To the government of the greatest democracy on Earth,

Dear Sir,

Sitting many many miles away from home, and in a country that does not lay to as much claim to democracy, as you do, yet provides it the truest sense of the word, I am one of the few Indians privileged to read what I have written in this blog. Elsewhere, back home, in the place that I'm afraid I belong to, they say, you have blocked all blogs, because they spawn hatred and brew violence. They say, you yourself are not so sure why you have done it, but it seemed like a step to take to counter the resentment growing against you, as you have repeatedly failed to protect us from being blown up every other Sunday. What next? Are you going to block emails, then the Internet, telephones? Are you going to stop people from talking because that is also a medium of spreading violence? Are we going to use silence to isolate criminals and non criminals alike?

Do you even know why people blog? There are those among us, who tell the world the little things that happen to our lives that nobody would care to listen to. We pen it down here, because we can come back here and read it again and again. After a day of work, I read what my friends have written in their blogs and when I can understand that they are going through, I know that no matter how far we are from each other, we have connected. So many of us assume names and tell the world tiny things about our everyday lives that we would shy away from talking about. This is our private diary in a very public domain. This is where we bare our souls without any inhibitions!

If some people use this medium to spread violence, you've gotto stop those people, not the medium. Long back, a friend of mine used to say, the treatment of dandruff is not to cut off all the hair. I still remember how we used to laugh whenever he said that, but today I realise the truth of his words. Do you think, stopping blogs is going to stop them from finding other means of communication? What next are you going to ban? Where will you stop?


True, they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. But how do you expect to conquer the pen if you cannot conquer the sword? If you wish the curb the voice of the nation, remember you are chocking your ownself and creating terrorists within. Meanwhile, the world keeps laughing at you.......

River of Dreams

There goes my hero

Edit #1
World Cup's over now and so is Zidane's career. It hurts that it ended in such a terrible mess. A great hero like Zidane could not even be present at the medal giving ceremony, because of this. Zidane, you will nevertheless be held in our highest esteem always and you shall still be counted as one of the greatest ones that ever kicked a soccer ball

Solstice

And all who heard should see her there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
Her flashing eyes, her floating hair !
Weave a circle round her thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,

For today Anwesha Chatterjee is going to cook today!!!!!!

Weird huh?

I thought it was weird enough that Aparna would want me to write the 6 weirdest things about myself. Do I need to prove that I am weird? Isn’t this blog proof enough? Being old –fashioned, I cannot say No to a friend, and so here goes the public confession, that she is demanding:

1. I don’t lose my temper ever. Its weird, it’s crazy and I cannot figure out how it happens. It frightens me most of the time, but its true, I NEVER lose my temper. When I get seriously angry with someone, I just stop talking to them. Then I cool down after sometime (and it usually happens pretty soon). But I just do not let out any steam.


2. Unless I am reminded of it, I do not feel hungry. I can go on for days without food (never tried it though) and I have no favourite food. I eat almost everything and like almost nothing.


3. I forget names of people very easily, I mix them up and I confuse them and finally, I resign by giving them nicknames, but I never forget their faces. The faces come back to haunt me all the time, accusing me of forgetting the names. I suppose I must be suffering from the absent-minded professor syndrome.


4. I don’t change myself with time. I think I got stuck in a time-wrap when I was 15 years old. I still think feel and behave like a 15 year old and cannot alter my opinions.


5. I am lazy and I go to sleep early and wake up late, but when it comes to sprucing me up with the latest fiction, I can stay up all night and wake up at the first call of the alarm at 3 in the morning. Apart from that, nothing else would keep me awake.


6. I can start smiling for no apparent reason and keep smiling and go on and on and on. It’s not a loud boorish laughter, but just a smile that refuses to leave me. Weird huh?

And now, it is my pleasure to tag my fellow bloggers. Your punishment for taking time to read this post is to write 6 of the weirdest things about yourself (oh! You don’t need to pretend, if you’re my friend, you gotta be weird in more than 6 ways alone). Here goes the death row list:

1. Stilettoes
2. Akash Sen
3. First Rain
4. Frog in the salad
5. Aniruddha ( I know you are reading this)
6. Amrita
7. Lal
8. Reprobate ( you have been tagged already – So I guess unless you want to expand your list, you are excused from this one)
   

Hee hee hee.....enjoy!

Goodbye SN

SN died last night and he was only 26 years old. This is the first time that somebody I know has died at such a young age. There was no accident, no suicide, no nothing. Just a mild heart attack because of gastroenteritis and he passed away.

We are all in a state of shock out here. SN died fourteen thousand miles away from home, away from his parents and loved ones. Which is a terrible thing, because SN was a rather lovable guy. He was a brilliant student, a very sharp quizzer, and a very jovial fellow. We loved talking to him, because he was always so helpful and cheerful. What is really appalling is that he was the most health conscious person around and he was seen as an example of physical fitness. He lived life on the fast lane, walked fast, drove his car really fast and his brain whirled round the globe with solutions faster than most people.

SN, you left us and you are probably smiling in heaven now, because that's what great people like you deserve, while down below, we will all mourn your irreparable loss.

The football fever

The whole world seems to be going bonkers on world cup football. People have stopped working night shifts and have demanded to be shown matches. Most people are leaving early to catch their favourite matches. We are also playing something called phantom football in office. I never cared much about football myself, not atleast after I broke B’s foot in a foul on terrible day in monsoon. I was a burly ruddy girl, with a predisposition towards football and cycling. There weren’t enough guys to make up a 22 member team, and there were fewer girls – so we played in a mixed team. Our teams changed in all possible permutations everyday. That fateful day B – possibly our best player was in the opposition and as a terrible footballer, but a determined defender my keywords were, ’don’t let the ball get past you’. Sadly B was playing his best game and as he moved towards our goal post, I missed the ball and kicked his foot instead…….

