Toooldtoboogietooyoungtodie - a state of mind

Why I undertook a 28-hr train journey from Chennai to Delhi

2011-06-14T14:16:00.004+05:30

1. It takes that many long hours. Though one has to admit it doesn't seem that many when you consider it's practically travelling from one end of the country to the opposite—almost like going from one country to another.
2. I have a masochistic streak that ensures I always do what others warn me against, and in the process, end up screwing my happiness. This is a central theme in Irvine Welsh’s (of ‘Trainspotting’ fame) works, and entirely true in my case.
3. This is part of my desire to travel the length and breadth of the country—something I should've done as a student—though I wish the train was a hop-on-hop-off variety, and most stations were air-conditioned.
4. Ideally attempted best by road, particularly if I had to blog about it, I reckoned rail was at least a start. Next in line should be a caravan pulled by an SUV, though I could settle for just an SUV, as long as it’s mean, rugged and macho, never mind its gas-guzzling ways. If anyone’s willing to sponsor, drop me a line.
5. I find it amusing to listen in on Tamil conversations, pretending I can't follow what's being said, when in fact, I can, unless there are numbers involved, where I get hopelessly muddled.
6. I have a good friend in the Railways who unfailingly gets seats confirmed at short notice (well, almost always, God bless him).
7. It's a good lesson in catching up with the real India—passengers, bureaucracy, workers, countryside, smelly loos and a constant pain in the back.
8. It's a good deal cheaper than the not-so-low-price airlines, especially when you're not chasing your own tail in the frenetic corporate world, rushing from meaningless meeting to meaningless meeting.
9. I had all the time in the world, and in any case, who wants to hurry to an empty house. Well, in hindsight, the lure of your own bed, after that tossing around on arbitrary berths is considerable, empty house or not.
10. I needed to clear the cobwebs in my mind, and think afresh about this new phase of my life. OK, also to postpone the new beginning by a bit.
11. I like the crunchy bread-sticks they serve with soup in the trains—as also the yellow butter that I consume without guilt on such rare occasions.
12. With the money saved, I get to log more travel miles on more journeys in my cosmic travel plan, which, it turns out, is dynamically extending in sync with my good health.
13. I get to see so many curtains creating so many fiercely-created private spaces in an otherwise clearly public place that it borders on the ridiculous.
14. Away from the airports, it reminds me of the yet thriving community of TTEs, ASMs, RPF, and countless, faceless others that work tirelessly, and often for a pittance, in ludicrous clothes and practices left behind by the British.
15. It convinces me that despite the rapid strides made by the aviation sector, India is still largely moved by the wheels of her Railways, easily the largest and most diverse network in the world.
16. Frankly, because Delhi was not going to come to Chennai, not only because the Vindhyas came in between, but also the tensions caused by the relatively modern spectre called 2G put together so creatively by Kanimozhi and Raja.
17. It lets you justifiably exist in a fluid cocoon away from the rest of the world for an extended period of time, with selective percolation of only those things you want, via the smartphone. All the while letting you believe that you're doing something worthwhile, as you have a goal you're moving towards.
18. For legitimately enjoying, as an adult, the rhythmic rocking and swaying motion we've never forgotten since our days in the crib, and which can never be duplicated in a car unless its suspension is badly buggered.
19. Perhaps the only way one can actually see parallel lines meet, and quickly disappear into tangents as the train switches tracks, quite the metaphor for life's twists and turns whizzing past, seldom within control.
20. It was the only way I could replay a similar journey I'd undertaken (though in reverse, from Calcutta to Madras, as they were called then) at the start of my work life. The circumstances are similar, though three decades have passed, and as I stand on the threshold of a new career, I wanted this second innings to start in the same fashion, in an attempt to answer: have I really become any wiser?
21. The true Indian character is more on display in trains and stations rather than in planes and airports. Right from loud talking, striking inane conversations with total strangers, displaying undue familiarity via probing personal questions, taking shoes, and other articles of clothing, off in public, eating mannerlessly, travelling with copius amounts of luggage, we Indians are completely at home on trains. This is stuff we can't see on trains abroad, so why not live it unabashedly here, once a while?
22: I feel you're somehow more 'grounded' while travelling on a train, though unlike my wife, I don't feel it's 'safer', if statistics are to be relied on. Of course, because it's a good deal more cumbersome, such adventures are best advised less frequently.
23. I get more time to catch up on my reading, and sleep, apart from updating my blog, The most meaningful, of course, and the one that contributes most to society is the sleep part, as that creates an effective counterpoint to the typical loud behaviour evident on trains.
24. Trains are possibly the only vehicles where you get air blown on your ass even as you crap. Now that, and the unusual noise in the loos might be a source of worry for some like my son, but for me, it's exciting, as it harks me back to my childhood, when I first came to grips with this situation.
25. I don't want to be responsible for any dips in Indian Railways' financial performance, so it's a good idea to give them my custom, though I'd be loathe to sign on as a frequent traveller. After all, it's not just Jet and Kingfisher that should dominate my share of wallet.
26. Compared to both road and air travel, train travel is certainly greener per passenger carried. This definitely qualifies for a big thumbs-up. Now, we could really talk if someone would develop solar power solutions for powering trains—though they would have to contend with the issue of cloudy skies during the monsoons.
27. My grandfather, so the story goes, was found abandoned as an infant in a train compartment, by a gentleman who worked in the Railway Police, who took him home and raised him to be a fine young man, and a Railway Police Inspector. With railway blood running through me it's little wonder I support the Railways whenever I can, though I have to admit I've never considered working for them, even in my wildest dreams.
28. I reckon if 27 reasons are not enough to convince you, my inventing a last one will hardly matter, so here it is anyway: if you've read so far, the Railways' equity and positive word of mouth has already expanded—and that wouldn't have been possible had I not undertaken this journey in the first place!

How abnormal are you?

2011-04-20T11:29:00.003+05:30

All our lives, we're taught to be normal. Whether it concerns your education, occupation, relationships, marriage, attire or etiquette, it's drilled into you at every step of the way, that it makes sense to conform. By the time you're 4 years old, give or take a few months, you're taught 'manners', and the 'right' and 'acceptable way of doing virtually everything. Write with your right hand, greet people with a smile, dress appropriately, study hard, go to college, marry at the right age, respect elders and superiors, take care of your family, help the poor: who isn't familiar with the script by now? Whether it's your conduct, ideals or even role models, all prescriptions have to do with normality. If you're not like others, you're in some sense not adequate: normal is right, normal is expected, normal is good. And by corollary, abnormal is an aberration, abnormal is weird. Heck who wants an abnormal child, husband or father?

Yet, when you think of great people, how many normal or conformist personalities come to your mind? Einstein, Da Vinci, Gandhi, Picasso, Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Bill Gates, Dhoni: just how normal were/are they? Try again: do u remember the normal teacher, the sweet friend, the nice hero, the easy general, the soft-spoken corporate czar or the 'proper' politician?
Nyet, non, nien, NO! You remember the strict teacher, the class bully, the dangerous lover, belligerent general and the devious tyrant, instead.

And there's a reason for this. Because our minds are so full of the same sameness, anything that sticks out sticks to the memory. Which is probably why we tend to remember something that stands out, even if it is classified as unethical or wrong; things and people that are different, quirky, weird or nerdy in some sense; concepts and people who've moved substantially away from the normal. If you've studied that part of marketing that deals with Positioning, you'll get my drift.

Once you admit this, it's not a great leap to ask: why is it that we persist in saluting sameness and normality? Why do we teach our children to conform? Why don't we push them to follow up their crazy dreams? Why don't we support eccentricity in employees? Why don't we routinely do something unexpected, wild or wicked?

At this stage of our evolution, it might do us some good to step back and consider why we don't systematically and endemically encourage creativity, even, a little 'madness' at every step of our journeys in life. When your child writes a horror story, pat her on the back, and marvel at his imagination when he acts like a buffoon. And don't stop when you find yourself breaking into a song for no reason, or wanting to quietly drive away to the hills, all by yourself. For out of such contrary behavior is born greatness. Not that we don't know this - but somehow, nine times out of ten, we believe such things are OK for geniuses, but not for us. True, thinking differently, or 'out of the box' is now somewhat in vogue, particularly in some fields, but it is still regarded largely as a problem-solving technique, a deviation rather than a rule. When, if ever, will we give non-conformity the centrality and respect it deserves? When will we proudly celebrate the 'idiot' in us?

Two arguments to the contrary need to be considered here. One which maintains that quirky-ness doesn't equal brilliance. Are you sure? Isnt history replete with examples of men who were dumped as outcastes in their lifetimes but revered later? One age's madness is another's genius: otherwise how do you explain the vision of Copernicus, or Guru Dutt?

The other argument might be expected from the moralists. Is it not enough to be good and proper and live your life as God would have it: no lies or curse-words, no cheating, acceptable manners, and a generally cheerful demeanor that suggests we're all living in Utopia? Seriously, in today's, why, every period's dog-eat-dog world, show me more than a handful of people who are content living such a life, when there awaits a world of opportunities for those who can grab them. One could even argue that by being good and expected, you will at best touch the lives of a limited few people like your family and associates. But who wants such an epitaph, when by being different, even 'bad' you can leave a much larger impact? After all, we all overlook the many dalliances of men like Picasso and focus instead on their work.

So in the end, the choice is yours: a life of normalcy, goodness and obscurity, or one of feisty difference, dreaming and living your own dream, by your own standards, even if it ruffles many feathers in your lifetime? For me, the choice couldn't be clearer, and if you can't see it, you're too normal!

Predeath

2010-11-28T18:43:00.006+05:30

Of late, I've started living in mortal dread of death. Well, not death itself, but all that precedes it. Irreversible degenerative afflictions leading to a state of dependency on others, having to leave in a state of unpreparedness, and leaving a dirty footprint, are all the pre-death issues that terrify me more than death itself.

Topping the list is easily the deadly possibility that despite my regular visits to the gym, accompanied by a near obsessive compulsive attention to diet, I'm still scared that one day, I might turn into a vegetable myself. I hate to think that it is within the realm of possibility, even though a glance at the mirror suggests the probability is remote, that I may end up in bed, not being able to move my limbs or worse still, my lips, and be dependent on others to feed, clothe and shave me. Some may think that it's a privilege to be cared for by following generations, but I'd rather my kids went about their business as usual, and washed their kids' asses than mine. And I just can't live with the thought that when it's time to pull the plug, it will be my children who will be faced with the unpleasant task. Hell why put them through this--it's simpler to write down instructions for the doctor myself. What if Euthanasia is not legalised in India by then? Well, if doctors also decide to turn incorruptible at the same time, the simple answer would be to go to a country where it is. So there: my first resolution for the rest of my days is made--the only thing left is to put pen to paper and notarise or otherwise legalise it, before dementia sets in, and I forget.

Which brings me to the wider issue of what a dear friend termed 'preparing for death' during the course of a recent discussion. To many, the notion that one can, or ought to, prepare for this eventuality, much like one prepares for higher studies, marriage, or a child, is absurd. Why, I ask? Is it really that stupid to prepare for the ONE eventuality that is ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN? Why is writing a will not cool, when buying insurance is? It's a bit late now, but had I realised this simple truth earlier, I might even have considered venturing into this potential business--I can even see the brand possibilities for something like 'How to leave with a smile (and without a wallet)'. More I think about it, the more I'm convinced--just consider at a conservative estimate, that two thirds of all who die (and there are around a hundred of them who oblige, every minute), leave behind unaccounted property, bank accounts, pets, and occasionally, mistresses. Doesn't say much about the most intelligent animal on two legs, you'll have to admit, but then until he evolves, one man’s misfortune will continue to be another’s opportunity. So, whether ‘death preparers’ becomes as valid a career option as ‘tax preparer’ or not, I promise to take matters into my hands soon enough, and not be caught on the back foot when the googly is bowled at me.

Finally, I argue, if one has to leave, as everyone must, one day, why raise smoke and noise on the way out? I admit I've dirtied the earth enough with my filthy carbon footprint during my lifetime, and can’t justify leaving a trail after I leave. And though the Hindu system of disposing of their dead is supposed to be ‘hygienic’, it certainly isn’t green. Right from the piles of wood required for the pyre, to the clouds of smoke emitted into the skies, to the ashes that are immersed in rivers, the colour of death is decidedly more grey than green. Which is why I must insist on being pushed gently into an electric crematorium, when it’s time. Having survived numerous shocks in my life, some mild and others not so mild, I daresay I’ll be reasonably prepared for the bigger one, hopefully because it’ll be my last one.

Of suspicious types

2010-04-14T17:38:00.003+05:30

It happens. Contrary to what rationality suggests, and what your parents tried to tell you for ages, you tend to fall prey to it. Despite your best efforts to not judge people without full knowledge, you tend to slot them into those who you can trust and those you can’t. “I really like him,” to “This is going to be a disaster,” to “Uh oh, maybe it’ll get better if I continue to smile,” are the instinctive dialogues you have with your judgment as you encounter people everyday. And as Malcolm Gladwell maintains, it all happens in the blink of an eye.

As I grow older and hopefully wiser, I’ve been trying to figure out if this is a carefully learnt and evolved tendency based upon circumstance and an informed understanding of human behaviour, or just plain old shooting from the gut. I have to confess that I’m still largely unsure.

Is there a pattern to my reactions? Are there specific personality types I dislike? Is there something about how people look, what they wear, or what their names are? Or has it something to do with the way they greet me or say their goodbyes that raises my hackles? The answer is: I simply don’t know!

What I can say is that there are certain types that come to mind as I write, that qualify for an instant loss of trust. See if you can make out a pattern here, or identify with any of them from your own experiences.

Those unknowns who send you friend requests on Facebook
Agreed that Fb is a ‘social tool’ and many would like to exploit it to its full, especially as long as it’s free, but this is like accosting strangers on the road and insisting that they shake hands with you, smile, and drive you to their homes to meet their family and friends. Thanks, but no thanks!

Those who drive Wagon-Rs
I’m OK with the snobbery of the glitterati, who are limousine-driven from party to party. I will even stand the brashness of the alpha male who glowers at the lesser mortals from his oversized SUV. What I can’t seem to understand is the person who drives a Wagon-R. I mean, which right-minded member of the human species would drive that, that thing? Resultantly, I rapidly put distance between my car and Wagon-Rs, whenever I chance upon one on the streets.

Those who open their letters with ‘hope this finds you in the best of health and spirits…’
Maybe it was OK once upon a time in the leisurely pen-to-paper era, but today? Whenever I see such an opening, it seems to me a. the writer has too much time b. is waffling till he finds the appropriate words, or worse, c. is completely confused about the effect of booze on health.

Those who drive without shoes, or slippers
It is said that after God made man, he made footwear for woman, not because he wanted her to walk or run, but to use as a tool for preening and self-defence. At least when shoes or chappals are not used for such noble purposes, they ought to be worn while driving. Surprises me how many women fling off their fancy footwear and hit the pedals with their petite, pedicured feet. Trust a woman driving without shoes, sandals or slippers? No way!

Those who call you ji, or sir
Maybe it’s a hangover that persists from the Raj, but to me it’s always a bit demeaning to be called ‘sir’ by other human beings, particularly when they’re old enough to know better. On the other hand, though proponents of tehzeeb might be forgiven for suffixing a ‘ji’ when they address you, the same can’t be said about the sundry telecallers who bugger your existence every waking hour by intruding your private space with a sugar coated ‘ji’. By far the biggest culprits, however, are the overzealous types who simply combine the two and call you ‘sirjee’ to cajole you into agreeing with them!

Those who wear safari suits, or white shoes
This has to be a latent distrust born out of over-exposure to Bollywood and its clichés. It’s not true that the days of the safari-suit villain and the jumping-jackass in pointy-white shoes hero, are gone. You still encounter them in sundry public-sector offices or at fashion-weeks. But boy, will they ever get my sympathies or a lick of my lollipop? Not likely!

