is a very long post and in case you are still reading...I want to let you know that at present, I am kicking myself for not inviting SC to write this...for he is quite good at storytelling). Anyways, you are stuck with me. And where was I? Yes, as we were about to file a complaint, Ratan calls up SC... And tells him he has found the wallet. We are eager to go...and a cop wants to accompany us (we had earlier asked for a plain clothed policeman but our request was rejected mainly on the grounds that we are not...well...Angelina Jolie). So SC went on cop’s bike...and we girls hired an auto.

Scene 10:

When we reach to District Park...we see Ratan waiving the wallet at us. I grab the wallet from his hands...check my stuff...and well feel quite happy. We hand over Ratan to police...and head back to hostel. When we reach hostel...we tell our heroic tale to a lot of people. LM tells me that I was the one who was craving for some adventure in life. Well...it might not have been as adventurous as getting lost in a forest ( and then getting found too so that I can write a really long blog post)...but still, I will be a little more careful for what I wish for...Because sometimes, someone up there hasn’t got his cosmic I-pod on and is actually listening.

There are also many ways to end a story. Let’s see –
I can end with a fairy-tale style – “Lady Luck smiled on them...” or a blunt detective -style – mystery – ending – “A red fake-leather wallet Found. The end...” or a clichéd, oft-used – “All’s well that ends well.”
I don’t like that.
I will just say that there were five people that day who stood with me for four hours searching for something which they had not lost. And that is what that mattered most.
Thank you.

Stupid message!

Why should anybody doubt that I won't consume this cake the same day?

Tid-bits

We study hard (at least some of us)...but then we (try to) party harder. Weekend after weekend, month after month, term-end after term-end, plans are made, undone, re-made, some successful and many not so that much. Our strike rate of a successful party plan( if such a thing exists) will be one out of ten. But at least we try.

Then one thing every term-end I really look forward to is going home. Usually, I am accompanied by good-old, intelligent and methodical PB – co-Lucknowite. She takes care of everything – tickets, food, auto et al for I am quite lost most of the times. But guess what MBA does to people? It makes you forget tickets in your room and your luggage in the hostel. The only reason we could make it to Lucknow was because of good time management skills of PB (again? Why am I not good at anything ever?). Hope you soon recover from fourth-term trauma, PB, for you are my guiding light in journeys back home.

I don’t know how many of you have ever traveled or travel by sleeper class. It brings you face to face with some crude realities of life. Like heat and humidity, the never ending noise of wheels on rails, paper-soap sellers, all kinds of beggars, people sleeping all over the floor of the train, the whiffs of urine-salty air that hit you so hard that you wake up from sleep.
Also the fact that not journeys of all lives are traveled in air-conditioned compartments.

Then when I reach home, my parents are mid-way into some kitchen renovation (Why, Why, When I have to come back? Why only then?) The only duty I am assigned is to put the kitchen stuff back into the kitchen. Pretty easy, did you say?

Just see a sample of the stuff that has to be put back.



For the past two days, I am trying to convince myself that this is just a co-incidence and my parents don’t actually hate me.

Wanna race?

After a very long time, I played this car-race game ‘Need for speed’.
I got to choose my car and the course.
I was excited.
The countdown finished.
The race started.
First five minutes went into figuring which keys will move my car.
The other cars must have completed one lap by then. Panic! Hurry!
Either the car ran at full speed (which must be 200 km/hr) or it didn’t move.
The car seemed allergic to road...it wanted to run on the pavement or hit lampposts and other cars.
In an urgent desire to at least come 23rd...My car met with a major accident because of loss of control (or maybe pressing too many keys simultaneously).
Ok! No sweat! Car was still intact...let’s go!
As soon as I started to gain speed, it blinked in bold letters “Wrong Way”
Now ...which ever direction I started to move, it said ‘wrong way’
But if I reversed my car, it was ok.
I thought that maybe I should race in reverse gear...but saw all the other cars had completed the race long, long back.
Then I realized that maybe I had lost the race.
I wasn’t even drunk-driving.

Life is a mess...literally

Life is an everyday struggle to find things that have suddenly become invisible. You open your eyes on a bright sunny morning thinking that maybe today...everything will go just perfect when...THUMP! You are lying flat on the floor, your foot entangled in a LAN wire+ iron cord+ charger wire...wondering whether you fell directly from the bed or tripped. It is not a very nice way to wake up to the crude realities of life but then at least you got some morning exercise by weight-lifting your body off the floor.
But we are digressing. I was talking about how things disappear.
So, you need to go and take a bath and what exactly will be missing will be your shower cap or a towel. Then...twenty minutes later and after you have searched the whole room three times over, you realize the only place left to look was underneath your pillow and voila! You find the shower cap. Similarly, wrist watch is somewhere snuggled in a book inside your bag. The floaters are under the double-bed...exactly in the middle. The cell-phone/room keys/wallet might be in your jeans pocket(s) that is lying in your bucket. The only comb that you have is suddenly missing from the drawer...and you have to go without combing your hair for two days (not that combing helps my hair much). Then don’t even talk about the books (blue books/note books et al) that go missing that you end up carrying ‘brand’ blue book instead of ‘banking’ book in the ‘banking’ open book exam.
The saga doesn’t stop here (though you can if I have bored you enough). Some of the things have been permanently lost. Like dental floss. Or a toothbrush (don’t worry...I bought another and haven’t stopped brushing my teeth). Like innumerable pieces of stationery. Like 21,347 minutes of a struggle to find these things. Like self-respect when every second person that comes to the room wonders aloud, “Oh my God! Did a hurricane pass by your room?”

Hah! Now I have stopped caring. When the things get lost, the best policy is not to find them. Then they, in most cases, re-appear by themselves and give you that exhilarating joy of discovery. My room has become a treasure – hunt of lost things. Come play.