I still don’t know what stopped them from throwing me out of the team. Some of them tell me, that B spoke out on my behalf. He was two years older and quite fond of me. But my guilty conscience would not let me play anymore. Like a true blue professional, I hung up my boots while in my prime and took to cycling alone along the long winding roads in our campus. Those were the days of Itlalia’90. I had eyes only for Jeurgen Klinsmann. I wonder if Ma has thrown away the scrap book that had around 90 pictures of Klinsmann. I am told he is now coaching Germany and if I do watch any matches this time, it would only be to catch a glimpse of Klinsmann.

Meanwhile, I am playing football with my life now. I am now living in a different country and a different continent. Some people have called it seemingly paradise, I agree with seemingly. I seem to be playing football with my sleeping hours. The midfield mind says its midnight, attack the sleep nerves, the body defends by saying, it’s daytime in India. Here the sun does not set before 9p.m. putting all my time management into a quandary. I am learning for the first time, how to cook Indian food, in a foreign country from a group of men, who hitherto had commanded merely respect from me. They now have my whole-hearted admiration. Learning to count the cents and save the dollars. Learning that phone calls are free and Internet access is as easily available as pollution in India. Learning that if you do not know how to drive a car, you are doomed to lead your life dependent on others. Learning that there is no such thing as the local grocery wala or the mishtir dokaan. I am learning that restaurants are expensive and that I am an object of curiosity here because of the colour of my skin and my salwar kameez – two things that I always took for granted.

The neon lights at night blind my eyes. Sometimes, it’s an escape from the homesickness and the depression that has begun to set in. Living fourteen thousand miles away from home is not always the easiest thing to do. But some people have helped to ease the pain. I do not know how to express my heartfelt thanks to all of my friends, who have mailed, called, scrapped and have in everyway let me know that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Thank you!!! I am indeed touched.

A Thousand Words

Holy Cow!

Ainul - my little friend

Grand Ma obviously enjoying this trip

22nd floor: The Bong

Hilarious!
Devastatingly funny!!
I am still rolling with laughter!!!
Please read the following link....
22nd floor: The Bong

The meaning of life, the universe and everything

I formally declare my sincerest and most humble respect, admiration and obeisance to all those superlative humanoids (dead or alive, past, present and future included) who have mastered the art of cutting potatoes into perfect cubes of the same size. I have been at it for quite a few years now and this morning as I tried it for the zillionth time, I knew that some are born to cut potatoes, some acquire it and some have potatoes thrown at them.

I have been reading Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for the past couple of weeks and the absolute nonsense of it has shocked me to the last bone marrow. Are we Earthlings, as the author claims a part of a huge organic computer commissioned by rats, which are actually the most intelligent race in the Universe?

The author also claims that the art of flying consists of two parts: the first easy one, which is to fall, and the second seriously tough one, which is to miss the ground. Since I have already proven my expertise in the first one, methinks a good way to gain lead over fellow fliers would be to start from the second part.

Further, the author claims that forty-two is the answer to the meaning of the life, the universe and everything. This was the result obtained after a million years of processing done by the greatest computer in the Galaxy (it wasn’t an Earth computer ofcourse) and the answer was so baffling, that nobody knew what the question was. Since death is the reverse of life and the answer lies hidden in the question, I have decided to work on my little question. Describe in 42 different ways, means to assassinate Anwesha Chatterjee.

Now, for reasons unknown to me, this has been bothering me for quite sometime. I surely know that I am not yet famous enough (never stop hoping) to merit an assassination and that murder would fit the bill more, but what if somebody really wanted to kill me.

#1. Easy target: Every morning at a known time, I set out of home. Though the driver drops me to a vantage point, I still have to walk a small distance along the walls of a factory. Somebody/anybody could hide himself in the factory terrace at that time (for a whole 5 minutes I am to be found walking alone) and take a long careful aim. Bang! Crash! Boom and I am gone. Should our predator miss his target, he (I am extremely friendly with women and since the female of the species is deadlier than the male, I make it a point to maintain good relations with them. So the killer’s gotta be male) he could hire an assassin and repeat the exercise in the evening.

#2. When I sit in the bus at a fixed time every morning, my unknown enemy could take another bus (state buses are difficult to highjack I think, but the same cannot be said about private buses) and in classic Abhishekh Bachchan - Yuva style (Yes, stilleto, I agree he is HOT) shoot me. The problem there would be that a lot of witnesses could be found, and since I am sure no son of a minister is going to shoot me, so chances of witnesses turning hostile are highly improbable.

#3. A still more interesting way to kill me would be to wait till I went to the open-air smoking lounge in office. Now, I do not smoke and but our colleagues who do, are gracious enough to allow non-smokers get a breathe of fresh air in the lounge overlooking a lake. The lake has small islands with straw parasols and coconut trees. Our hired assassin could wait and watch in one of those islands, till I come out for a break from work and give me a permanent break.

Thirty-nine far more innovative ways to get myself assassinated were lost along with a little red diary somewhere in the galaxy during leak in a time wrap. I have decided to figure that it is an SEP (Somebody Else’s Problem)

The Nobel Bong and my Internet connection

Pathetic is a rather polite way to describe my Internet connection at home. An ugly-embarrassing-deranged-moody-blot on a landscape full of broadband and baseband and DSL ISPs maybe halfway close to the truth. For the past six months, I have been make doing with a dialup connection that threatens to sleep off after 30 seconds of brilliant byte transfer. I have been reduced to a state I used to be in school 10 minutes before an exam was about to start. "Oh God, may whatever I study in the last ten minutes come in the paper". Crossing my fingers, I watch with bated breadth as my mailbox opens halfway through and then suddenly goes silent. Instant Messaging is about getting disconnected after every two minutes and I have now become butt of jokes among my friends. "AC-DC" they call me.