Those who yak away at the treadmill
There’s a misapprehension, particularly among women of a certain age and size that chatting while walking or running on the treadmill helps burn calories faster. When specially created and focused glares fail to work, I normally shut my eyes and start running faster, in the equally erroneous belief that the extra release of endorphins will have the miraculous effect of shutting them up.

I knew I was 50 when

2010-01-07T16:42:00.003+05:30

The fact that I’m reacting to my 50th birthday that passed away in the last week of November now, is only one symptom of what age does to you. If, indeed this is a ‘golden’ milestone, then surely, there’s more to the sunset than just its colour! At this poignant juncture, which happily coincides with the turn of a calendar year as well, do you remember the brilliant brightness of the day that’s gone past, or build a shiny edifice for the one that’s to follow? Do you sink deep into the darkness that’s about to fall or remember how you lifted yourself from the nightmares you’ve been through?

Whatever one’s style of pontification, one can’t escape certain realisations and truths about life at this point. So, I knew I was 50 when:

1. I didn’t get up on my birthday expecting everyone to be really nice to me just because I happened to be one of the thousands who was born that particular day.
2. I calculated that, being the optimist that I am, I’m still younger than many of my class-fellows from school.
3. I found that I’d started noticing attractive women 35 years or older.
4. My girlfriend started treating me more like a buddy and her kids, like a grand-daddy.
5. ‘Just Do It’ began to sound more like a sexual imperative than a call to good health.
6. I felt convinced that since there was no scientific or for that matter even historical basis for the claim 'naughty at forty' I could seriously have 'naughty at fifty' as my inspiration for the next decade.
7. I finally started treating my wife as my buddy, even though I can no longer eat her ‘mooli-ka-parathas’ because they’re not a patch on my mother’s.
8. I began eating 4 and 6-egg omelettes in a bid to quickly finish the quota destined for me.
9. I stopped answering all texts on occasions like Diwali and Christmas as my contribution to puncturing the self-esteem of those moronic Service Providers.
10. I no longer jumped 2 steps at a time to get to my second-floor bedroom, yet spent double the time walking on the treadmill than the year before.
11. I basically figured out the difference between proteins and carbs, and bad
carbs and worse carbs.
12. I understood that because matter is convertible, I’ll eventually lose weight when I turn into gas, but I’m hoping it won’t be too pungent and obnoxious.
13. My knees started aching after a half-day climb in the hills.
14. My bar was stocked full of the choicest alcohol, yet I couldn't partake any of it for fear of upsetting my gym instructor.
15. I finally got the toned body that I wanted, albeit after a delay of some 25 years, but which nevertheless helps me hide some of them.
16. I started ruffling up my hair and puffing out my chest every time I glanced at my reflection, in a vain attempt to catch my own attention.
17. I began wearing tight jeans, T-shirts and sneakers with a vengeance that surprised even myself.
18. I figured that I could no longer drive non-stop, all day and night, much as I fancied.
19. I started driving slower than usual, persuaded that my car had equal rights to live through its designated life, too.
20. I finally gave up cursing at other drivers on the road mainly because I ran out of creative expletives.
21. I began to agree that the journey was the real thing, and the destination just a brief pause until the next one.
22. I stopped measuring success in rupees and curves, and started focusing on inches and mass instead.
23. I gave up thinking I was brilliant at any one particular thing, but realized I was moderately good at anything I attempted: a sort of all-trades Jackass.
24. I discovered it’s better to build lives than institutions, and if you’re lucky, yours would be included in that process.
25. I came to grips with the idea of enjoying the moment chiefly because I’d forget if today was yesterday or tomorrow.
26. I started fighting for the remote in a bid to spend quality time with myself.
27. I figured that winning the National Lottery would give me considerably less pleasure than spending an evening with Monica Belluci.
28. I started calling up my boys at least once a day, just to chat up about nothing in particular, only to be told that they were busy, and that I would get a call back.
29. I started hating hospitals like the plague, and decided that the gym, though a bit more tiring, is definitely the better place to spend my remaining time in.
30. I grew a deep distrust of doctors in general and slick-looking, glib-talking, hip-shooting, foreign-returned ones working in upscale hospitals (read hotels) in particular.
31. I wrote down a list of some 10 things to do before I get Alzheimer’s, but haven’t been able to locate that sheet of paper since.
32. I lost the taste for management books and instead enjoyed reading Hinduism’s Seven Spiritual Laws.
33. I admitted that focus is a good deal better than multitasking, unless of course, one’s talking about sex.
34. I figured why Somerset Maugham called life a piece of carpet that you unraveled, one thread at a time.
35. I stopped treating ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’ as bad words.
36. I realised that the number of friends on my Facebook is not likely to cross the average120, so I might as well give up visions of inching close to the number my kids can boast of.
37. I realised that almost always, my emails and texts contain full words and proper grammar and punctuation, but almost never any emoticons.
38. I gave up remote control of my kids’ lives (well, almost!).
39. I could relax in the back seat of my car while my sons took turns driving it.
40. I started believing we should've had more kids if only to fill up all these damned rooms we've built in our house.
41. I figured it's better to be a nail than a hammer, as it's too tiring to keep hitting someone's head beyond a point.
42. I noticed that though I continue to have the recurring dream where I'm running without any clothes on, my speed is considerably slower.
43. I started missing my parents more than ever.
44. The new four-letter words that crept into my vocabulary included ‘life’ and ‘will’.
45. I discovered that gains became more a factor of relationships than financial investment.
46. I realized vision had almost always to be supported not by good sense but by spectacles.
47. I learnt that it’s better to call up friends to express your love before it’s too late, even if it means leaving a message in their voice-mail box.
48. I discovered that there are now too many Namits around, and that hardly does any good for my self-esteem, going forward.
49. I learnt that 50 is just another number, though not quite like 25.
50. I learnt that reaching 50 was easier than writing this piece, and there’s no way I’ll attempt this exercise when I turn 100.

Gentlemen prefer blondes.

2009-12-20T16:47:00.003+05:30

And brunettes. And all women who're neither. And that’s true not just of gentlemen, but all men. So claim women.

‘Why do men two-time?’ must surely rank as one of the most perplexing issues to ever stare (wo)mankind in the face, close to ‘Is There Life Beyond My Misery’ if not others such as ‘Are We Alone In The Universe’ or ‘Is There A God (to punish the bastards)’.

Sure, this debate makes headlines and cocktail-conversation at times when Tigers lose the woods for the babes, but it’s a topic which I suspect rarely leaves the individual or collective consciousness of the fairer sex, even when asleep.

Implicit in this accusation, of course, are a number of assumptions that my chauvinistic rational male mind refuses to accept. Chief of which is the one-man-one-woman paradigm that we’ve been conditioned to live with, thanks largely to the Church. When elementary science books describe as perfectly normal the behaviour of all male species, however evolved genetically, to seek out and mate with multiple females in order to reproduce, emphasize power, demarcate territory or simply show strength, how can we fight nature? Similarly, any cursory reading of history will reveal that across civilisations, humans have not been essentially monogamous. Hell, even today, Islam, the world’s second largest faith and growing, provides men with an option of taking multiple wives, and we’re all aware of numerous tribes that encourage sleeping around before, and even after, getting married.

How then, can we equate the term ‘faithful’ with monogamy? And why should we listen to this particular rant of priests, when we barely listen to them otherwise and dismiss them as irrelevant when it comes to issues like homosexuality and contraception?

Another erroneous assumption is that women are somehow less inclined to bed-hop, especially once they’re married (thankfully, even ladies admit that for every Tiger, there are at least ten nubile females who are perfectly willing to throw themselves at him, powered by motivations very similar to those of men, ie lust, power and success). With a unique multi-orgasmic capacity and persistent complaints of how the average man is incapable of satisfying a woman even after years of hard labour, it’d be surprising if women were to find comfort merely in vibrators and not actively seek sex. Though published statistics may not support this, I’m willing to bet that the urge to experiment and philander is as endemic to wives, the only difference being that they are prone to ‘showing off’ their conquests somewhat less than their husbands.

Anyway, does infidelity become real only in bed and backseats of cars, or is it equally valid when indulged in the mind? If you accept that, girls are as guilty as boys, for isn’t it true that they talk about or fantasize as much about being with other men, even when hooked? Or, that they would not give-in to temptations as easily, if they were not scared of societal consequences? Methinks that’s not the case, and that the main reason why more skeletons don’t tumble out of women’s closets is that they’re simply more prudent.

A point that many women offer in defence of being involved with just one man is that it is impossible to be ‘in love’ with more than one person at a time. Now, though I may agree that most beds in today’s tiny flats are not indeed, ‘King-sized’, it is difficult to imagine how it is not feasible to open one’s heart to more than one person. After all, we do shower affections on more than one child at a time, and siblings grow up to be perfectly well-adjusted adults! And are we seriously saying that orgies are a figment of some pornographer’s imagination, or a hallucination that affected ancient sculptors so badly that they fervently started carving such scenes on the walls of temples?

In any case why must a man’s capability of shouldering familial responsibilities be adversely affected just because he spends a pleasurable night, or two, with another woman? Isn’t that as absurd as suggesting that he starts neglecting his wife just because he’s brought home a new Beamer or a handsome Alsatian? Think, if this were the case, would the learned Mullahs allow a devout Muslim more than one wife?

With so much evidence to support it, why can’t women accept the fact that it’s perfectly normal for humans to be attracted to multiple others, and just because a man has sex outside of marriage, he doesn’t become a dog overnight?

Maybe I’m not very perceptive or privy to the latest psychological analysis of female paranoia, but I suspect it’s because secretly, every woman wants that her man prefer no other female than herself. It is simply beyond her to accept that her husband can find someone else more alluring, or succumb to charms other than those involved in making intelligent conversation. In other words, it’s plain jealousy that drives her to build all this hocus-pocus. In actual fact, she knows all about human nature only too well, and it’s the ignominy of knowing that some other specimen of her own species was better than her, if only temporarily, in netting the man who was and should’ve remained under her control.

And it’s under such circumstances that all hell breaks loose, the woman accuses her man of infidelity, calls him and his entire race immoral, and threatens to walk out. Sadly, it’s the man who puts his career on hold, apologises in public and in court, and starts counting all those assets which will soon cease to be his, and generally feels humiliated and utterly sorry for himself.

Whereas in reality, the gentleman in question should pour himself a shot of nice brandy, light up a cigar, straighten his tie, get into his comfortable car, and start looking around for the next available object that he can shower his affections on, and generally behave like the Tiger that he is. Women, after all, will be women, and there’s no reason to spoil a perfectly nice evening with all this humbug now, is there?

Alternate Alternator

2009-09-21T11:37:00.007+05:30

Sometimes it takes rather unusual circumstances to discover an unusual spirit in unexpectedly unusual people in the most unusual of places. And when this does happen, it becomes a rare Eureka-feeling that puts a smile on your face and a spring in your walk, leaving a remarkable positivity in the goodness that lies around, making you wonder why you didn’t notice it before.

It all began when my wife’s Fiat Siena packed up because of a faulty alternator (the electrical device that supposed to charge the battery whenever the car’s running). The workshop where it was towed to raised their hands: the alternator couldn’t be repaired, and what’s worse, said spare part was not in stock, nor available at any other Fiat dealer. After waiting for over a week, we decided to take matters in our own hands, and picking up the defective alternator, made the arduous journey from Gurgaon to Kashmere Gate on a Saturday evening.

As if the roads were not bad enough on the first Navratra evening when Delhiites were ushering in the forthcoming festival season with a pious trip to the temples, thanks to a couple of wrong turns in the Walled City, we ended up honking our way through bumber-to-bumper traffic in narrow bylanes of Azad Market and Mori Gate before we reached the spare parts market in Kashmere Gate, said to be among the largest in Asia, just as shutters were being downed. More than 2 hours after we’d started, in a very foul mood, indeed.

Luckily, we found a dealer who did have the part in stock, and was willing to sell it at a good 15% less than what the workshop would’ve charged: but that’s not what this story’s about. This one started when I casually plonked the old alternator on his table, enquiring if there was any chance of it being repaired, before we shelled out the considerable 9,800 rupees for a new one.

Surprisingly, the dealer, who’s not my friend, nor related to me in any way, was nice enough to suggest that we check that out with a particular mechanic just round the corner. Picking up the dusty old alternator, we wound our way through an alley that houses the once glorious Minerva theatre to an old decrepit shop right opposite the entrance to Delhi Railway Station, called Hind Batteries.

The time was close to 7.30 pm and the staff was preparing to leave for the day, when we put down the alternator on the rather modest work-table cluttered with wires, tools, soldering iron, et al, with the dubious question: can this be made to work? What followed, over the next hour and a half, so pleasantly surprised us that we left reaffirming our faith in humanity, and in particular the ingenuity and never-say-die spirit of the Indian workman.

Much has been said about the essential ‘jugaadu’ character of Indians: the ability to find workable yet cheap fixes to just about any problem, and each one of us has encountered this special talent at some point or the other. But what we saw that evening was something much, much more.

A casual look around was enough to gather that this was a small business belonging to a family of sardars: the chief was a tall and burly cut-surd, the man at the reception an elder brother or cousin wearing a pagree, and a couple of sardar apprentices, one of whom seemed to be the man-at-the-counter’s son, were busy running around.

The man could’ve said he was about to close, or knowing the price of a new alternator, quoted an abnormally high figure for fixing it, but he did neither. Instead, without as much as a word in response, he began testing the alternator for available current. Then, systematically, the cut-surd and his team began to strip the alternator bit by bit, testing for current generation at every step.

As my wife and I watched fascinated, not so much by what all goes into an alternator, for there must’ve been a dozen or more sub-assemblies that unfolded, but by the attitude of the workers. They all remained extremely focused on the job: now tackling the million screws that seemed jammed from years of service to a demanding but ageing engine, tapping or levering open the layers of sub-parts, little by painful little. Never once did any of them display any impatience, nor for that matter any other emotion that a lay-person like me quickly feels when confronting machines. In fact very little was even said: the scene resembled a very efficient operation theatre where an open hand was a clear request for a new tool, and a specific look a sufficient order to clean up a particular part. The analogy to an operation being performed is rather apt: only in this case, what shone through was each team-member’s humility and focus: mind you, they were all staying back well beyond their normal working hours and if anyone had a problem with that, it never showed.

We were so engrossed in the process that we hardly realized when an apprentice stepped out to fetch a replacement part from a nearby shop, or when another slipped upstairs to clean specific parts which were being removed. I tried to remember when I’d last seen a more comfortable team working, communicating, vibing so perfectly: certainly not in the many large corporations we routinely do business with. The harmony was so understated, it contrasted sharply with all that we normally associate with the shrieking media world, and the feeling of trust and understanding was so palpable that we couldn’t help but contrast it with the back-stabbing ways of our politicians. Here then, was a microcosm of an ideal world: humble souls toiling away in perfect accord to solve a problem, driven not by greed, but by the scientific attitude, oblivious to minor details like the time and their surroundings. Which incidentally, you can picture: a hot, humid and unventilated shop right opposite the Delhi Railway Station on Hamilton Road, with a stream of unending vehicles honking their way in both directions, struggling through a sprinkling of cows, stray dogs and a sea of humanity.

We weren’t sure what exactly impressed us most about this situation: was it the spirit of ‘jugaad’, the quiet pride of a craftsman, or simply dignity of labour even in the most oppressive conditions? Or just the fact that life is best approached one simple task at a time? But as the team began putting the repaired and serviced alternator back again, their story was revealed in snatches of reluctant conversations, putting into perspective a little of what we’d witnessed.