So, I have been toying with the idea of a broadband connection. Now the problem with that is that the parents are so disillusioned with technology that they do not understand how a thicker cable can be a panacea to my miseries. When I convinced them a year ago that a new computer would help the Internet connection get better, they had listened. Now, I'm afraid, its no use crying 'Wolf! Wolf!" Blogging is now getting increasingly difficult, but I refuse to submit meekly.

Among other things, 9th of May was Robindro Jayanti - birthday of Rabindranath Tagore - inarguably the greatest poet of Bengal and the first Nobel Laureate of Asia. Since we are predisposed to ignore a person until he attains international recognition, Robindronath has made it big while there are quite a few extremely talented and accomplished writers who have languished in the background. For one, I do think Munshi Premchand is one of those authors who should have been awarded a Nobel. Limiting myself to Bengali authors only, Tarashakar Bandopadhaya, Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhaya, Sarat Chandra Chattopadhaya (my clan! ha ha) Bankim Chandra Chatterjee (more of my clan hee hee hee) are authors whose birthdays we never celebrate. On 9th May, our canteen hosted a photograph of Tagore, garlanded with due respect and played some morbid and depressing Tagore music. In the afternoon, we sang songs of Tagore (yes, yes, I was one among those who sang and busted the microphones!) and some people danced to his songs (no no, I was not among those thankfully - can't damage a newly constructed auditorium).

I was left wondering. They usually award the Nobel to authors who have written (to put it the way I perceive it) about poverty, misery, death and the triumph of man's will against all odds. The authors I mentioned above have done that rather successfully, and unlike other less successful writers, have made interesting reading at the same time. Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in particular has gone the further distance by empowering women in his novels. In most of his stories, women play the chief role and pull a family out of tragic circumstances even while sacrificing their own happiness. This he wrote during early 20th century when women's liberation was unheard of and the general plight of women was miserable. So, why were these people deprived of the Nobel Prize?

I suppose it’s too late to think about it, because unlike the Param Veer Chakra they never award the Nobel posthumously. But it is also an indicator why great writers like Vikram Seth, Amitava Ghosh, Upamanyu Chatterjee, Arundhati Roy, Jhumpa Lahiri have elected to write in English and not in their mother tongue. Somewhere down the line, we seem to have got something horribly wrong. When and how did it happen?

Paradise Lost

Annual appraisal over.

Over the past one week, I have learnt that:

I do not seek solutions proactively
When I get stuck with a problem I ask for help!

I am irresponsible, because I do not claim ownership of mission critical tasks.
I usually prefer to go home rather than spend all night doing something that I know needs a fresh mind and eight hours of sound sleep

I have been branded as lazy because I do not seem to take interest in innovation and problem solving activities with the adequate amount of enthusiasm.
When there’s nothing to do, I blog and google

My communication skills will do for the moment (read: I talk too much) but I must hone them so that in the future I can handle external and internal communication more effectively (read: I must learn to talk a lot, but say little)

Additionally, I do not baseline any strategies while approaching a resolution of a defect, so I am not much of a planner.
Okay okay, I admit. As a result of inadequate planning, I did not prepare a progress report of my activities. I just went ahead and finished it; well before the deadline

I am okay at the documentation part of business
Looks like somebody from the enemy team read my blog and was thankful that I do not put that stuff in my reports

My idle time is not utilized appropriately
If I did something why would it be called idle time???

And I must make it a practice to share and transfer knowledge with seniors, juniors and peers.
What??? Make them realize that I know nothing????????

The day I chickened out

Exactly a year ago on this day, I cooked chicken for the first time! Ma had been away from home for a month, Dad was in office, the maid had been disposed off, it was a weekend and my hands were itching to hold Ma's new non stick copper bottomed wok in her absence. The setting was perfect. I had never cooked chicken, but S my star cook friend who knows something about everything assured me that she was going to remain on call for as long as it took me to get the thing done.

I wasn't taking any chances. Since, it was my first time; I decided not to experiment much. Armed with S's recipe and my mother's cook book and another chicken preparation they taught on the Sunday afternoon cookery show, I thought I was on my way to churning out a heady concoction. True to her word, S guided me through the entire process over the phone. She was out shopping that day and I wonder how she managed to tell exactly how much onion I was to use amidst deciding on the right colour for her curtain rods.

The result was something that definitely looked like some kind of meat, smelt of over fried oil (we forgot the garam masala part) and tasted like something distinctly non vegetarian. The similarities ended there. We digested my expectations and the food with loads of cold water. Exactly a year ago, I thought that it was mighty decent of Dad to eat all that with a smile and without protest. Exactly a year ago it was his birthday.

But I can’t help falling…..

Like all kids, I knew that life was about ups and downs and knee jerking situations. I learnt to walk by stumbling, I fell down the first time I rode a cycle, I crashed into hard surface, not even reaching sand on my first attempt at long jump and when I tried diving into the pool, somebody pushed me from behind. Some of us realize how unpleasant it is to keep falling all the time and grow out of it. Not me. I fell in love with the idea of falling down.

My affair with falling down at all the wrong places started at the age of fourteen. We were coming back from a school trip to Gangtok and I was doing to best to pull my extremely heavy stuffed-with-smuggled-goods suitcase down the stairs of Siliguri station with as much pomp and grandeur as my misguided teenaged air-headed self would allow. I looked straight into the air instead of looking below me, and with a calm and self-assured expression pulled the case behind me when all of a sudden I missed a step and instead of gliding gracefully down the steps, I was rolling down, my suitcase following me at an equally gritty pace. We ended at the landing; my skirt had flown up to my face (yes yes…aah cruelty! We had to wear our uniform during the journey), my knees were bruised and my vanity had been crushed. I vaguely remember my teachers looking at me alarmingly and asking me whether I was all right, but I distinctly remember a couple of really cute guys in the station laughing at me. (May their tribe increase but may their children be cursed with polio!)

The next time this happened was after my tenth standard board exams. Out of sheer lack of activity, we decided to host a fashion show in our compound and out of sheer excess of enthusiasm, I decided to walk the ramp. I know what you are thinking, but no I did not slip and fall down on the day of the show. It happened much earlier. We used to have our rehearsals in the terrace and one day I was late for practice and I was rushing up the stairs, when I stumbled and slipped. I never recovered to walk the ramp on that occasion.

If you thought that stairs were my only nemesis, then we both think alike and we are both mistaken. A few years ago, I jumped off a running bus and fell. A few months ago, I slipped and fell on the railway track when the approaching train was just a hundred meters away. In both times, I hurt myself badly enough to stay at home for a month under complete bed rest.

So why am I writing this? Because, I hate being at home on weekends. Every Sunday now, and its become a habit, I have to slide on the floor of the living room, just after our careless maid has mopped it (it’s a different matter altogether that her idea of mopping a floor is to gently wet it with a generous coat of water) and slip and fall. It’s Sunday today and ouch! My knee hurts like hell.

Lets make things bitter

She ( the little one ofcourse) is now old enough to eat rice. So, the rest of us celebrated her 'annopraashon' yesterday. I love treats and this one was a real treat what with this little red riding hood occupying the centre stage!

Now unlike a lot of people, I like neem, and bitter gourd (karela) and I love eating all kinds of preparations of 'teto' - item numero uno of the Bong lunch. Tradional Bong lunch always starts with a preparation of vegetables with a bitter taste like karela, neem etc. This translates into the delectable 'shukto' - made of bitter gourd, brinjal, raw bananas, potato etc or 'neem beguni'- fried neem and brinjals. The reason why I am so fond of 'teto' is that my grandad always keeps saying that it purifies the blood system and keeps disease away and I follow grandad like religion. But my grandad also introduced me to the taste of something that is the polar opposite of the 'teto'. In Delhi winters, we attended wedding parties where we savoured the finest gulab jamuns known to mankind. Now my theory is that if you add vanilla ice-cream to piping hot gulab jamuns, it is the same as feeding on honey dew and drinking the milk of paradise. So, yesterday, when they repeated the fare in the hot month of April, i pretended that the AC was making enough cold air to make me feel like winter and gorged on these.

Bon Apetit!

Benevolence personified.

Yesterday was a rather chocolaty day for me. I ran into a senior from school after a very long time and she pulled out a gigantic bar of chocolate from her bag just for me!!! From now onwards, Arpita is going to top my list of seniors-i-want-to-meet-when-i-am-hungry. But thinking again, she isn't the only one. If Snigdha had not gone off to the US, no one could have dethroned her from the coveted title.

On a rainy afternoon, when we had got drenched, her first thought was to rush to the fast food outlet shop for a treat of hot chicken rolls and coffee. My apparent discomfiture in wet clothes vanished after the first bite into the roll. Another day, we had got up on an empty bus. Like all private buses, this one was waiting to fill enough human beings in it, till it would burst its seams. She treated me to hot chips. And ice-cream on yet another hot summer boring afternoon when we did not feel like doing anything. Which kindof makes me realize that seniors are actually nice people provided you don't meet them the first time. They will advise you without nagging you, and when they scold you, you find yourself grinning. When you are out with a senior, they will not let you pay for the bus tickets and they will most certainly make you sit, if there is only one seat left in the bus.

In my first post on this blog I had mentioned that I was the only person in my class who had never been ragged. At that time, I thought I was lucky to get away, but now I do have a twang of regret. God knows how many more benevolent seniors I would have met and how many generous souls I would have discovered had I not executed the perfect escape plan during the ragging session. Some day I shall blog about the escape.......

I have had my share of bad hair days, but today is my very-bad-hair-day.

Adjacent strands of my hair have developed opposite polarity and are repelling each other with a magnetic force hitherto unknown to mankind.

My comb is having an affair with static electricity, so using it is making things worse.

Worse still I am going to get home at 10pm, so any last hopes of getting that shampoo and shower have been squashed.

Je ne sais pas le français

I realised yesterday for yet another time that I cannot cheat in exams. It is shameful and has dealt a great blow to my self esteem. I always knew that I was a tough cookie and would never chicken out in demanding situations, but yesterday was a repetition of the one fear that has been gnawing at my soul since my tenth standard boards.

We had been attending these classes in French for the past six weeks. It started off as fun at first. M and I were showing off our newly acquired knowledge of a foreign language to the children of lesser Gods in our project. Homework was no sweat, coz I discovered my best friends in Stilettoes and Google language tools . Classes were great because, most people yawned through them and we were always giggling over the pronunciations.

I learnt to spell my name A-N-W-E-S-H-A the same way, but pronounce it - A (as in 'a' bird)-En- Dubl Vey- A (As the first letter in the English alphabet) - Ess - Aash - A (as in 'a' bird)

Confusing huh? You bet it was. I hate getting confused, but I persevered. And this was before they started teaching us Verbs (affinitive?) That's when we got totally muddled up regarding the first persons and third persons, and present tenses and future tenses and what not. I still lingered. When they drowned us in questions and negations I threw the towel and refused to look into the books anymore.