Hind Batteries was setup by Jagtar’s father, apparently the 93rd engineer in Punjab’s history, after he moved to Delhi from Jalandhar years ago, in 1937. The shop catered to the electrical needs of the few cars that the very wealthy owned back then. Contrary to his father’s wishes, young Jagtar did not study to become an engineer but apprenticed with him, picking up skills on the job, and has been running the business now for over 40 years. There have been ups and downs: he lost out to brothers in a dispute after his father passed on, he's taken up battery dealerships, but the 54-year old Jagtar has kept the flag flying: today, when a Pajero, or Skoda owner from far-away Gurgaon or NOIDA needs a self-starter or alternator fixed, his services are sought out. For unlike the changing world where minor faults and the profit motive drive workshops to replace rather than repair, Jagtar and his team always approach the problem with an engineer’s mind, and create a solution, even when there is no apparent answer. Despite his circumstances, Jagtar is more proud of the fact that his son is studying to become an engineer, and till then, he doesn’t mind toiling like he always has.

In the end, we paid 3400 rupees for the job, about one-third of what we would’ve, if we’d bought a new alternator from Kashmere Gate, or one-fourth if we’d bought one from Fiat. Of this incidentally, the labour charge was just 300, and Jagtar was willing to waive off 35 to round it off to the nearest 100! For people like us who’re accustomed to routinely paying insane charges at fancy, ‘modern’ workshops, this naturally, came as a pleasant surprise.

You may call it bad pricing, a lack of knowledge of economics and opportunity-costs, or simply a case of illiteracy leading to low awareness, but the fact is, Jagtar and team were genuinely happy that they had fixed a problem for a couple that came knocking at their door from so far away. On our part, we certainly came away far happier at having discovered an alternate reality in this otherwise sad world: and sure enough, the drive back to Gurgaon seemed like a breeze that night.

Presbyopium

2009-09-07T15:59:00.006+05:30

I thought I might as well do it. Now, before it becomes too late, and I begin to teeter-totter and have trouble spelling Alzheimer. So there, that’s my contribution to the English language. Whether it’ll make it to the Oxford dictionary or will simply be relegated to another book on sniglets, it’s too early to say, but I’m hoping that the word will get at least some of the necessary Press it so deserves.

In case you’re wondering what it really means, Presbyopium describes the condition where spouses of members of the Press get to unfairly enjoy the perks meant, in effect only, for their spouses. For the more literally inclined, its etymology can be traced to Press (as in 'printing', and also an euphemism for Power), Opium (the heady, often unreal feeling induced by power, including 'Press' power), and has as its inspiration, Presbyopia, the condition where the eye exhibits a progressively diminished ability to focus on near and obvious objects with age.

Presbyopium begins with the occasional accompaniment to a fashion show, graduates to dinners at fancy restaurants, and ultimately descends to an unending spiral of free holidays at exotic locations. Without realizing it and for no real fault of theirs other than being married to the right person in the wrong job, Presbyopiates get so used to a lifestyle of decadence, they often have trouble focusing on real life as it passes by at close quarters. It is strongly rumoured that in their next lives, they usually get reborn as flies and mosquitoes who get swatted repeatedly with folded newspapers and magazines, and it normally takes them at least seven and a half births to set their sins right.

Almost all Presbyopiates go through distinct life-stages, following an alarmingly screenplay-type narrative, except that it unfolds in reverse, and in the end, it’s always the ever-powerful Press that wins. At first, our unlikely hero, completely unaware of the greatness destined to be thrust upon him, denies any rights towards perks being offered through status of spouse. ‘Just because the invite says admit 2 doesn’t entitle me to sit in the front row and watch that fashion show’, or ‘You have to eat at that restaurant because you have to write about it, but that doesn’t mean I should have a free lunch too’, or ‘Really, I’m not entitled to spend a weekend at that resort just because I happen to be your husband’ are often heard arguments, which are struck down skillfully, as you guessed it, by the Mighty Pen of the Press. This is followed by a stage of deepening conflict as our hero fights with his mind, conscience and spouse, to little avail. Sadly the resolution stage looms where, to avoid further marital discord, he meekly surrenders and gains martyrdom, blooming into a full-blown Presbyopiate. By which time, as it’s time to drop the curtain, our hero has fully surrendered, and the battle has been thumpingly won by the Press!

To be fair, a few cases of rebellion have been reported, and even a few escapes have been engineered by enterprising Presbyopiates wishing to write their own script, but at the time of going to Press, none have been known to’ve succeeded. Sure, some Press feathers have been ruffled by ugly domestic spats particularly on evenings where free invites have been plentiful, but since these have occurred safely between four walls in most instances, such cases have rarely been reported or have come to light. Suffice it to presume, that the Press has been all-powerful, even in the most democratic of setups, primarily because it has what it sees as the reasoning that always trumps: ‘Since I am Press and you are spouse, whatever I have ‘earned’ is yours to enjoy, by law and implication’ – Q.E.D.

Not that it’s all tragic, of course. There are some lighter moments in the story: when a Presbyopiate is sometimes confused with the Press, by lesser mortals, for instance. The smile accompanying ‘Which magazine will you be writing for, sir?’ quickly turns to a frozen face with an ‘Oh!’ when told that it is the wife who will actually do the writing, is an oft-encountered situation. But among the most hilarious has to be when one was addressed as ‘Mr Meenu’, as a derivative husband of ‘Ms Meenu’, a practice in complete deference to the supremacy of the Press!

Comedy aside, Presbyopiates soon come to accept their situation, some rather more good-naturedly than others, and this is evident in most of the talk that passes between them and other Presbyopiates who expectedly flock together at many Press Dos. So, a question such as ‘Hello, Mr Meenu, how are the kids – haven’t seen them lately – don’t get them to parties anymore, eh?’ would probably be greeted with a mumble of ‘Oh hi. Er, they, had a friend over…’ (when, of course in reality one wouldn’t want to corrupt them just yet) have been overheard.

Coming to terms with one’s social situation is one thing, but facing those demons in the head, where one principle too many are often stuck, is one helluva fight, and is bound to have side effects in the long run, such as loss of balance, appetite, or worse, hair.

Some day, when this species is studied a bit more, mankind will gather sufficient knowledge to understand and appreciate its peculiar situation. Perhaps some enterprising scholars will take on the mighty Press and question some of its best practices, thereby giving Presbyopiates a hope before early extinction. But till then, we will look forward to another perplexing question: do most Presbyopiates bald sooner than the average human?

To my sons

2009-08-02T14:20:00.004+05:30

Distance makes the heart grow fonder. It also disconnects heads, I believe. And sometimes, if we’re not careful, it might even tear apart souls.

Not possible, you’d think, in a global scenario where distances, differences, even nationalities are collapsing at the touch of a few keystrokes on computers or mobile phones, or flying at the wings of airplanes or wheels of fast cars.

Yet, I feel the distance creeping into our relationships. Not probably into the relationship the two of you share: not yet, but, I feel, between you, collectively and individually and me.

I realize that as you grow, there’s a diminishing value that I can add to your lives. At least in the conventional parent-gives-child context, that we’re so used to. It’s already amply clear that you are better drivers than I, and far more likely to participate in rallies. Similarly; I can hardly offer any worthwhile addition to your learning in your respective fields of study. Or, for that matter, in matters of dressing, grooming or the social graces, where I believe you’re already ahead.

You might argue that you still need emotional support from me, particularly in times of crisis, and just ‘be there’. True, I will fulfill that role as long as I’m around, but really, can you truly say that this too, will not diminish gradually as other influences take root in your lives?

So, how can we save, indeed, improve our relationship despite the distances that will likely remain or grow in the years to come? Cliché-d as it may sound; we need to work at moving this relationship into a friend-gives-friend, or even, a child-gives-parent one, over time.

How? By sharing little things: the seemingly unimportant ones, if you like, more frequently. For I firmly believe, it’s through these that we will end up adding value to each others’ lives. After all, learning, at all stages, happens less through formal means, don’t you agree? Think about it: as children, you picked up much more by observing than through books; and now, more than ever, much of your growth happens outside classrooms. What you learnt from teachers and parents was not what they ‘taught’ you, but by what you imbibed from their speech, actions, and relationships. Similarly, when you share your thoughts with elders now, you will pick up invaluable tips and insights through the way they approach life, issues, tasks, anything. Precisely the thought behind apprenticeship, you’ll appreciate: in many trades, such as film-making and law, you become better by observing more mature minds at work. What you learn may not be earth-shatteringly different from what you expected in the first place, or vastly opposed to how you would tackle things your own way, but certainly it’s of great value. Take it or leave it, or synthesize it into your knowledge at some point: the choice is yours.

But ‘sharing’ is easier said than done, especially with parents. You’ll agree most of our chats are often oriented towards specific problems today. Nothing wrong with that, of course, because these need to be tackled forthwith, and together we do manage to fix them, nine times out of ten. But over time, let’s try and establish contact beyond the strictly need-based. I’d prefer to work towards the free-wheeling, thinking-aloud type sharing you do with friends, or with a diary, if that’s possible.

Understandably, face-to-face situations are better suited for this sort of exchange, but considering that we get, and are likely to get even less of, such opportunities, maybe we could make the best use of other options offered by technology such as mobile phones or Skype.

One other thing. When we exchange thus, it’s possible that parent or child roles will creep in. But that’s only to be expected, and to my mind can be worked around. In other words, pick out the gems from the stones by overlooking those tones and postures. You’ll likely find it easier to deal with your parents in this manner, I’d like to believe; and who knows, one day they might just become your best friends!

Whether that happens or not, ultimately, there’s another important relationship you guys need to worry about. And that’s the one between brother and brother: a relationship far more important than the one between us. Share despite distances: a thought I needn’t labour, I’m sure, but keeping in mind my own experience, would urge you to protect and nurture.

Here’s looking forward to more shared times, then, wherever we are…

Your ‘friendly’ dad.

Is this a good time to speak, God?

2009-07-06T13:22:00.002+05:30

I just read a very moving letter (see below), purportedly written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the famous writer from Colombia who’s said to be suffering from terminal cancer, in the form of a farewell piece to his friends, talking, as you might’ve guessed, about what all (good things) he would do if he had a little more time to live. Such things not only prove why a writer like him is admired so much, but also bring your own mortality into sharp focus, and set you thinking.

At what point in one's life does one start thinking about God? I don’t mean, of course, the tendency to scream His name out loud when things are not going right or when we are incredulous about others’ shortcomings, but more about that middle-age watershed when we start introspecting, doing good things, being peaceful, helping others, following alternative careers, and putting on that ever-smiling, benign, I’ve-understood-all-there-is-to-about-life-and-so-sad-you-haven’t-yet face.

In the developed world there is some evidence that this age is being pushed further, with stressful (sometimes double) careers, plastic surgery, second (third and fourth) marriages, high divorce rates and eternal single parenthood. On the other hand, stuff like imported mysticism, organic food, power yoga, early retirement and now, a deep recession have created enough conditions to actually advance that age.

In contrast, one can argue that we in the developing (shall we say Eastern) world have always had a strong sense of spirituality in-built into our systems, and have a habit of dialling (and getting through to God) more often. Not to mention the host of souls who’ve made it a profession or a personality-trait early on in life, to espouse His Cause, or live His Lifestyle to the exclusion of everything else.

But what is a good age to start a dialogue with Him for Easterners who have been brought up in a more or less Western milieu? In other words, for those who were bred in a modern rational environment, but refuse to get rid of the Eastern value-system embedded in them? I ask this in all earnestness as one who’s fast approaching the half-century age-mark, but still unable to grasp the seriousness of it all.

Should I stop colouring (whatever’s left of) my hair now? Stop going to the gym, listening to rock and jazz, wearing fitting jeans and T-shirts and look the other way when a PYT passes by? Should I give up my career and instead switch to one where I’m more ‘connected’? And begin reading ‘Godly’ books and posting mystical statuses regularly on my Facebook?

Thing is, every time I look at a friend who’s seemingly ‘transcended’ this world, smile benignly at me and unstatingly urge me in the same direction, I develop cold feet. To be true, there is a sense of awe and inspiration at said person’s special abilities combined with self-derision at not being able to catch up, but mostly, there’s a deep sense of denial of the whole idea.

You may call it a reluctance to give up youth. Or, stupidity and vanity of not accepting the realities of middle age. But the fact is, I don’t think I’m ready yet. Not ready to don saffron, grow my beard long and leave my hair unkept, wear a stupid smile on my face, retire to the hills, start chanting, or even, write a letter to my friends and children prior to an impending exit.

Is it a feeling that my children have not ‘settled’ yet? Or a sense of duty and responsibility that my middle-class mind has not given up so far, that comes in the way? It would be tempting to ascribe it to such things, but I’m convinced it’s not all that.
On the contrary, it’s a feeling that I have not done enough in this life yet, not for others, but for myself. There’s more to do still, hills to be climbed, vales to be conquered, and miles to go before I sleep.

Plus, there’s a strong belief that God is in everything we do, and is not a new, or ultimate phase of our lives. All we really need to do is keep Him in mind while performing all the small, seemingly irrelevant everyday things, like being good to others and being generally moral. That’s all!

Not so long ago, on a particularly fun stretch on a long drive, we (my wife and I) had penned down a list of THINGS-TO-DO-IN-THE-NEXT-10-YEARS. We haven’t discussed that with too many people, and I’m certainly not about to post it up here, but we do occasionally look it up to remind ourselves. Maybe we’ll revisit it more often now. Maybe we’ll start adding to that list, or hopefully, striking off those that’ve been accomplished.

Does that mean God and all saintly things will take a back seat in my life for some more time, then? Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask, for after all I am an Easterner, and qualify with a little bit of God already in me. In any case, I’m clear about one thing: I’m not in a hurry to write a letter like Gabo’s to my friends. Not just yet! For I believe I already do at least a couple of the things mentioned in that letter (see below)!

A FAREWELL LETTER FROM A GENIUS (Reproduced - Circulating on the web)

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, famous writer from Colombia (familiarly known as "Gabo" in his native country) and Nobel prize winner for literature in 1982, retired from public life for reasons of health.

He has a form of cancer which is terminal. He has sent a farewell letter to his friends and it has been circulated around the Internet.

It is recommended reading because it is moving to see how one of the best and most brilliant of writers expresses himself with sorrow and regret:

"If God, for a second, forgot what I have become and granted me a little bit more of life, I would use it to the best of my ability. I wouldn't possibly, say everything that is in my mind, but I would be more thoughtful of all I say. I would give merit to things not for what they are worth, but for what they mean to express...

I would sleep less, I would dream more, because I know that for every minute that we close our eyes, we waste 60 seconds of light.

I would walk while others stop; I would stay awake while others sleep.

If God would give me a little bit more of life, I would dress in a simple manner, I would place myself in front of the sun, leaving not only my body, but my soul naked at its mercy….

To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love….

I would give wings to children, but I would leave it to them to learn how to fly by themselves.

To old people I would say that death doesn't arrive when they grow old, but with forgetfulness. I have learned so much with you all, I have learned that everybody wants to live on top of the mountain, without knowing that true happiness is obtained in the journey taken & the form used to reach the top of the hill.

I have learned that when a newborn baby holds, with its little hand, his father's finger, it has trapped him for the rest of his life.

I have learned that a man has the right and obligation to look down at another man, only when that man needs help to get up from the ground..

Say always what you feel, not what you think. If I knew that today is the last time that I am going to see you asleep, I would hug you with all my strength and I would pray to the Lord to let me be the guardian angel of your soul…

If I knew that these are the last moments to see you, I would say "I love you".

There is always tomorrow, and life gives us another opportunity to do things right, but in case I am wrong, and today is all that is left to me, I would love to tell you how much I love you & that I will never forget you.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone, young or old. Today could be the last time to see your loved ones, which is why you mustn't wait; do it today, in case tomorrow never arrives. I am sure you will be sorry you wasted the opportunity today to give a smile, a hug, a kiss, and that you were too busy to grant them their last wish.