Yesterday, we had our exams. I extracted a promise from M that she would let me look in to her answer sheet. Now M is one of the most sincere students I have come across. She takes to books with a missionary zeal. Nothing can deter her from scoring the perfect 10 in whatever she chooses to do. I know she did not find French a cakewalk, but she persisted long after I gave up.

We took our seats. The French looked like Hebrew to me. I tried to make English out of it, it got worse. Out of desperation I looked at M and found her looking at me. M was carrying all her notes, and I had forgotten to get them, Despite the obvious advantage, she chose to peep into my answer sheet and I had not the courage to ask her a single answer. This went on for twenty minutes, when I realised that I could no longer take the strain. I managed to scribble something and left the paper, M and the French classes behind me.

M came out ten minutes later. She had copied all my answers and then tallied them with the notes and corrected whatever was wrong. Effectively, even before submitting her paper, not only did she know how much she was going to score, she knew for a fact how much I was going to score!!!!!

This French thing is behind me now. I treat it as a bad dream on a hot, power-cutted, mosquito-infested, night on a wooden bed full of nails and a mouse bitten mattress. Suffice to say that I dreamt last night that M had topped the exam and that she was handing our answer sheets and she knew everybody's score even without looking into the paper.

Sigh! La vie est comme celle!

Edit #1 : I passed the French exams (for those who won't care to read the comments or comment the comments) Since I have already given a thank you speech in advance, I do not think there is any need to kill fellow bloggers with another one. But grave injustice would be commited if Maxime is not thanked for making sure that I was always on my toes while asking him any doubts. Thanks Maxime for all the help! We'll miss you, if we go for the advanced course!

Confessions of a dangerous mind - III

Alone in the cell, I sat back and sighed! Six years ago I began an extraordinary journey in the world of stolen antiques and today whatever I was, was because of Pierre. Vincent our butler called him “Master” and loved him like a Master. I called him Pierre but loved him like the father I never met. His associates feared him, but loved him. Pierre- the Master was respected for his meticulous planning and perfect implementation. His reflexes never slackened and his mind never gathered rust.

My thoughts wandered off again. Twice I had been caught, but Pierre came to my rescue each time. This was the longest I had ever spent in prison. This time things looked different. This time perhaps, I would have to plan my own escape, without Pierre, without anybody. I started thinking again and after five hours I still had not come up with any idea. The prison was an impregnable fortress. Searchlights scanned the length of the territory and black hounds roaming the premises were let loose at the slightest sound of alarm. The barbed wires were electrically charged and nobody ever left this place without being searched. No human habitat could be found within two miles of the place. Amidst all this, I was shunted in an underground dungeon, with a small window that was snow-laden, where sunlight seldom found a chance to enter. I looked at the snow again and again and suddenly it stuck me!

I looked at the criss-crossed bars in the window and sure enough there were small pores at regular intervals along the grid. In cold climates, pipes often burst when water froze into ice. The pores were there to prevent water from accumulating in the pipes. I looked at the pores and found my escape route. For the next three days, I tore threads from my sleeping bag and tightly wound the grid, leaving only a pore at the top. For three days, I did not drink water given to me during lunch. Instead I poured the water into the grid, crossed my fingers and waited. On the third day my job was done. Outside, night was approaching and temperatures were falling. Then close to midnight, the water froze in the bars, turned into ice and expanded in volume. The ice pushed against the bars and suddenly with a huge explosion, the bars burst and the window cracked open.

I had no time to waste. Even though, I was in an underground cell, I was sure the noise would have been heard somewhere. I pushed myself against the window, which was quite weak by now and gave way. Pulling myself up, I stumbled into a tunnel that went to the left and right. Both sides were dark and I did not know where to go. I picked up a pebble nearby and threw it to the left. It did not go very far. Then I threw another pebble to the right. This time it carried to a distance. So the wind was blowing from the left side of the tunnel. I followed the left side and sure enough, found myself looking at streaming water, gushing all over. I dived into the water and upon rising found myself in the middle of a wide water-body. I realized that I had accidentally discovered the sewer line and it emptied into a river. Looking around me, I realized that I would have to make my escape in sub-zero temperatures. They had heard the explosion and the hounds were being let loose, I was shivering and my footprints would leave a permanent mark in the snow. I decided to take the warmer water route.

I do not know for how long I swam, but that night all of Siberia would be searched for me and I did not want to take any chances. Pulling myself to the bank, I saw an old fortress with lights. I made a cautious approach lest that it should turn out to be another government head quarter. There were no guards and so I knocked at the door. It was answered by a nun.

The sisters of the order of St.Dmitri are forbidden from any contact with men. They are not permitted to talk to anyone from the outside world and at the end of the day; they whip themselves with lashes in penitence. They lead a Spartan existence. Though stoic they may be heartless they are not. When a young, virile male of twenty-four years collapsed at their entrance door that cold winter evening, they were at a loss. After much consultation, they carried him to a room, gave him a bed and let him lay there. Meanwhile, the police looked everywhere for the escaped prisoner, but when they came to the convent, they passed it.

I stepped out next morning from the convent and called up Vincent. Vincent informed me that Pierre had been missing for the past three weeks, looking for a way to free me. I told Vincent an address where I could be found in Moscow, and asked him to inform Pierre. Unknown to me, our phone at home was being tapped by the police. So, when I hitched a wagon and reached Moscow, the police was waiting for me. I went into the house and found Pierre in deep conversation with his contacts. They were still looking for a way to get me out of prison. I still remember the look of astonishment mixed with joy on his face, as he saw me free.