Keep your loved ones near you; tell them in their ears and to their faces how much you need them and love them. Love them and treat them well; take your time to tell them "I am sorry", "forgive me", "please", "thank you", and all those loving words you know!

Nobody will know you for your secret thought. Ask the Lord for wisdom and strength to express them.

For you, With much love,
Your Friend,
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Un abrazo
02 de julio de 2009
Y son las 15:30

A letter from your son

2009-06-21T13:53:00.004+05:30

Dearest Papa,

I don’t remember any particular day called ‘Father’s Day’ when we were little. I doubt if you’d heard of it even years after losing your father at the age of 9. And I’m not surprised that my kids don’t send me mushy texts about how nice I am, not just on this, but any day of the year.

The thing I do remember fondly, was getting and writing letters, when you were in England and we were growing up. Well, to be true I do remember a good deal of other things as well (see below), but I don’t know why, letters written in long-hand remain fresh and readily spring to mind today.

Maybe I’ve said this more than once during our many confrontations, and doubtless you’ve heard this from a whole lot of other people, starting with your own wife, but I don’t agree with how you lived your life.

For instance, why the hell did you have to be so, so different? Why did you decide to become an actor when it was hardly classified as a valid profession? Why did you have to join the National School of Drama and shine on the Delhi stage when others were writing their college exams? Why did you make it a point to be in every radio play on AIR, or for that matter, Doordarshan, when they decided to start broadcasting? Why did you have to follow your star and choose to specialize in Child Drama overseas, leaving your family behind, when other dads were busy with their humdrum jobs, setting up homes for their flock?

Why did you not think twice before breaking away from your family, even if that meant taking on odd jobs to support your family? Why did you insist on marrying early on in life and then shaping your wife into a confident lady who could take on life’s many twists even when you weren’t around? Why did you continue thinking about everyone else—your mother, brothers, cousins—when you should’ve only been thinking about your wife and sons?

Why did you send your children to the best educational institutions when you could ill-afford the expenses? Why couldn’t you’ve been like other dads, telling your sons what to do, instead of letting them figure out what they wanted to do, every step of the way? Why couldn’t you have acted more like an authority figure and less of a friend when I asked you about my choice of career? Why the hell couldn’t you’ve stayed on a bit to enjoy the creature comforts you knew your boys would eventually lay out for you? Most of all, why didn’t you give your grandchildren the chance to experience what they rightfully deserved—your warmth and love?

Yet, as I look back on my life with you, a myriad memories flash before my eyes—small things, but stuff life is made up of. And on this day, I thank God that I was born to a maverick, someone who was way, way ahead of his times. I remember, for instance:
1. Nestling in your arms as a kid, soaking in the smell of your after-shave, knowing smugly that I would be able to wear it too, one day.
2. The way you would put on your socks and shoes before venturing out, marveling at how perfectly the heels fell into place, and how quickly you tied those laces.
3. How you took me to Khan Market after my tonsils operation, to feed me unlimited ice-cream in a fancy restaurant.
4. Sipping a bit of beer from your glass, falling for the argument that a bit of beer is good for the body, and not knowing that taste would stay with me for life.
5. When you took me by the hand, walking out of the hospital you were admitted to, without telling anyone, to go and perform in Habib Tanvir’s play, not wanting a small detail like your asthma come in the way of the show.
6. Rationing out cigarettes to you every day, one after every meal, knowing that they would kill you eventually, but realizing deep inside that, what the hell, enjoyment came in measured puffs anyway.
7. Your striking good looks and how you’d tease Mama about how many women would lust after you when you were young.
8. Modeling my hair-style after yours, brushed straight back, without a parting.
9. The last wave of your hand, burdened by my grand-dad’s heavy overcoat as you left us at the airport on your first trip abroad, and crying on looking at your chappals, when we reached home.
10. Relishing every word that you’d hurriedly write to us on those rice-paper sheets, after we’d removed the stamps with the Queen’s mug from the envelopes for our collection.
11. Trying to cram anecdotes and affections into every bit of the aerogrammes we’d reply on, not leaving even the margins or the fold-overs.
12. Waiting for the phone to ring every time on our birthdays, armed with a list of what we needed from England, in this instance, a ‘Get Ready’ LP by Rare Earth.
13. Watching you from the visitor’s gallery at the airport when you returned, every bit my hero in a smart jacket and sunglasses.
14. Accompanying you and Mama to the temple after you’d won a legal case, not suspecting that the avowed atheist had a traditional heart after all.
15. Dropping you at the airport proudly when you were off to location, shooting ‘Shivaji’ with Parikshit Sahni, or ‘Hum Paanch’ with a then very young and raw Anil Kapoor.
16. Arguing with you why an MBA and a career in the private sector made more sense than one with the Civil Services.
17. Trying on your tasteful collection of shirts, ties and suits, when it was time for me to start working in an MNC.
18. How you travelled 500+ km on a Maharashtra Roadways bus to the deep interiors of the state where I was undergoing ‘Management training’ while with Brooke Bond, just to tell me that I had cleared the Civil Services Prelims, only to be told that I had made my choice.
19. How I made you and Mama travel with me all the way from Bombay to Ajmer to marry the girl I’d chosen, having to consent without your even talking to her parents.
20. Predicting the media explosion and how it would alter the world we live in, at least a decade before it started happening.
21. Picking up Saattvic from school in Juhu, after he’d injured himself, knowing that it would take too long for me to come back from Worli.
22. You rushing to Delhi on your brother’s passing away, never to return yourself.
23. Seeing you in Moolchand Hospital, your usual cheery self, like so many times in hospital before, never suspecting that your time was up.
24. Watching you take the last few breaths bravely, helplessly standing by, waiting for a miracle to happen.
25. Carrying you to the Electric Crematorium and watching as you disappeared inside, feeling quite like the first time at Delhi airport.
26. Standing next to the bubbling Bhagirathi at Badrinath, holding Mama, my wife and brother, praying for you, probably the last time as a family.
27. Storing your specs, smoking pipe, wallet and inhaler in your room just as you’d left them, for years afterward.
28. Occasionally glancing up from my bed to your picture, knowing that you’re watching over me, always.

I sense you’re not quite happy at the way your boys’ve turned out—after all, we didn’t quite take up the choices you’d wanted us to, without really making it clear. But don’t worry, you’ll get your chance at another confrontation. Good thing is, you won’t have to wait too long before we meet again. But let me assure you, when we do, despite the outcome of that confrontation, I’ll sit back and gladly let you bring up my kids, for I know you’d do a darned good job of it—certainly better than I could ever manage.

Looking forward to seeing you, again…

P.S. Post my writing this letter, I've been wished Happy Father's Day by each of my boys today (though of course, these days they use mobile phones not letters), making me think that their upbringing hasn't been too bad either. This means we'll have real notes exchange when we meet! So, prepare!!

Miss you, Mama!

2009-05-11T15:33:00.003+05:30

They’re wrong when they say a man's body is two-thirds water. I'd say it's composed almost entirely, of his mother. You might say an old man's feeling uncharacteristically emotional on Mother's Day, but I could prove to you that a Mom is easily the most powerful person in a man's life (and I mean not just the Indian man's life, as some feminists are fond of ranting), and quite certainly the most lasting influence.

At the scientific level this is an easy enough concept - everyone agrees that a child 'learns' mostly during the first 15 yrs of his existence and that is generally the phase where the mother's influence is greatest, so QED. On the other hand, if you’re the filmy-type, all you need to do is point to the iconic ‘Mere paas Maa hai’ to assert a mother’s all-important role in a son’s life. If you're more Shakespearean in your outlook, you might be inclined to attribute this primacy to the famous Electra Complex. And of course, if you belong to a rare matriarchical or matrilineal community, this will again be pretty obvious, as you’d have sadly learnt by now that you will never inherit your mother's property unless you're female.

But no: as you'd have guessed, my point is a little more universal, and covers all types of men and women, everywhere. A mother, is indeed, the person who quite literally shapes a child, thus determining, to a very large extent, the course of his/her future life. Of course, the father, peers and the spouse all play a significant role, but never quite like that of the mother. As a 49 year old, I therefore have no compunction in admitting that, blood IS thicker than water. And on Mother’s Day, not only do I feel an all-encompassing surge of love for my late mother, but strangely, also a latent tinge of jealousy against my wife – who I realise, has had a stronger role to play in the lives of my sons!

So what do I salute my mother for, in making me what I am? Not the big things, you’ll notice, but the small ones, which as we all know from experience, are the ones that really count, when push comes to shove.

Brush your teeth, make your bed and keep your cupboard tidy
Things that most mothers teach most children, but only a few really learn, especially boys. She was ever so orderly about everything: her personal effects, sheets, curtains, kitchen: everything thing at home. To this day, I remember how she’d catalogued and kept her collection of cassettes and videocassettes—it would put any library to shame. The big point: if a person can’t be tidy and orderly in his living, his mind will always be cluttered.

Do it yourself, even if you haven’t learnt how
A million things you might think mothers reserve for their daughters, I got to learn from my mum - how to thread a needle, make a round roti, sweep the floor, bargain with vegetable-vendors, pack woolies with naphthalene-balls, wash my undies - all came in very handy when I had to set up home. And I had to do that multiple times as a bachelor, as well as a married person, in different cities.
The big point: Dirty your hands even with things you think you’re not meant to do—you never know when they come in useful.

Be bold to venture where no one’s been before
As a person displaced by Partition, Swaran (my mother, meaning 'gold') went through major trauma as she grew up and her family found feet in Delhi. Maybe that was how the explorer/fighter in her came to the fore, making her do things you wouldn’t associate with a woman of her time: excelling in sports, taking up a job, falling in love with and getting married to someone her family did not approve of, manage a home for a long period when her husband was away overseas, joining him and setting up home in England, learning how to drive post 50: the list is endless.
The big point: go where others haven’t been before, and you’re sure to find the treasure—even if it’s in the journey!

Have faith and the good times shall come
The ability to be patient and wait for the tide to turn, is something most boys must learn but many can’t seem to manage. I’ve seen my mother manage home with virtually nothing in her purse, but an unwavering faith in her husband’s and her ability to survive. If I’ve learnt how to dig in and believe in oneself, even when the chips are down, it’s very largely thanks to Mama.
The big point: What goes up, must come down, and vice-versa. The sooner you understand it and stand aside, the easier it will be for you to catch it at the right time!

Others before yourself
That mothers sacrifice for their husbands, children and home is common legend. But to see your mother give up everything for you is really inspiring. If you’ve seen your mother give you everything you’ve ever wanted, even at great personal discomfort and pain, how would you not learn to give of yourself!
The big point: Do unto others as you would others unto you and you’ll find that it works!

Roadrunning (or, Bombay to Delhi in 22 hours)

2009-05-03T17:16:00.015+05:30

“It’s not possible.” “You’ll fall asleep.” “Your responses slow down as you grow older.” “And, there’s no one to share the wheel either.” These, and other such diatribes were hurled my way when I suggested we drive Bombay to Delhi, non-stop. To me it seemed the most natural of progressions, but to my wife and sons, this was akin to another insane last-ditch effort that ageing men take to, to look and feel younger.
For once, I put my foot way down, all the way to the floor-board. And announced that this was indeed what I was going to do, and if my wife preferred, she could fly instead.
And so here I was, settled in the driver’s seat (with my wife in the sleeping one), peering out into the darkness, as I turned on the ignition, early morning on 28th May 2009, feeling much like Alexander must have when he set off from Persia, or Columbus as he set sail, many, many years before me.

Bombay 4.16 am
As we whizz past dogs barking randomly, slum-dwellers blissfully sleeping on road dividers and the odd cars straggling home after a late night on the city roads, I reflect on my past life, which I’m quite certain, was that of a trucker. For there’s something about experiencing places through driving—a flavour I insist you can’t get by any other means of transport. At this hour, Bombay is so peaceful, and thankfully navigable. It takes less than half an hour for us to clear the distance between Versova and Dahisar, and to be in the midst of the Western Ghats, purring on quickly yet firmly, in line with our resolve.

Toll booth short of Manor 5.10 am
A longish queue awaits us at this early hour as we strike the first of the million toll-booths that have now become characteristic of road travel on Indian highways. As we try and weave our way past sleepy, monstrous lorries, I see four whores on the other side of the road. Placed strategically just after the toll barrier, and close to an inviting pile of concrete pipes big enough to setup home in, they’re sure to catch the fancy of weary truckers headed into town. For the truckers, this is surely the last bit of heaven before hitting the big bad city, and for the sex-workers, welcome last earnings before they head back to their hovels and infants. I shake my wife awake and even as we nudge forward to pay obeisance at the booth, we see a couple disappear into one of those huge pipes.

Talassery near Mah-Guj border 5.55 am
A drive through the Ghats in twilight remains one of the rare wonders I have seen, in this world. The ancient trees, the eroding hills and the fragile ecosystem barely stirring to life seem to remind you that soon, if mankind’s not careful, such sights will disappear, probably giving way to more soot and grime-washed monolithic skyskrapers with narrow slum-lined roads and urban dismay that we just came out of, barely an hour away.
The first golden rays as the sun emerges to our right also reminds me of the bare elements we truckers so take for granted by now: earth, wind, water and the sun! I’m reminded of the setting sun reflected in the lake as we’d driven into Udaipur on the drive to Bombay a couple of days ago, and a thousand other instances when we’ve stopped on a high mountain road just to witness a sunrise or a sunset, or at the gushing of a waterfall deep below and the rainbow it creates, and marveled at how each time, we’ve been really touched by these awesome sights! If you can’t believe how these can move you as you traverse the countryside outside of the cities, you ain’t seen nothing yet: and I’d urge you to take a really, really long drive.

BP station short of Navsari 6.40 am
Our objective behind starting so early is to make good time especially through the busy industrialized belt of Gujarat that one must pass through when on NH8, one leg of the Golden Quadrilateral. Having already crossed Atul and Vapi, we must stop for a leak and chai just before we enter what’s the most tedious part of this journey: the 225 odd km from Navsari, through Surat and Bharuch to Baroda. This stretch is made tough not only by the busy traffic, but also by the still ongoing four/six-laning work on the highway. As we stop by at a BP Petrol Pump which has toilet and restaurant facilities, we brace ourselves: it once took us as much as 5 hours to cross a 150-km bit on this stretch!
Surprisingly, the restaurant is already stirring to life and has tea and ‘nashta’ to offer: I make a note of how franchisees can make a difference to business, by contrasting this to the behaviour at the Udaipur Circuit House on the way up, where we were told it would not be possible to get anything other than bed-tea before 6.30-7.00am! Not just this alacrity: I believe Petrol Pumps have the potential to massively alter the dreary conditions of long-distance driving—and it’s only slowly that petroleum companies are waking up to their potential to be the oases of the highways. And in this endeavour, I seriously believe the franchise model is much better than the COCO (Co-Owned-Co-Operated) one, a point that I shall return to later.