Suddenly Interpol barged into the room and asked us to surrender. Pierre pulled his gun and gunshots were heard all over the place. I lost no time, to escape from the place. From there I hitched my way back home to Rio, informing nobody and taking no risks. Once in Rio, the only thing left for me to do was to wait for Pierre. There was no fear from the police in our homeland, because Pierre always made sure that we did not undertake any assignments in Brazil.

A month later, I received the news of Pierre’s death. It took three men to shoot him six times in the chest. We never recovered his body, so we held a memorial service for him. It was a gloomy Wednesday morning and I was coming back home from the service, wondering what the future held in store for me. The door bell rang and Vincent answered it. “A visitor for you Master”, he said. “Coming”, said I.

Concluded.

Confessions of a dangerous mind - II

Kedah, northwestern Malaysia currently has a Muslim majority population. But until the 9th Kedah Maharaja Derbar Raja converted to Islam and changed his name to Sultan Muzaffar Shah in the 10th century, the Bujang Valley in Kedah was a prominent Hindu-Buddhist kingdom. The Maharaja aiming to protect his nation from the onslaught of Portuguese and British attacks, converted to Islam so as to forge a friendship with the Sultan of Malay.

As an act of penitence before his conversion, the Maharaja had constructed a secret underground Buddhist temple south west of Pengkalan Bayang Merbok. The temple had a completely plebian façade and was uncovered during the earth-quake in the 14th century. Only a four foot plaster of Paris Buddha in an old dilapidated sanctum was found. It was in the 17th century that archeologists discovered that the plaster of Paris covered a solid gold four foot monolith of Buddha completely adorned with diamonds, rubies and sapphire. The Buddha was then moved to the Bujang Valley Archaeological Museum where it is housed till today in the state-of-the-art security.

It was this Buddha that our client, a private collector, wanted and he was willing to pay any price to get it; by hook or by crook.

I spent days planning my course of action. Pierre wanted this assignment to be treated as my coming of age. He would not help me, though at times, I thought that he was cross-checking my arrangements without my knowledge. For days, I would visit the museum, disguised as a tourist and study the Buddha from about ten feet away. That was the nearest we were allowed to go near it and visitors were not allowed to linger around any exhibit for long. I finally planned my day. We would execute our mission on the 17th September in broad daylight in the presence of everybody around.

At 11A.M on the 17th September, an old hunchback tottered his way to the museum. He had difficulty walking and stumbled often. The guard at the entrance of the museum advised him not to visit, but the old man would not hear of it. He mumbled something about coming from very far to visit the museum. About ten minutes later, a six-foot tall American tourist also visited the same museum. He looked like a student who had worked his way all summer for this all-important trip to Malaysia. The old man was stumbling and coughing and the benevolent student offered to assist him to walk. The old man refused, but when he staggered for the third time, the student would not listen anymore. Together, they began to explore the artifacts, with the old man recounting stories about his younger days.

At 11:15 A.M the old man and the young American were standing in front of the statue of Buddha. Suddenly, there was a sound of a blast and smoke filled the room. Someone shouted “Fire” and guards started evacuating. The electric connection in the museum had faltered and the backup would take two minutes to restore. The student was trying to help the old man out, who was having trouble breathing in all that smoke. The guards removed everyone from the room and sent them to another part of the museum and came back for the old man. By then, he was coughing so much that the student requested them to let the old man out for some fresh air. The pair was let out and was never seen again.

It was discovered after two days while cleaning the museum that the statue of Buddha was sparkling unusually. On further investigation, it was found that the statue of Buddha was in plaster of Paris, cleverly covered by golden wrapping sheet. The original Buddha cost 6 million dollars. This fake probably cost 6 dollars.

Two days before this discovery a hunchbacked old man and a young American tourist were seen leaving the museum through an emergency exit. Nobody checked their belongings. As they left the premises, a black sedan drew up and they both got in. Inside, Pierre took off his cloak, stopped being a hunchback and revealed a four foot statue of Buddha between his knees. He looked at the American tourist and grinned, “Happy birthday Mike. You are a man now.”

To be continued.....

Confessions of a dangerous mind - I

At age twenty-four years eleven months, I was languishing in an 8X11 foot cell in solitary confinement in an obscure prison in Central Siberia. The outside temperature was minus forty-five degrees and from my underground dungeon sunlight trickled in only for a few minutes a day. I had been here for two weeks perhaps. Snow covered the ground, for two feet and even from the windowless rabbit hole where I was kept, the chill and the dampness pricked my bones. I surveyed my room for the millionth time, trying to find a way to escape. It was a bare room with no furnishing; the only objects were a fur quilt, a sleeping bag and a pot at the end of the room. Nothing much that I could use. Twice I had escaped this place and this time round, they were not going to take any chances. The government wanted me for questioning and they wanted me alive. After all, I was just a minnow in the large smuggling syndicate that had managed to steal Van Gough paintings from the Pushkin Art Gallery in Moscow in the past. Two weeks ago, I had failed to get away with a Monet, and Interpol saw this as their big chance.

Leaning against the wall, I started to think. Memories flooded me. Those years of poverty, living as an orphan in a ghetto in Rio de Janeiro. How, at the age of fifteen, Pierre caught me trying to steal his wallet and instead of handing me to the police took me home, and how it changed my life forever. Pierre it is perhaps then; my story begins with Pierre’s wallet. Michael is my name and Pierre fondly called me Mike. Hunger had turned me into a pickpocket and I was the slickest hand in our ghetto. At the end of the day, when we counted our Reals, I always had the most. I had an undisputed talent for stealing anything, without anyone ever noticing. I quite liked this arrangement and thought life could not be any better than living on people’s money. Then one day, I tried to pick Pierre’s wallet. He had turned his head to his left and was looking his wristwatch, and I had almost succeeded in drawing the black faux leather Gucci wallet from the right side of his trousers. Then I crossed the road and was about to rush to hoard my earnings, when a hand gripped my shoulders. “Nice work kid! You have good technique!!!” said Pierre smiling. I was astounded. It was the first time, I was caught and I started wondering where I went wrong. “Where is your Daddy?” “I don’t have one,” I said. ‘And where is your Mommy?” “I don’t have a Mommy either”. “Then I am your Daddy from today,” said Pierre and that was the turning point of my life.

Back home, Pierre gave me food, clothes, a bed to sleep and a house to call my own. He lived all by himself in an opulent mansion in downtown Rio and when I peeped out of the window, I could see a Lamborghini, a Ferrari and a Ford Mustang in his large stable of cars. Of course, I learnt the names much later. Along with that, I also learnt how to dress well, speak language of the gentry, and most importantly, Pierre gave me my first important lessons on theft and deception. For Pierre was the leader of the largest smuggling syndicate of Rio and he had just adopted me as his protégée.

Three years later, at the age of eighteen, I had learnt five languages, could drive any car, could fire a .44 Magnum, .45 Long Colt, .38 Special and a Colt Single Action Army from point blank range and was a dashing, handsome six-foot tall boy quickly learning that he was irresistible to women. A charm, that would come much handy later. At eighteen Pierre decided that I was ready for my first kill. An antique statue of Buddha, in a museum in Malaysia, which our client wanted for his private collection. Sadly, the Buddha was not for sale, so I had to step in.

To be continued.....

Top 10 reasons why there's gotta be something different about today.

1. Woke up late as usual after banging the alarm atleast five times. Thought I'd miss the train, but voila!!!! today trains were as late as I was, which meant that we both arrived at the platform at the same time.
   
2. Got a seat in the train without having to conduct the ritual morning quarrel with anyone. I even thought that the gruff old lady who usually snorts at me every morning, smiled for a change.
   
3. No one pushed me or edged me as I walked amongst the crowds at the station. Seems everyone (read men) wanted to take a break from their diurnal activities.
   
4. Radio Mirchi went blared all good things about women and surprisingly the men in our bus seemed to take an amused view of it. We women laughed our heads off.
   
5. As I walked into office, I was greeted with a smile, a rose and a perfume. Now, why can't they do this on the days when I don't have time to take a bath!
   
6. My colleagues who normally dread my appearance seemed to be pleased to see me today. I later found out that there was a code delivery and on account of it being 8th March, they thought I would not be coming!
   
7. Something's been done about the full size mirror in the restroom. I thought I looked thinner.
   
8. Got some super camouflage software installed on my PC. Checked mail, chatted, surfed the net, called up friends all morning, everyone thought I was working seriously
   
9. Got some swell program in the afternoon, and you get chocolates just for attending it. Aaah beautiful life!
   
10. Something was mixed in the food they served in the canteen today. Everyone has forgotten about the code delivery!!!! Wow
    

Something's in the air today. Aaaaaaaah!

Bill, Bush and the Bird Flu

I was on my way to office this morning, when I saw a poster that read “Enemy of Mankind – Bush go back!” I realized with a twinge of regret that the Mr. George Bush was visiting us, and we could not care any less about nuclear deals. Delhi has been gearing up for this day I suppose, but certainly, the excitement generated when Bill Clinton visited India a few years back, is clearly missing here. When Bill Clinton was here every detail of his stay was chronicled. His room in Maurya Sheraton was photographed to the last nail, the bottle of Evian spring water that he left unfinished was auctioned among the hotel staff, the overcoat with C inscribed on it, was on the fashion billboards for a good two weeks. Bukhara- the restaurant where the President had dinner overnight became the place to be seen it. The chef of Bukhara was photographed and featured on the cover of high brow political magazines and the menu was on the first page of every newspaper worth its salt. We were in college then (luckily I went to college in Delhi around the same time that Clinton decided to visit India) and even though our college was about five kilometers away from Rajghat, we lied to everybody, that we met Clinton. The following day, Times of India featured a half page picture of Bill dancing with folk dancers and Madhuri Dikshit was jealous.

In contrast Dubya is boring. Sometimes he does come up with “I Know the Human Being and Fish Can Coexist Peacefully” and “We're Going to Have the Best Educated American People in the World” but most of the time, he limits himself to saving Ground Zero from being bombed, killing civilians instead of militants in Iraq and searching for Osama Bin Laden in the caves of Afghanistan. Yes, Dubya is boring, but we can do better. So Delhi has prohibited the preparation of chicken in any restaurant in the Capital as a harassed chicken-loving colleague informed me, because Dubya is susceptible to avian influenza. The board exams are on, but Dubya must visit Raj Ghat at 9 in the morning and show the world what a traffic stopper he is. Delhites returning home from office must bear with Dubya again in the evening, when he visits Purana Quila at 6PM.

We were content with Bill in Maurya Sheraton. We felicitated him in Hyderabad House in Delhi. But Bush will go the distance. “It's No Exaggeration To Say That The Undecideds Could Go One Way Or Another.” We sent him to Andhra Pradesh for a trip to remember. Chandra Babu Naidu is not happy. Naidu hobnobbed with Bill Clinton as the Chief Minister, the last time around. But Bush is no Clinton and alas! Chadra Babu Naidu is Chief Minister no more.

TRP ratings taken a minute back show that people are more interested to know how Irfan Pathan lost his wicket than, whether the signing of the nuclear deal and opening our nuclear reactors will put Chhattisgarh in the seismic zone. As for Bush, Delhi will soon dig into Tandoori chicken, poultry will learn why human beings wear mufflers in winter and a waiter at Bukhara will arrested for stealing the silver fork that Bush used for dinner. Pakistan will crib because, they bombed an embassy, but Bush did not consider it promising enough to sign a deal and Laura Bush will go back and knit gloves for the little orphans she met yesterday.