Baroda 9.25 am
My wife insists that on the way up, she’d counted 7 flyovers (generally by-passes) under construction on the stretch between Surat and Bharuch, which slowed down the heavy traffic to a crawl. To our pleasant surprise , we negotiate all of them (and the 2 more which she’d obviously forgot to count or remember), quite breezily. Quite obviously our early start has given us sufficient headway and we zip past as the industrial chimneys are wheezing to life, in their daily habit of spewing chemicals and pollutants to choke an unsuspecting population that proudly welcomes ‘development and progress’ in Gujarat.
Ironically, we pass a mini-truck carrying cows (which of course are packed like sardines, and in a standing position, are dumbly trying to make sense of how travel has changed for them in these industrialised times) and amusedly I remark how this new image of ‘Cattle on wheels’ could well replace the older ‘Cattle on Road’ one as India finds its rightful place in the global economy.
That Gujarat is clearly on a faster path towards development is patently visible on this stretch: the innumerable factories with workers unmindfully crossing the road on their way to work, criss-crossing trucks, mini-trucks and 3wheelers ferrying goods and raw materials, hundreds of ‘Hotels’ (which by the way is just an euphemism for dhaba or restaurant at best) dotting the highway, and the unmistakeable chemical smell in the air are all vibrant indicators of Narendra Modi’s success. If I had some time, I note, I would’ve been easily able to shoot a documentary for his pre-election use!
To my pleasant surprise, we by-pass Baroda a good half-an hour of my estimated time, and ease onto the 90 km ‘Expressway’ between Baroda and Ahmedabad, which is proudly proclaimed as one leg of the ‘National Expressway or NE1’ on billboards (to the best of my knowledge there is no such project, so this seems more of Modi-ish chest-thumping to me). Whatever the case, this stretch is pure pleasure to drive on and you cover the distance in a mere 40-45 minutes: helped by the high toll that keeps many truckers and buses away, and a well-maintained straight, six-lane track that reminds you of the autobahns of Germany.

Udaipur 3.40 pm
Continuing with our good streak and having come roughly halfway, we ease out of Gujarat into Rajasthan at the Ratanpur border in the afternoon, just after 1 pm. By now, the traffic has thinned (it’s a sweltering 45 degrees outside), and the green vegetation that we encountered right upto Himmatnagar gives way to the sparse bushery of the approaching desert-state.
We’ve been frugal with our food intake so far: just eggs, sandwitches and water consumed in bits since the morning and a shared dosa at our last stop just before Ahmedabad. This is because a. we want to feel light and alert, and b. I have this unexplained desire to have ‘dal-baati’, something we know will be available only when we cross into the princely district of Udaipur.
The drive through the hills before you touch Udaipur is awesome: rugged, cut rock-face, undulating hills and the illusion of water on the road (caused as we know from our physics lessons, by refraction of light on really hot days). Before the days of the Golden Quadrilateral, this used to be tricky terrain: narrow winding road with trucks often blocking the right lane, in their struggle to negotiate the climbs with their heavy loads. And the rare petrol-pump that you so nervously looked out for, if you were short of fuel. Things are easier now: there are many more petrol-stations (fuel is cheaper in Rajasthan than in Gujarat and I guess land is cheaper!), but you still come across a couple of upturned lorries each time you negotiate this picturesque 100-km odd-stretch.
We manage to locate a tiny dhaba that’s frequented only by truckers, offering daal-bati. In that oppressive heat, we sit on charpoys and consume hot, red, watery daal with freshly baked baatis doused with generous helpings of pure-ghee and chilly-achar, and understand how desert-folk beat the heat with their colourful food.
We finally by-pass Udaipur a little behind schedule, but are hopeful that the drive to Chitorgarh (via NH 76 which branches off from NH8 at Udaipur, to meet NH79 there before continuing onwards to Kishangarh on the Quadrilateral) will be a relatively easy one, as there’s hardly any traffic.
As you bypass the spectacular town of Chitorgarh that’s carved on a hillside, and made famous by Maharana Pratap and Chetak, you’re reminded of the alternate route to Mumbai, which passes through Indore, Bhusawal and Nasik, had you not opted for the one passing through Gujarat. Apparently the roads there are still being upgraded, so it’s not a wise decision to take that option at all.

Kishangarh 7.10 pm
The long and straight NH79 from Chitor to Kishangarh, passing by the textile town of Bhilwara and the garrison town of Nasirabad is rather green (as it passes through the eastern part of Rajasthan, leaving the drier, but to me more charming, hilly regions of Jaisamand, Beawar and Ajmer to the West) and an easy drive: traffic is sparse and the sun is now setting, bathing the undulating countryside in a deep orange.
We normally stop at our favourite ‘Chuni Halwai’ at Nasirabad, to pick up large, pizza-sized ‘kachoras’. These completely unhealthy (deep fried with oodles of spices and dal/pyaaz filling) but sinfully delicious numbers are a big hit both in Delhi and Bombay. Today, we intend to save the 45 mts of detour that this causes, and in any case, kachoras and kachoris are freshly prepared only in the mornings.
We stop instead, at another BP ‘Ghar’ petrol-pump, looking for ‘lassi’ before we hit the busier parts approaching Jaipur on our last leg. The ‘Ghar’ seems to be a bright idea gone wrong (as usual) in its implementation. One can understand the laudable idea of having a clean and cheerful stopover offering wholesome food at reasonable rates (thalis @ Rs 50 odd, if I remember), clean toilets and layover facilities even for truck-drivers. But what one can’t fathom is how the poor franchisee who must’ve been forced to put in substantial investment and adopt this model, could even hope to break even with this huge facility – designed for upwards of 50 covers at any given time, including an AC room that requires no less than 6-tonnes of air-conditioning equipment, running for a handful of customers that can be hoped-for on this route. If on the other hand, this was COCO, then it’s obviously a big drain on the company: the place had more staff than customers, and was serving a glass of nimboo-soda (which we had to settle for as there was no lassi) for just Rs 15 in an AC environment! We’ve seen a similar situation in such ‘Ghars’ before in Bikaner on a trip a few months ago: maybe someone from Bharat Petroleum should drive past some of their Ghars and see how to salvage the situation.
Which brings me to another point about our infrastructure development: the toll-roads. If you’re a trucker like me and has navigated the country before we knew how to spell t-o-l-l-t-a-x, you no doubt feel blessed to have world-class roads in India (and when I say that, I mean it, having driven all over Europe a number of times). But consider this: you must spend upwards of Rs 500 on a one-way trip on this sector. Now while that may not be a large sum for your pocket or when compared to toll-taxes overseas, you must remember that this cost approximates that of a II-Class train ticket! Does that mean that the million Nanos that will soon be unleashed on our roads will feel the pinch when accessing toll-roads? Probably not, but personally I hope they hurry up with installing RFID mechanisms in cars, that would make stopping at toll-booths and tendering exact change redundant!

Jaipur bypass 9.05 pm
As we turn-off at Kishangarh and rejoin the 6-lane NH8 that comes from Ajmer, we grit our teeth for the difficult stretch ahead. It’s dark again and the headlamps have been switched on. But that’s hardly the cause of our discomfort.
Truckers are often credited with good road-sense: in any discussion of road behaviour people often laud their discipline: how they adhere to the left-of-road, and move aside politely when you intend to pass them. On the other hand, it’s city-dwellers who zig-zag on highways in their fancy cars, creating unnecessary road-hazards.
Fact of the matter is that truckers do not follow road-ethics primarily because they know nothing about road-ethics. Not surprising, if you consider that most truckers are illiterate, self-taught drivers who believe that roughly 100% of highway-space is reserved for their trucks. They believe, quite simply, that their objective is to get from point a to b during the day at the speed they can afford, and if there’s a vehicle to their left, they have to overtake and move forward. Niceties like how long that is likely to take given their heavy loads is irrelevant, as is the minor detail of who or what is following them at what speed. In any case, perched as they are in their cabins they can hardly see or hear anyone behind them.
In this scenario, you can get infuriatingly angry when you intend to make good speed on modern highways. You’ll often encounter trucks moving at slow speeds like 40kmph, in the right, overtaking lane. Even if they drive in the left one, they have a sudden propensity to veer right just ahead of you, slowing you down till they pass the tractor ahead. Or, as is perhaps peculiar to certain stretches like the 6-lane 120 km one between Jaipur and Ajmer and the 4-lane one ahead to Delhi, you’ll find truckers hogging all the lanes merrily, leaving no headroom for faster traffic.
Too tired to curse, we make peace with the fact that this is going to be our lot for the next 350 odd km, and begin, much to our dislike, zigzagging across lanes to get ahead. The pent-up tiredness, that’s been holding up for 1100 km and 17 hrs now begins to surface. The darkness, and the interplay of lights and the drone of lorries begin to lull us into a rhythmic dullness, and the only thing that keeps us driving is will-power, and the occasional drink of cold-water (courtesy our ice-box, which accompanies us on long trips in summers).

Behror 11.30 pm
As we pull into Behror, the midway point on the Jaipur-Delhi leg, our mind is numb and limbs aching. We search for an ice-cream, and after a bit of search, manage to find a shopkeeper that’s rolling in his ice-cream cooler at the end of a long-day of work. A lick or two is refreshing, as is a quick round of stretches to get feeling back into those tired muscles, and we hit the road again, hopeful that we’ll cover the balance 90-odd km home in no time at all.

Daruhera 12. 20 am
Perhaps the biggest thing the highway teaches you is not to take anything for granted. Of course nature has a way of reminding you of your relative insignificance before its vastness: we’ve felt humbled on the Leh-Kargil road just looking down at the Zanskar deep down below, been on the edge when driving through snow-covered forest roads in Naldehra that seemed interminable in the middle of the night, or even stopped in the middle of our tracks as the road suddenly disappeared (when the road in the Parvati valley was washed away by flash floods). But more than anything, you learn that when on the road, anything can happen, putting paid to the best of plans. We’ve been in situations when a landslide blocked our way to a hill-station at the eleventh hour, delaying us by over four hours, or having to face an unexpected snowfall just as we reached a hill-station, prompting us to turn right back to avoid getting stuck here.
And that’s just what happens tonight. For just after midnight, we encounter a rare and inexplicable traffic jam of all places, before Daruhera. We try and get off the road, squeezing between the lorries and the bushes, to inch forward, but it seems to stretch for miles. At times like this you’re reminded of the subtle but real hierarchy on highways. Make no mistake: size matters on the road, and if you wish to co-exist, better recognize and honour this reality. Curse the truckers all you like, but remember that the slightest touch by those iron and steel monsters even at slow speeds, even when you’re completely in the right will ruin not just your car but also your trip. And in a jam, it’s wisest to stick to the rules and keep to your side of the road even if it pushes you somewhat back in time.
Engines get switched off, drivers jump off their vehicles and start pacing up and down. Not knowing when we dozed off, we get rudely awakened by a Haryanvi who thumps our car wanting to know if we intend to move or stay the night!

Gurgaon 2.02 am
Finally. Finally, we roll into Gurgaon. 2 hours behind schedule, tired, numbed and dulled, but all in one piece, and in an unscratched car. As I trudge the staircase up to my bedroom with great difficulty, I ponder whether to call my sons and tell them we’re home safe. After all, they’d been in touch with us all through the trip, eagerly wanting to know where we’d reached, when—keeping an eye on the old man, as it were.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to call Gautmik in Bombay—having been following our progress till 11.30 pm, he’ll be fast asleep now, as he has work tomorrow. Which is why we press the speed-dial for Saattvic in England instead, to break the good news to him. Only to be greeted by (you guessed it) “Er, aren’t you a bit old to be trying stunts like this, dad?”

Do Gaz Zameen

2009-04-06T14:37:00.002+05:30

I’ve just spent what probably qualifies as one of the most painful weeks of my life. Correction, make that one of the most painful weeks in all our lives—my younger son, wife and mine. Only the elder one escaped, just because he’s safely ensconced on foreign shores.

You might think it had to do with the heat in Bombay, which was unusually high for this time of year—over 40 degrees Celcius as March turned to April—and the attendant humidity. That contributed, of course, but only a wee bit. It could’ve been the old hand-me-down car that my son uses there, extremely good-humouredly for his age, I have to admit, with its wheezing air-conditioner and other sundry ailments. Some, like my wife, might even believe it was the lack of my usual gym routine, leading not only to the loss of precious inches from my biceps and pectorals, but also to the depressive buildup of endorphins that failed to get released and affected my head instead.

Quite the contrary. I believe there were two main culprits for this horrible ordeal: one was space, or rather, the lack of it, and the other, an obnoxious beast that impersonates, and sometimes gets mistaken for, a two-legged homo-sapien, called ‘broker’. Both came together poetically, if you wish, in the search for ‘Do Gaz Zameen’ in that overcrowded city.

Having been considerably distressed over the last year and a half by G’s decision not to move into his college hostel but choose, instead, to stay with my brother in the suburbs, the wife and I decided to make a long trip and settle the matter, once and for all. We reasoned he needed his space, as did his cousins, whom he shared the room with. Besides, being on his own would make him tougher and ‘readier’ for the big bad world. No brainer so far, but the big debate was about WHERE exactly this space should be located. The big idea behind our excursion was to either break him or be broken: to convince him to pick hostel/PG dig in town, a decision that seemed as logical to my mind as day after night, or be convinced to fix him a flat in Versova, which of course was G’s conviction, and one that induced in me violent fits the likes of which common people are sure to confuse with epilepsy.

No guesses on which point-of-view won. As always, we soon figured it was better to give in to G’s logic: that he traveled early in the mornings and therefore did NOT spend 3 hours commuting like his dad believed, flats in town were much too expensive, square foot to square foot, and of course what was the point of traveling in the REVERSE direction to meet his friends every evening, who mostly lived in Versova?

Acceptance of such an idea may seem like a big leap of faith, but it’s nothing compared to its EXECUTION, for as we all know, that’s where the devil usually lives. House hunting is hardly the most likeable of propositions, least of all in the summer heat in an old car. Three adults with divergent views riding in it certainly couldn’t have made it better. But that was only the start.

The first thing that strikes you about house hunting is the shortage of decent supply. You excitedly pore over classifieds, confidently scan through websites and talk to friends and to friends of friends, but the result is close to zilch—for classifieds and websites are dominated by ads by estate agents, and friends conveniently forget about all those LOVELY flats they used to promise you. The ones that you do end up being ‘shown’ are almost always the bottom of the junkpile, dumped there as orphans never really cultivated as their own, and abandoned by their owners just to satisfy their greed for rentals. Funnily the rates quoted for those sad places are unjustifiably astronomic, putting to shame all the current hoohah of recession.

In any case, there are hardly any that remotely resemble your HOME: neither the one you left nor the one you’re about to setup. And that’s exactly what we experienced: 4-5 days of relentless searching threw up just a couple of passable flats—a pathetic hit rate of 2 in 20! In the process though, we got free insights into the dark rental real estate market, and unwittingly, not only sighted, but also had occasion to observe at close quarters aforesaid animal called ‘broker’. See below for invaluable insights.

Of course, the two flats got shortlisted. Not because they were nice in themselves, but one because it was near Infinity Mall (imagine the joys of walking down to the choicest restaurants, a bookshop and a multiplex) and the other because of its sea-view (a feature that appealed less to the kid and more to his mother, understandably). And of course, we didn’t get our first choice: the landlord suddenly chickened and decided to sell his flat outright rather than rent it out (recession, recession!). Which left us with the only decent option we had, namely the sea-view flat.

What followed was a couple of excruciatingly painful days of games and negotiations with the worst-of-breed brokers, self-styled caretaker who, shall we say, had the landlord (a simple North-Eastern flight supervisor with Air India) under his thick and sweaty thumb, before we signed the deal. So no matter how much we tried to reason about the terms, we kept coming up against a wall. Suffice it to say that were it not for the kid’s urgent requirement, I’d have pushed out the lout from the 13th floor, even if it meant spoiling the sea-view temporarily. Did we come away any the wiser after that encounter? Well, there were a few learnings (see below, for yourself).

Insight 1: Dirty water finds its own level.
A point already alluded to previously: flats on rentals are the poorest of the poor, without any hope of redemption—badly planned, inadequately ventilated, horrendously furnished and situated in dubious buildings with unclean surroundings. Do not expect them to be well-maintained, and do not expect a view other than that of similarly dubious buildings or at best, an open public drain. Also, do not expect brokers to behave like decent humans for their faculties have not evolved beyond the dog-eat-dog mentality. Lastly, don’t let them set foot inside your car, as they ‘show’ you the Promised Land, unless you want your seats to stink for the rest of their lives, and your blood to boil until none’s left.

Insight 2: Let the buyer beware.
Principle borrowed from basic commerce, which as you guessed, is as far as brokers’ horizons extend. You will not get what you see—the flats you like will be gone before you call in excitedly to say ‘I Do’, rates quoted will be revised, brokerage will be negotiated, in short, there will always be some nasty jack-in-the-box waiting to sock you between the ears. Do not assume anything, pore over the fine print in agreements, stuff yourself with enough proteins and brace yourself for the worst.

Insight 3: Almighty Owners, Beggar Tenants.
An inequity implied mostly subtly but sometimes not so subtly, throughout the process. Brokers treat owners like Gods, even when they don’t get paid by owners but by the tenants. And even when the flat-owners are sad, uncouth or uneducated, or should I say particularly when they are so. You don’t get to meet or speak to them as brokers play gate-keepers: whether it’s to protect the owners’ interests or the brokers’ is unclear. Either way you are always at the receiving end. Therefore, watch out for clauses and agreements that are completely loaded in favour of the landlords (Leave and License is one such format that’s unfairly tilted towards their interests, and is peculiar to Bombay)

Insight 4: Mafiosos with ‘Offer-you-can’t-refuse’.
A la Godfather, all brokers have you believe that they have the perfect answer to your needs. In actuality of course, this is poppycock. They haven’t the slightest idea or care about what the customer wants, but are interested in palming off the worst possible shit as flats to unsuspecting simpletons. It’s a straight case of peddle the mushrooms, rotten and all, before they perish. Why you can’t refuse their offer has more to do with their hustling practices: you better say yes to everything they say, or else..! Not wanting to wake up with a dead horse in your bed, you have no choice but to pay them whatever brokerage they insist on, and that too, year after year, for they MAKE you sign just an 11-month agreement (to use one of their own’s phraseology, they too have offices and wives to pay for).

Insight 5: Family always triumphs.
The only silver lining in the cloud! This is not just a reiteration of traditional Christian values, but also expediency necessitated by the fact that it’s best to fight injustice with numbers. So, whether you like it or not, you beasts will encounter the patience and mighty mind of the family that stays together! Which in the ultimate analysis, is all that remains in a tenant’s armory, so one is advised to use it and use it well. And the stronger the family, the better the ‘Do Gaz Zameen’ you are likely to secure in this megalomaniacal metropolis.

Detritus on the beach

2009-03-10T11:04:00.004+05:30

The first time I came across the word, I was so impressed by it I confess I not only rushed to look it up in the dictionary, but also kept repeating it to myself. I figured it was the sound of the word that I really liked—it not only had a certain superior mouthfeel to it, but also a definite Greek-tragedy finality about it when uttered: duh-tree-tus! One could almost visualize a cowering, bewildered chap surrounded by an ominous Chorus of men in white robes throwing the word at him repeatedly: Detritus! Detritus!

You may say what the hell, it’s just a fancy word for debris, so why all the drama? And I will have to counter by admitting that it comes closest to describing my current state of affairs. Not just the word, of course, but also the complete vision, Greek Chorus included.

And by implication, this state of affairs naturally reflects on my state of mind in these bleak how-dare-you-feel-happy times. Which by the way is a trifle safer than it reflecting on my state of heart, for it means that there are still some days to go before the end of life as we know it, and more rubbish to be seen yet.

So why am I feeling like this? After all, I exercise regularly: my BP is under control, my waist is a healthy 33 inches, I can climb the 2 flights of stairs up to my bedroom with comparative ease, and I haven’t been divorced yet. Not just that, if one were to total the number of milliseconds stolen to glance in the mirror at the gym, which must easily approximate to significant narcissism by any slide rule, it would seem that there’s nothing lacking in the physical department, really.

Could it have anything to do with work, or as is the global case these days, lack of it? Has recession finally washed up on Indian shores? Partly yes, I would have to admit, considering the number of manhours one now spends on Facebook and online games, but mostly as we all know this has become more of a fashionable scapegoat, so there must be more to it than the professional slump theory.

Which of course, brings me to the, er, emotional candidates for this wallowing-in-filth feeling. You might hypothesize it’s to do with the sons being far away. Or, with the wife being too close, now that we share not only the same bed, but also the same cabin at office. Or, both. Nah! Seriously, the boys have been away for more than a year and a half now, and every passing day is actually a countdown for the empty nest to flower yet again even though temporarily. As for the wife, what can one say, if you’ve lived with her for 24 years, it surely couldn’t be a recent cause for discomfort. And what the hell once you’ve gotten used to her snoring, or her habit of not replacing caps on bottles or leaving strands of combed-off hair regularly in my clean car, what could be worse?

No, it’s certainly not all of these. At one level, it seems to me it’s to do with the weather: an impending sense of gloom as the horrible summer nears—a metaphor, perhaps for the approaching 50-year age mark and everything that one fears about old-age. At another, and deeper level however, I think it’s to do with realizing the existentialist truth that one is really no more precious than the coconut and flowers that are immersed in the sea with one’s ashes—at least they get washed ashore time and again, whereas we humans get lost to humanity forever, once we’re gone. Whatever you may have believed in, stood for, or fought for, is all going to be forgotten. Whatever wealth you may have achieved, collected, or amassed is all going to count for nothing. Day after day, it’s just the tide of time that will come and go, come and go. What will remain of most mortals is just the detritus of their memories.

What’s that you said? Good deeds, noble things don’t die and will be washed ashore? Surely, you must be joking. Remember one Mahatma Gandhi? What do we remember of even him? His spectacles and other memorabilia that’s been the flavour of the month? Or the fashionable ‘Gandhigiri’ that Munnabhai needed to remind us of? Come on, don’t delude yourself – lesser mortals like us will just go and be forgotten except by those closest to us – and that too because of a sense of loss, not greatness.

So, what the f, if one has to go, let’s at least go dramatically, in the best Greek tragedy tradition. Detritus! Detritus! And if that’s not enough, let’s borrow from another master, Detritus we all are and to Detritus we must all go—Detritus to Detritus! Amen!!

P.S. This was a glorious last-minute, floor-level picture taken by Gautmik just before sunset at Versova beach, Bombay. And just before his project submission next day, on ‘Profane Bombay’.

Another angle to the Slumdog phenomenon

2009-01-30T18:39:00.006+05:30

Enough has been said and written (and probably continues to be said and written) about whether it unfairly ‘sells’ Indian slum-life; whether it’s Oscar-material, etc, but here’s another aspect to the raging debate.

This particularly concerns you if you’re a parent of a young child around 7-8 yrs. It struck me as odd when I discovered over the weekend that 2 of my friends had actually walked out of the film, midway. Why? Because they’d taken their little kids along (one a boy, and the other, a girl, in said age-group, to separate theatres, so it was 2 independent instances) and they thought the going was becoming too ‘graphic’ (not my choice of word, but theirs) for their little ones to be exposed to.

I must say that I was a little more than dumbfounded on this reaction. First I’m told the movie has an ‘Adult’ certificate, so what the hell were the parents thinking of before taking their kids to such a movie? I know, I know – no one bothers about an A certificate anymore. That’s fine, but then the risk is yours I suppose—it’s a bit like thinking of a quick answer when your kid catches you watching a porn film—you’ve got to be smart enough to figure out a way of explaining to the child.

Second, almost since then, I’ve been thinking whether they were justified in removing themselves from the scene so as not to expose their kids to such material. More so, I’ve been wondering if I might’ve had a similar reaction if I was in their place.

Though I must admit I’ve long forgotten what it’s like to have kids that young, I refuse to believe that I would’ve acted similarly. Here’s why.

To start with, what was offensive? The dirt and filth of a Mumbai slum? The abusive language? The violence? Now, though we might want to shield our slums from the rest of the world for pride and image reasons, can we really turn a blind eye to their existence back home? Anyone who ignores slums and the people living there is just deluding himself—we all know that they are a definite by-product of urbanization and migration that happen in any developing country. And because we’ve all heard real stories of prostitutes from red-light areas sending their children to schools and scooter-rickshaw-walas’ sons topping Board examinations, we equally understand that ‘rags-to-riches’ is a very plausible paradigm. In an era where we encourage our children to become more aware of the community and treat have-nots compassionately, are we going to cover their eyes when a street beggar walks upto the car window to ask for a couple of rupees? Or are we going to ask them to look the other way when they see very young children of construction-workers playing with pebbles and mud in their makeshift shanties? Hopefully not.

Abusive language? Which of our children has not heard the choicest of expletives in the public schools they attend, or often at home, from siblings and ourselves? Do they not watch violence being glorified in every second Hollywood or Bollywood movie as it is?

What then, could a more reasonable response be? In my case, I would’ve probably had a dialoge with my kids back home, after they’ve watched such ‘disturbing’ scenes in a movie. Then told them that apart from a bit of overdramatisation that is necessary in films, all that’s real. Maybe I would've even taken them to such a slum and made them experience it for real, because as we all know that is the only the real way to teach them. Surely that would've impressed upon them the fact they’ve been lucky to’ve been born here rather than there.

In any case, we all know deep inside, whether we admit it or not, that even very young children are capable of understanding and assimilating a lot more than adults like to believe. And here, we’re talking 7-8 year olds!

Of course, every parent has a right to bring up his child the way he wants, or knows best. But let’s face it, we all know that that children who face what we call ‘hardships’ actually perform much better in later life, irrespective of their formal ‘education’. And later in life, we often regret not putting our kids through the grind enough (‘Oh, how I wish you’d been to hostel—it would’ve made a man out of you!’).

So maybe, this is just one way that we can help our children get real, even though it costs them a temporary nightmare or so?

Wipe, or wash?

2008-11-26T16:30:00.005+05:30

It’s infuriating. And funny and sad, at the same time.

You’d imagine 5-star hotels, like the one I was in a couple of days ago, would be a little sensitive. But this particular one in Kolkata couldn’t care less about your ass (or mine, or anyone else’s for that matter). However, because I’m a little more caring, I won’t name the hotel, but since I have a sore bum, will provide discreet clues (like it’s in downtown Kolkata, close to Chowringhee and is situated on a street by the same name as the hotel) so that you can figure out for yourself.

They probably still live in the British Raj. Or, are so proud of their heritage that they fail to look around them. For even if they were to look into shanties and slums that abound in the City of Joy, much less peek into the fabulous bungalows of the Bhadralok in Ballygunge, they’d realize their folly. But no, a hotel chain their calibre won’t stoop that low, of course. Never matter if you feel sore or become a germs-carrier.

Their top brass won’t use their graying grey cells either. Or listen to plain logic that a child could offer them. Because they fear they will no longer be included in the Leading Hotels of The World. Who knows they may even lose respect in the developed world. Worse, they might even lose occupancy. Yet, they’re OK with that stuff remaining stuck in those remote crevices of yours all day long (and sometimes, God forbid, even through the night!)

Maybe I should’ve called the General Manager. Or, better still, written to their flamboyant owners, on the rolls of paper they so generously provide in each room! Unfortunately past experience tells me this would have had little effect; and least of all, on my backside.

Or, maybe I should console myself that this is the price of progress. After all, the hotel is only emulating best practices followed in the developed West! Even though they might seem a bit unclean to my underdeveloped, er developing, mind!!

How else does one come to terms with the fact that you will not be able to wash your bum after defecating? Just because the top-class hotel in a leading Indian city will not provide running water next to the potty, even in a fancy suite? Frankly, being 100% Indian, I find it so appalling that it cannot dawn upon fellow Indians that it’s not just foreigners who stay in hotels in India. Or that if they were to look up statistics, they would easily see that a majority of cultures actually wash and do not wipe. Maybe they should organize a conference about this matter and host it in their hotel, so that all concerned can experience the debate first hand. Unfortunately, till the time the asses learn that it is much more hygienic to wash with water rather than wipe with tissue paper, we will have to live with rashes on ours!

Fact is, I’ve been so disturbed by this sad but basic fault in somebody’s thinking that I’ve even forgotten what I’d gone to the hotel (or the city) for, in the first place. Nor have I been able to enjoy the good food that’s so lovingly laid out in the restaurant, for fear of putting pressure in the wrong places!

P.S. The picture, in case you're dying to know, is what you see from said hotel's backside.

How misleading can labels be? - a brush with Scientology

2008-09-22T13:22:00.003+05:30

We all know that labels can be misleading. In fact, we’ve known that for quite sometime—ever since advertising began, one might say. Which is why when a label says ‘guaranteed to grow hair in 10 days’ we don’t really trust the bottle that says it, do we? Yet, we fall for it, nine out of ten cases. Why? And this is exclusively my belief—you don’t have to agree—it’s because inside each one of us believes in the innate goodness of man—and we therefore like to believe the claim—even though it’s clear to our rational head that there’s no hope in hell, of hair growing on a balding pate, no matter how much goodness or magic you squeeze into that little bottle.

Often—and this is where advertising fails us—the intrinsic product lets us down equally badly. Something that we learnt, much to our dismay, one more time, on our recent trip to Germany.

So here we were, walking out of a stunning old cathedral (‘kirch’ in Germany—which I suspect is some Nazi mutilation of ‘church’) in Hamburg, muttering how beautiful the stained glass work was and how they managed to make the churches sooooo tall in those days, etc, etc, and just as we crossed the street, blinking our eyes to get accustomed to the sudden light, what did we see? Another church across the road!

Had the sign on it not read ‘The Church of Scientology’, we would’ve politely given it a miss—after all how many churches can you see in a day! But wait a minute, this was different—wasn’t Scientology the buzzword we wanted to know more about—the apparent non-religious way of living made so famous by Tom Cruise and scores of other celebrities? Should we or shouldn’t we approach the apparent contradiction across the street, we wondered? Did we really want to waste our precious sightseeing hours on something we could always find out more about on the Internet? Especially since we were so hungry? Fifteen minutes, we finally reasoned, could do us, our stomachs, or our schedule no great harm, and so, like the chicken, we crossed the street.

As we walked into the ‘Church’, we couldn’t help but be drawn to what seemed like a mini-exhibition of books. All by the same author. But, more about that later.

‘Can I help you’, came a sweet voice from behind the pile of books, and we looked up to see a young lady at what seemed like the ‘Reception’, smiling at us. Very, un-‘Church’ like I remember telling myself, as we approached her and told her, in as casual a tone that we could muster, ‘Er, we wanted to um, know a little more about Scientology’.

‘What exactly would you like to know?’ her eyes twinkled.
‘Well, what really is it, and how it’s different from other, er, religions,’ we countered.
The smile widened, and I bet I saw a hint of ‘Aha’ in those eyes as she hesitated and then said, ‘If you give me a minute, I’ll have somebody answer your questions. Please wait here,’ and she walked off, to reappear exactly half a minute later with a gentleman, who wore a similar smile, but didn’t quite strike me as a priest or an evangelist, I have to say.

‘How much time do you have,’ he asked, his eyes crinkling.
‘Er, 10-15 minutes,’ we offered, in terribly Indian standard terms, quite impressed by this seeming professionalism.
‘In which case, we have a short film that I recommend you watch,’ the gentleman said, in his best German English, ‘which should hopefully answer all your questions, and if not, then I’ll be available right here,’ saying which, he ushered us into a mini theatre, signaling the projectionist to start the movie.

We sank into the plush chairs thankfully, little realizing how tired sightseeing had made us. At the same time, I must admit, a myriad images crossed my mind—big bang destruction (or was it construction) of the Universe, logical science fighting with dogmatic religion in ancient Greece, wise men in flowing robes with snowy white beards, pointing heavenwards even as they held heavy stone tablets, and I don’t know why, but Tom Cruise smiling benignly from a pulpit, holding on to Katie Holmes.

Fact is, we had little idea about Scientology, other than its star-status. Was it a religion with science at its base? Was it steeped in logic? Was it modern jargon about the same values that all other religions preached? It was with quite a bit of trepidation that the wife and I turned to the screen.

And then, it happened. The label, I mean: the misleading label story. For there are no words to describe the rubbish that unfolded on the screen, for the next 25 minutes.

In true 1960s style American rhetoric, the ‘Film’ exhorted you to follow the path shown by L Ron Hubbard. About half of the film (or so it seemed) was about the man himself: He, who had studied mankind and its problems so that you may be free from those (problems), he who’d devoted his life and riches to the service of others, He, who’d founded Scientology. He, who’d shown thousands the way to live. He, who’d incidentally made (masterminded is a better word, perhaps) this wonderful film! Shocked, we saw the other half of the film trying to substantiate (laboriously, I thought) that Scientology had in fact, been accepted as a religion in the USA. And finally, in true Christian tones, exhorted the viewer to not follow the teachings of L Ron Hubbard at his own peril!

25 minutes of footage about what we thought was a religion based upon science—or something even remotely resembling the scientific temperament—and not a single phrase explaining it—this is what it is, this is what we believe in, such and such are its principles, etc. Nothing at all, that our left-brain steeped in analytical education was crying out for—not a clue, in fact. Just egomaniacal, cultish devotion to Hubbard.

Shattered and dazed, we staggered out of the mini-theatre and were immediately joined by the young German ‘evangelist’. Ever-smiling, he ushered us to a table next to the mini-exhibition of books that we’d encountered upon our entry. A trifle impateiently, I asked him to explain what exactly Scientology was, as the film hadn’t helped. As expected, he proceeded to beat around the bush, referring repeatedly to Hubbard’s books—in fact repeatedly picking up copies and leafing through them to show us that there existed a large body of literature about it. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite satisfy us, and disgustedly, I asked him to describe, in one sentence what Scientology was. I even offered him a blank piece of paper and asked him to put it down any other way he could.

I must conclude that the interaction was nothing different from any you’d expect to have with any bigoted priest, pujari or maulvi—tautological, evasive and mildly threatening, all at the same time.

We walked out of the ‘Church of Scientology’ thoroughly disillusioned about both the product and the label, and cursing that we’d not only wasted our precious sightseeing time, but had also grown hungrier than before, headed for the nearest café to assuage a different kind of hunger.

P.S. I deliberately did not wiki scientology and L Ron Hubbard until AFTER writing this entry. What I read afterwards, though (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L._Ron_Hubbard), sadly, only reaffirms my suspicions about the ‘religion’ of Scientology and its shady, controversial founder. Which of course, raises the vital question: Are Tom Cruise and John Travolta stupid? You’re welcome to arrive at your own answer, of course, but it might help to see http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0624051hubbard1.html.

P.P.S. The picture in the beginning, of course has nothing to do with Scientology. It's the tunnel under Elbe in Hamburg, built many years ago to enable vendors from across the river to reach the Fish Market to sell their perishable produce. In many ways, a symbolic antithesis of Scientology, which creates tunnel vision of a different kind.

Mid-Life Crisis: An external take

2008-03-10T00:01:00.004+05:30

Mid-life crisis happens. So we’re told. Suddenly, at a particular period in your forties, things begin to change: you begin to wonder if you’re in the right job (even profession), covet the neighbour’s wife (or any young thing that travels on two shapely legs), have too many tasks (and desires) unfulfilled, or inexplicably develop an urge to leave everything and move town. Apart from loss of hair and memory, addition of inches and kilos, and a myriad other tell-tale signs, that you’re so often reminded of, rather unpalatably by books, the media and your sons.

Most of mid-life blues, it seems are attributable to you: things happening inside you—hormonal changes, male-baldness syndrome, or plain going dotty. Understandably then, it is suggested that YOU must learn to handle it, cope with it, live it, et al. But it seems to me that not enough has been written about how mid-life crises might be a function of things happening OUTSIDE you, not INSIDE. About how other people, circumstances and events inexorably connive to push you into this unenviable life-stage.

Take work. You’ve laboured a better part of your pre-mid-life at building an organization, a business. Now, without warning, it acquires a life and pace of its own. Other people seem to run it without exactly needing you (thanks very much but why don’t you take that much needed holiday, boss?). Not entirely by design, you realize you’re redundant. Now, I ask, is that really your own doing?

Or, take home. You’ve built a house, assiduously planning and architecting the different needs and whims of each of your children: a music-room here, an amphitheatre there. You’ve bought cars—one for each person, built wealth wisely, not just for your enjoyment but also future generations’. And then, out of the blue, it dawns on you all that’s of no great use, for the kids have grown up and must leave home to seek their own fortunes in distant lands. Is that also attributable to you?

Take your wife. You introduced her to the big city—helped her setup and run her business, taught her the abc of balance sheets, nuances of negotiating, motivational, or even, driving skills. Only to realize that she’s lately become her own person, and wants more from life than just looking after home and hubby.

Or take friends or cousins. You’ve been nice, helpful and considerate all your life. You’ve lent your precious notes, told lies at home, smoked and boozed at grave personal cost and what happens? At this point, all of them are busy—too busy—with their own priorities to think about their buddies.

Not convinced yet that YOUR mid-life crisis is not entirely of YOUR making? Step out into the street and you have a biker screech to a dangerous halt inches away, only to holler, ‘Careful, uncle!’ Or ask for a cardigan in a department store only to face an incredulous look, ‘Er, whassat, granpa?’

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced: mid-life is not a crisis of your own making at all—it’s imposed upon you by externalities, mostly out of your control. And, why hasn’t this aspect been researched or written about? I suspect it’s because most marketers think this is hardly the most fashionable segment (45-60 year-olds) to investigate. Now what can you say to that attitude? Poor youngsters—little do they realize that this is already the hottest and most lucrative segment in the US, and looking at how we’re going, Indians will soon be, too!

Meanwhile, a word of advice to all fellow ‘greyers’: stop thinking your mid-life is YOUR problem: there’s enough evidence out there pointing to everyone else; in fact the whole damn world! So settle down comfortably into it and relax, there’s enough to worry about otherwise: what you’re going to wear on your neice’s birthday party, for instance!

Road Trippers

2008-01-26T17:20:00.000+05:30

It’s been almost exactly 2 months since my birthday. And what have I got to show for those 60 days? Well, nothing much, I suppose, until you count the two road trips I’ve undertaken. So what’s so great about a couple of drives you might think? Well, nothing much, unless you count the distance—some 7000 km, done across just 20 days. Which translates into, hold your breath, some 350 km every day, with New Year’s and birthday celebrations thrown in for good measure.

So, what exactly did we do that had all our friends think we were crazy? Driving daily, a distance they normally drive in a week? Well, it depends on how you look at it. You could say driving all the way from Delhi to Goa to spend the New Year’s Eve on a crowded beach is painful, and then driving a car all the way to Bombay again, to be with your son on his birthday, is foolhardy. Especially when you’ve just turned 48!

Why did we do it? Is it because at that age one starts going potty in the head, and becomes completely oblivious to good sense? Or is it because as one advances in years, one become desperate to cram in quality time, especially when it concerns one’s children?

Yes, that was my reason for attempting the first of those trips. Saattvic coming home from Oxford for his winter break and wanting to hit the sunny beaches was certainly the foundation. But far more important was the chance to be together, all four of us, in a car. I reckoned that being thrown together for so many hours would create that much more togetherness, so what if some of those would be spent bickering and shouting at each other!

And, to be sure, that’s exactly what happened. The drive to Goa was warm enough, if you don’t count the couple of the early morning hours we spent getting out beyond Jaipur. And the condition of the roads on the Golden Quadrilateral was pleasantly illuminating, to say the least. But the camaraderie within the car was payment enough for the investment in stiff backs and necks. After a long time, it felt like a great family—just like the old days—non-stop yakking, eating, cursing at truckers who wouldn’t keep to their lanes and so on.

Goa itself was fifty-fifty, at its best if you consider the discovery of Palolem in the South, and its worst, counting the crowds gathered there from all over for the Season’s revelry. Add on the traffic-jams and an unbelievably crowded Baga beach on the 31st Dec, and I’d make that thirty-seventy! The only sad point: the heart-break at leaving behind Gautmik at Bombay on the return trip.

The genesis of the other trip was somewhat different. And the decision to embark upon it almost split-second once we decided to listen to our hearts and not our heads. For an 18th birthday deserves a special present, and that’s what we decided to give Gautmik, no matter if it sounded impossible. We drove his present to Bombay, where he’s studying and took him by surprise, completely. Leaving work, and driving over a 1000 km a day, heading straight for his college in town next morning were all worth it, if only to see his face when he saw us. And spending the entire day with him made it as special for us as, we hope it was, for him.

And now, after those two marathon driving trips if you ask me whether I’d do them again, ‘when I’m sixty-four’, I would emphatically nod and say yes: as long as my wife and sons are with me in a car—any car, on any road. After all, as the family joke goes, we were all truck drivers in our previous births!

Birthday-eve blues

2007-11-10T20:37:00.000+05:30

There’re just 17 days to go. Not that I’m worried anymore about the impending date. Or, unusually thrilled, for that matter. But because 27th November is going to be my 48th birthday, it’s not a date I’m likely to overlook in a hurry.

Good time, I reckon, to introspect. Balding old men in spectacles do that, I’m told. If nothing else, it helps keep the gray matter, well, gray. Not that I’m in a mood to meet Mr Alzheimer in a hurry—no sir, I prefer Michelle Pfeiffer and so what if she doesn’t know about my existence yet—I still think I have some good years left!

So what does the scene look like, when you’ve completed at least half your allotted home runs, huffing and puffing, but still think you’re fit enough to face the pitcher?

First realisation is, you can still play ball, if you can see the damn thing after all these years. Admittedly not all that big as before, but still sizeable, you have to admit. Now, everybody knows that ball-sizes matter, so don’t confuse this with anything else—not even the size of my ego. On the other hand, if you believe that egos have a way of adding on inches with age, don’t worry, my frequent trips to the gym have ensured that I simply keep expanding my chest to keep it in.

In either case, one can still hit a mean ball and that’s a fair point at this age. But this isn’t about being able to fend for oneself—that’s still eminently do-able: at this juncture one often tends to pontificate about the larger issues in life. Should one have candy-floss if one feels like, for instance, or walk about naked when there’s no one home?

To which an Existentialist must come up with Existentialist answers, I suppose, or better still, answer with more Existentialist questions. OK, so here goes: at 48, has one really achieved what one had to? What else is left? Has one secured the lives of his progeny? Has one found real happiness? And of course, the biggest one of them all—what next?

In case you haven’t caught on yet, I fancy Existentialism. Not because I necessarily believe in it that much, but because I like the way one pronounces ‘Sartre’ or ‘Kafka’. And what exactly is my Sartorial or Kafkaesque state on the eve of my 48th birthday?

In retrospect, it’s not really that different from when I was a child: except for some very minor points, which don’t really count in the Existentialist world. For earlier on, I believed I was born to make a difference to this world—now I believe this world was born to make a difference to me; earlier I thought older people were wiser—now I think younger people are; earlier only I thought I was good-looking—now the whole world disagrees with me; earlier I thought building a house and ensuring a good life for my kids was a major milestone—now my kids don’t think so. The list is endless, but like I said, if you take a bigger, Existentialist view of things, it hardly matters.

All of which proves just one thing—that one tends to come full-circle at this point in his life, an amplification in other words, of the tautology that the earth is round. And what makes me say that?

Very simply this—that whereas earlier I was anxious and always wondering how and whether one was important in the scheme of life, now I feel exactly the same way, except for a small detail: the anxiousness is gone, and there’s a happier acceptance of the fact that one doesn’t really matter at all. Life has gone on and will go on, whether I live another 50 years or 5, in much the same way.

So the questions can wait, as can the answers, I suppose. For another year, or another 100. Meanwhile why not enjoy the 48th year of Existence like none before: after all, nothing really matters, and of course, no one’s looking!

Who’s reading your blog?

2007-07-08T16:05:00.000+05:30

People don’t read blogs. At least that’s the studied conclusion my 47-yr old brain’s reached. Blogs written by slightly, er, kinky sorts, who insist on describing how they had sex with a new partner every night just so that they might tell all the next morning and hopefully make a fortune by binding it all in a hard case if they find a gullible publisher, don’t qualify. Nor do the fancy ones created and maintained by companies and their agencies, in an assiduous attempt to ‘get to those members of their target audience who don’t watch boring TV or have never learnt to read papers’ (most of which, I’m told, have been awfully expensive failures anyway).

I refer instead, to blogs written by ‘normal’ people. So, why aren’t they read? For one, who has the time to peek into other peoples’ lives today? And frankly, who’d want to scour the Net to read through other peoples’ diaries before embarking on something of importance? After all, most people enter the virtual world with an objective: to search for information, book tickets, watch pornography et al (voyeuristic weaknesses having been dealt with above, already).

You might say this is the view of an atypical Internet user (most surveys suggest a bigger infatuation with the medium among the teens and the young). But this fact is corroborated by my 21-yr old son, who’s an avid blogger himself, and I hate to admit, the one who initiated me into this business. Fact is, he, who blogs consistently, does not get any comments on his posts either. That this makes him tear his otherwise substantial hair, or gives rise to unimagined inadequacies about his worth in the world is another matter: point is, no comments, so no reads!

Alright, big deal, I tell myself: you don’t write diaries and then throw them into cars at busy crossings like the evangelists, do you? Isn’t it a means of self-expression, a sort of catharsis, instead? This, I must admit, made eminent sense to my left-brain-by-training temperament, and I was happy to be an anonymous speck in the Existentialist Virtual World. Until last night, when someone, in the course of polite conversation, broke the bombshell of a different, till-now unimaginable possibility altogether.

There are, it seems, eavesdroppers on the Net. What else would you call people who read your blog and then, don’t leave any comments! It’s like they want to know the colour of underwear you’re wearing, but won’t acknowledge that they were peeping through the keyhole. I mean, you pay to see a movie, to read a bestseller, even to access important material from the Net. Hell, you even drop a coin into the violinist’s hat as you come out of the Underground! So, why not acknowledge the fact that you read someone’s writing by noting it was ho-hum, or simply, crap? Not just good manners, but also yeoman service to speck of dust in Existential Virtual World. Who know’s he just might stop squatting and free up some precious space?

Sigh. It’s difficult, but I can learn to live with this, I reckon. However nothing, repeat nothing, prepared me for another sort of character that’s apparently on the loose in blogosphere. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the tribe of journalists. Editors, Subs, Writers, Proof Readers, even. Innocuous, often bespectacled, respectable people otherwise, the kind you’d be nice to generally and hardly want to pick an issue with (who wants bad press?). That they routinely roamed the dark alleys of the Internet to pick up information quickly to meet deadlines or took recourse to when they were plain lazy to gather in first person, I knew for a long time. But, that they actually pick up and go through blogs randomly to suit their nefarious designs: that is to say, not only read, but analyse, dissect and then pilfer, pillage loot and plunder as they wish, is something I never imagined. And here I was, being told, quite incidentally, how ‘everyone’ in a particular magazine’s editorial office had been going through my blog that morning, (for what public good I cannot imagine), and how they immensely enjoyed themselves, and so on, and so forth. Conveniently, however, forgetting to mention whether anyone had bothered to ‘comment’ or otherwise leave trace of such visit!

Is this fair, I ask? No one said bloggers are TRP-crazy nerds who exalt in the ticking of visitor-number counters (ever seen one on a blog?), but if freedom of speech is a fundamental right to be upheld, then musn’t voyeurism, eavesdropping, or plagiarism be upheld as crime?

Think, you journalists, you purveyors of civilization, makers of culture, and harbingers of truth! And yes, DON’T bother to leave a comment.

P.S. This might be my last post on this blog, for I’m sure my wife, who’s an editor of a reputable magazine, is bound to go through it sooner or later. That will leave only one of two options: either I go ‘underground’ and choose a fresh squatting place and continue with my incantations, or I pack my bags (as I’ll probably be asked to do so) and head for a white water rafting trip down the Zanskar.

Pro Vyder vs Easy Ryder

2007-06-30T18:20:00.000+05:30

The bed’s wet. Yes, the sex was nice last evening but surely, after all these years, not all that much. It could be the wheezing generator managing to control it’s asthma, and sleeping a bit longer through a power-cut. And if I’m definitely not sweating, it could be the glass of water on the side-table, used to getting knocked around by sleepy, groping hands every night.

But that’s not the worst of this muggy night. For Enlightenment sometimes creeps through vivid dreams in precisely such conditions. And horrors, often in stereophonic fashion, trouble comes in doubles, just like one learnt in school.

So what’s that I see? That nice self-assured chap in in a perfect haircut and khakis, sporting a designer watch and smiling at me as he sips his expensive wine—surely I know him, for it’s me. Written your appraisals in office? Said your prayers? Hugged your son? Serviced the car? Got the leaky commode fixed? And yes, paid the credit card and mobile phone bills in time? I can see him cock his head to a side and amusedly ask all that in his deep, sonorous, accent-trained, almost theatrical voice.

God, it’s 3 am and we’re power-less. I don’t want to deal with this, this demon right now. Maybe in the morning, when I’m armed with my deo and laptop and blackberry and I’m on familiar territory, cocooned in my comfortable car. But right now, I want him to disappear and let me get on with my REM sleep.

But one thing’s crystal clear. He’s not the only one around. For as I blink, I see the other one. Tousled hair, unshaven with smelly armpits, in sneakers and Tshirt-jeans he must’ve borrowed from his son. Now, where’ve I seen him before? In the market, making eyes at that little 18-year old chick last Sunday, or in a Rajnikant-type B-grade Bollywood imitation? Wait a minute, isn’t he the bloke you grew up with through school and college—yeah sure, he’s changed a bit, the hair’s thinning a little, but, but it’s unmistakeably the same guy. Yes, it’s you again!

Doubles? You crazy? You didn’t even touch alcohol last evening (which perhaps is why the sex was good anyway!) I rub my eyes in disbelief, but no. there’s no denying the fact. And the likeness. Right, OK, so you’re in a double role in your dream, big deal. It’s your own, and who’s to stop you from casting yourself in multiple, not just double roles, dammit? But what’re these gentlemen trying to tell you?

That your mother didn’t tell you, but you were destined to have a Dr Jekyll Mr Hyde type split personality? Cold sweat happens. Followed quickly by the Eureka bit (there must be some connection between Eureka and water, your subconscious notes)! For these are but two facets of yourself, you realize. Mr Pro Vyder, and Mr Easy Ryder. One, the guy who looks after the world around you, and the other a happy-go-lucky bastard who cocks a snook at anything wordly.

You look closer, as Mr Vyder thunders at his double: “You good for nothing! Where were you when they were teaching you to shoulder responsibility? Ever seen how I bend backwards to cater to every whim and fancy of the entire family, even if it’s at the cost of myself? Why can’t you learn to selflessly serve those around you? And by the way, just what do you thing you’re wearing? Can’t you dress and look your age? Why don’t you shower every now and then?

You turn to see the response from Mr Ryder, and it’s not quite what you expect. For he doesn’t shout back but just smiles, runs his hands through his unkept hair, and looks Mr Vyder in the eye. Cocking his head to one side, he remarks, “But do you have fun? I do! So bugger off you bully.” And so saying he walks towards Mr Vyder, unhesitatingly, straight into him and morphs into the poor chap.

Disbelievingly I stare, as the duo, become one and slowly turn into vapour. Vapour that distributes and sits heavy in the dark humid night. Suddenly, with a start, the airconditioner hums back to life and the fan whirrs. I open my eyes, but only halfway, and feel my body with my sweaty palms—still one thankfully—no cracks—at least not on my physical self. And turn over, you might say, with the contented sigh of one who’s received Enlightenment in a Power-Cut.

Do the young think the same way we did back then?

2007-04-11T18:55:00.000+05:30

One keeps hearing about how attitudes of youngsters today are so different from what ours were, back then. My response to this usually is that it isn’t really so: young people have essentially behaved, and believed the same way: it’s just that the older generations tend to romanticize the past and suggest that they had better ideals and attitudes. But two rather unconnected remarks by two young men in their twenties, who I interviewed this week, made me rethink a bit.

One of them was looking to chuck his well-paying night shift call-centre job because he wanted to ‘settle down’; which on probing, turned out to be a condition set by his (wealthier) in-laws to be. You see, he was to marry a girl who was more qualified and earning far more than he, and when I asked him if he didn’t feel uncomfortable about this, his response was, “I don’t feel uncomfortable eating off my wife; after all, I live in 2007, and can’t be expected to have attitudes of 20 years ago.”

The other chap, who’d been forced to start working just after school because his father passed away, had this to say about his situation: “I had to make money, because all that my father left us was a house.”

Smart, I thought as I listened to these statements, even though inwardly wincing a bit. And try as I might I couldn’t help but imagine if I, or my friends could’ve ever uttered them, when we were young.

I mean I’m not a chauvinist, and sincerely believing in the equality of the sexes, have always tried to ensure that my wife took all the opportunities that came her way to become financially and emotionally independent. I would even venture to think I created some of those opportunities. And today, when she’s as, if not more, economically independent and successful than I, it still never enters my head that I could sit back and live off her earnings. Not one bit. Egoistic? Old-fashioned? Sigh—you’re right!

Things have changed, after all, haven’t they? Because I can’t remember ever, EVER, thinking what my father would ‘leave’ for me. Call it the foolhardy idealism of the Ayn Rand-seventies, or an unspoken respect for the generation that fought Partition and picked up the broken pieces of their lives all by themselves, I’ve always believed in the power of the individual. And that to me has meant that parents can only leave behind their ideals and values, not property and cash for their kids. If in the process, they ensured that children got educated in good schools (and this they often did, to the best of their ability and means), so much the better. But, that’s about it. The next generation must generate its own wealth, and make its own place in this world.

So, what’s happening here? Have the young become more ‘Western’ or “Global’ as many lament? Well, maybe, but remember, most Westerners are fiercely individualistic—after all they leave home at 16 and pay for their own higher education. And neither the average man nor the woman believes seriously that he or she can live off the earnings of the spouse.

I suspect this is more a case of getting impressed by the veneer than the solid wood inside. In a way, our kids are just reacting to newfound materialistic success that India is experiencing today. They still have to grow up and make a place for themselves in this world!

Sorry if that sounds old-fashioned and clichéd. But that’s how it is!

The looming spectre of the empty nest

2007-04-03T15:28:00.000+05:30

What do you do when it strikes you that in less than six months, the nest that you’ve toiled to build all these years is suddenly going to become, very simply, empty?

Shrug it away, sit down with head-in-hands, or smile your way to the Himalayas?
Or, probably, go through each one of those, in turn.

The euphoria of learning that your elder son has made it to Oxford dissipates rather quickly when it hits you that he will be onboard a plane in just 5 months from now. And the relief of finally escaping the terror of Higher Secondary Board exams that you’ve virtually lived with your younger son for many months, too evaporates when you realize that he’ll probably start living in college hostel in 4 months.

The first reaction is only human—that of shocking disbelief: this happens only in the movies, and that too, to 60-year-olds. Not to 40-somethings who’ve hardly had a moment of respite from their own crazy, whirlwind fight for survival, and have just built their own house, in preparation for that golden sunset which they think is many, many moons away. What will happen to their rooms for all the years they’re going to be away (you still assume, of course, that one day, they will return)? Who will you come back home for after a tiring day of work? How the hell will you pitch tent by yourselves in the hills? Who will you share the loads of wisdom you’ve so assiduously collected all these years?

In phase two of your bad dream, you whack yourself on the head and return to reality in 21st century India. In this day and time, you can hardly assume your children, even if they’re both sons, are going to stay with you till you decide it’s time to leave them with a one-way ticket to the skies. Especially when you’ve grown them up on a diet of strong individualism spiced with the idealism of chasing one’s dreams. So, the only sane option is to help them on their way, as you’ve done all these years. Which means you pitch in the search for scholarships, buying woolies (and brollies!) to face the gloomy weather in ol’Blighty, setting up a hostel room in the North Campus, et al. with a beeg smile of course: remember, never fight or cry before your children!

In the next, and hopefully the last phase of your nightmare, you imagine all the wonderful possibilities this situation can actually give rise to. And savour the thought of living through each one of it…

Scenario 1: Summer in Oxfordshire
Imagine the thought of not having to spend unbearable summers in dusty Delhi or grimy Gurgaon. But instead, joining your son in the pleasant, clean environs of the English countryside. In-haaaale, hold, relax, and then ex-hale slowly…it’s already working wonders for your health. Really, the possibilities are immense: you don’t have to pine for the dark, frothy Guinness anymore, or catch up with The Premier League only on ESPN. So what if you you’ll have to crowd in with your son in his single room, eat microwaved packets of Bangladeshi food, travel mainly in the Tube, sigh at the spiraling prices when you visit Oxford Street, or even, catch hay fever in the process? You will, after all, be united as a family, and family, as we all know, is the biggest thing that man invented after the spear.

Scenario 2: Roaming the North Campus, again
Winter, then, can be a glorious, sunny affair spent with your younger son. Binging on chaat and chola bhatura in Kamla Nagar occasionally, bringing him home every other weekend, talking about his future and his love interests, can all be very supportive for yo ur son, and can probably add years to your life too! As can brisk, late evening walks taken with him, observing how colleges have hardly changed since the times you stalked the campus as a student.

Scenario 3: Gazing into the sunset, together
Since your children merely come through you in a Gibranesque way, it’s wise after all, to let go of them, at least in spirit. And think once again about the two of you—after all you did get married because you wanted to spend the rest of your life together! Now, you can drive off into the hills without the hassle of packing enough baby food and diapers, visit all the relatives and friends you neglected all these years, not cook dinner every evening, hold hands anywhere in that huge house, even, make love in every room, and no one will ever care. How wonderful!

Scenario 4: Alone again, naturally
In a somewhat Gilbert O’Sullivan way, you realize that after all you must let go of all attachments and become one with nature again. But before you swing the proverbial last pack on your back as you head into sanyas, you decide to enroll for a PhD (in metaphysics, probably). Somehow, do all the things you wanted to but cruel life did not let you. The exhilaration of being able to get back into academia, the thrill of bungee-jumping, skiing in the Alps, scuba-diving off the Maldives, or a leisurely walk in the lazy Mediterranean, all appear rather rosy. As does the final picture of you building yourself a hut in the hills, next to a stream, living off fruita and fresh air.

But alas, the extended-REM-sleep, final phase of your glorious dream punctures and mutilates it in a totally real yet surreal fashion. It’s when you wake up with a start and remember your dream stark vividly—then realize you’re not awake at all, but still in your nightmare, or somewhere in between. It’s in this twilight zone between reality and fantasy; you realize you’re destined to live. And you must.

Which is when you pull the sheet over your face hoping to get some extra winks of sleep before you wake up. Even as you mentally turn over all the looming crises in the day ahead, and your midlife in general that you still have to face, much before those 6 months are over!

Have you ever?

2007-03-10T18:55:00.000+05:30

Have you ever…

Let a ladybird climb onto your finger…
Slid an icecube down your shirt…
Licked the chalk on the wall…
Driven to nowhere in particular…
Boogied with your image in the mirror …
Wanted to be kissed under a waterfall…
Tried to get drunk without managing…
Choked on an emotion you never thought you were capable of?

Boy, am I glad I have, and still want to!

Ok, what then, are you good for, buster?

2007-03-08T18:03:00.000+05:30

“Why the hell can’t you understand a simple thing?” “Why are you repeating yourself?” “Sure you also studied the same course at college, but don’t you realize things were so different back then?” “Oh God, why must I face this every evening at home?”

Ever heard that (or similar quips) from your grown up sons? If this seems familiar, welcome to the Club! If, on the other hand, you’ve been spared such epithets so far, then you must have exceptionally polite sons (notice I’m gender-specific here, in the desperate hope that daughters might be a little more considerate, but that’s something I’ll sadly, never be able to verify as I have only sons). Or, you’re probably lying. In the vain hope that your position as ‘head’ of the family is still intact and things will get better.

What IS your position at home, now that you’re 45-plus, buster? Ever wondered? I often do, and in 9 cases out of 10, reach the conclusion that, as you grow older, your relevance to family, and to society in general, begins to diminish.

Overtly cynical? Maybe, maybe not! But really, what’s happening here? Is it that you’re getting senile? Is it just a case of the nasty generation-gap? Or, could he just be, hell, right?

So, let’s deal with the preliminaries first. Face it, your sons can look after their basic needs fine without you (probably better): you no longer have to wake them up, bathe them, pack them off to school, or feed them. And no, you don’t take them on picnics anymore, as they have infinitely better company available. Holidays together are becoming a rarity, as each has his calendar worked out independently. You don’t take them to the movies (they do, occasionally, when they’re feeling kind). You can’t shop for them, as their sizes change ever so often you can barely keep track—in any case they’re hardly ever likely to appreciate what you bought (this shirt is so, um sixties!), if you did manage to make that mistake.

But then, you think, we’re now like friends, so our er, engagement must exist on a HIGHER plane, right. Wrong! Tried asking your son how his day was at college? Or when or where or even IF he’s going to apply to that College in the US? Don’t even think of bringing up life-changing questions like, “Um, er, what exactly do you want to do in life”, or “what’s the name of that girl you like?”

“Come to think of it, boys do need space of their own,” you rationalize to yourself, thinking hard about what conversation to make at the dinner-table. So just when you decide to keep your mouth shut, up pops the innocuous question, “Can I take the big car when I go for rehearsals?” And quietly, you decide to pour yourself another drink…

Our elders (bless them), never tired of telling us we shouldn’t have any expectations from anyone, and, I suppose that included kids. So, imagining that your kids will help manage the house, or better, contribute in your work is of course, OUT of the question. But, is it too much to expect your son to drive home safely well past midnight after his rehearsal, night after night? I’m not saying you ought to worry if he’s getting drunk, or doing drugs or that sort of thing (after all, you must have FAITH in the big boy). But what if you get nervous thinking about how he must be tired and sleepy and has to plough through the insane traffic on the highway at that hour? What’re you supposed to do – stay up and watch stupid telly until then or sleep peacefully, instead?

Never mind, it’s the burden of being a dad, you console yourself. And when you hurry downstairs, relieved, to open the door when he DOES turn up and tell him it’s about time, don’t be surprised if all you get is ‘What’s wrong with you dad; I told you to go to sleep!”

About this blog

2007-03-07T05:00:00.000+05:30

This is a blog about growing up. “Growing up,” did someone groan? For all those who dread such realities, particularly from among an age group in their teens and 20’s that disdains such and other um, realities, let me clarify.

This is about a different sort of growing up. A ‘second’ growing up, if you wish. The transition into middle age, or ‘menopause,’ as the wise men label it. So all you youngsters, here’s something you can gladly skip, for this is for your parents – the lot that you claim refuses to grow up!

Who then, is this for? If you’ve started lingering that much longer at your image in the mirror, squinting at the receding hairline, or tried to puff up your chest in the hope that it would somehow help you fit into that 34 (worse, 32) waist-size handwashed-jeans, read on. Or if you’ve started encountering memory-loss, even if for a moment, or facing grown-up kids who talk back to you at the dinner table, or come to terms with the fact that Mallika Sherawat or Angelina Jolie can never be yours, then this one's for you.

Read on, identify, pontificate, smile. Laugh out loud, if you wish. At me, at the writing, or inwardly, half at yourself. As they say, ‘Whate-ver,’ but don’t give up, for there’s still a lot to learn, many discoveries to be made (mostly about yourself!), some more growing up to do…

Cheers!