Before you leave Mr. Bush, to use one of your quotes, “Let Me Put It to You Bluntly. In A Changing World, We Want More People To Have Control Over Your Own Life."

The Loser's Anthem

The day I discovered the third way of watching movies -Rang De Basanti

I always believed there were two kinds of ways of watching movies. One was going to the cinema, stacked with Pepsi and popcorn and watching wide eyed for one hundred and fifty minutes. The other was to wait for the local cablewallah to poach the latest movie and show it on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, curse the print quality, sound quality and the drowsiness that would overcome me. Last week I discovered the third. Met up with D after four years, dragged her to my place, got a DVD and watched the movie, rewinded it, paused it, lunched over it and loved it. What follows next is saved for my granddaughter and my great grandaughter and all the generations that shall transcend me


Rang De Basanti thankfully, is not yet another incarnation of Dil Chahta Hain unlike the many pretenders that sprang up on the Indian movie scene after DCH. This is original cinema and even though the movie seems to have a façade of a lets-have-fun-while-we-are-young creation, it does throw a lot of serious questions and not one of them is funny. This is Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra’s second movie after ‘Aks’ and the director-with-a-difference has indeed as the title promises managed to awaken a generation.

Sue (Alice Patten) chances upon her grandfather’s diary who was the jailor of the prison where Bhagat Singh was held before being hanged. Despite being British, he is all in awe of the 20-something year old revolutionaries, who are not afraid to die for the nation. Sue is inspired by the bravery of Bhagat Singh and Chadrashekhar Azad and plans to make a movie on their life. Sponsorships are hard to come by, but it fails to deter her from coming to India and shooting the movie with the help of Sonia (Soha Ali Khan)

The rehearsals are futile because although they have scoured Delhi University (some shame considering that the great Amitabh Bachchan was in Kirori Mal college of DU) they have not found a single student who could do justice to the role. Dejected, Sue goes along with Sonia to meet her friends and take a break.

Here is where she comes across the face of the 21st century youth of India. Diljeet a.k.a. DJ (Aamir Khan), Aslam (Kunal Kapoor), Karan (Siddharth) and Sukhi (Sharman Joshi) live life on the edge. They do not worry about tomorrow and an evening spent getting drunk is an evening well spent. Sue looks at this vagabond group and sees in them the characters of her movie.

None of the boys are serious about acting and they do not make an effort. Sue somehow manages to motivate them to act and they do a fine job out of it, but they are still not motivated enough to feel for the nations as Bhagat Singh and his companions did. All this till Flt. Lt. Ajay Rathod (Madhavan) Sonia’s fiancée dies in a crash while flying an outdated MIG aircraft.

The carefree friends who did not have a worry in the world now transform into a group of committed individuals who will exact revenge for the death of their friend. The parallels drawn between the imperialist British government and the present day Indian government are spine-chilling. Like Bhagat Singh, DJ and friends kill the Defense Minister and surrender so that the nation would be aware of the state of two hundred odd pilots of the IAF who died while flying malfunctioning MIG aircrafts. Like Bhagat Singh, Chandrasekhar Azad and Rajguru, they lay down their lives for the nation.

RDB is a grim reminder to our generation that although we were born in a free India, we cannot afford to forget a whole generation of youngsters who gave up their lives for the freedom that we have learnt to take for granted. It is an irony that it took a British woman to awaken the consciousness of four Indian men. It is a greater irony that the enemy is no longer a colonial super-power but a part of our democratic system.

As an actor Aamir Khan is unparalleled, but it is time to handle the mantle to a worthy and younger successor. At 40, Aamir can no longer pretend to be in college. Perhaps Shahid Kapur could have done justice to the role, but Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra refrained from taking the chance and hired the best in the business. Soha Ali Khan is the surprise of the movie. She acts with restraint and this would rank as her best performance so far. Sharman Joshi is good but his role is rather limited to the irresponsible and careless hunk that he has played in nearly all his movies. Siddhartha is a new face and given the fact, that the director reposed so much faith and screen time to him (he plays Bhagat Singh), he has done a great job. As the conscience of orthodox conservative patriotism, Atul Kulkarni who plays Laxman Pandey the rising student political leader is a fine actor to watch out for. My personal favourite in the movie would be Kunal Kapoor who plays Aslam. Despite limited screen presence, he steals the show with his portrayal of a Muslim boy with Hindu friends, who goes to the bar but drinks water, who would give up his life for his friends, but would do so in sotto voce.

A.R. Rehman redeems himself with some soul tapping tunes (‘Roo Ba Roo’). The title song - a catchy Bhangra number marks the return of Dalaer Mehndi to playback singing.

Overall, a wonderful effort and with all the controversy of the IAF having problems with the movie and the Defense Ministry objecting to the release and being a rare Aamir Khan starrer RDB is a movie that we are going to remember for a long time to come.

Our pet

When we saw her for the first time, she had not eaten for three days. I noticed her lying asleep in the morning, my mother noticed her in the same position at noon and late at night, when he was coming back home, my Father noticed that she had not stirred. Too weak to move a muscle, too feeble to walk, we bonded instantly. That night, when I fed her a few 'rotis', I thought I saw tears in her eyes. We have never had a dog of our own, and stray as she was, we were not too sure if she could live with us, but we knew, when we counted the members of our family, we would count her as one of us.

It soon became evident that she survived solely on the food that we use to give her. That's when we made it habit to give her a meal everyday. There were days when we cooked something special at home, and she got her due share. I still remember making spaghetti at home and forgoing my share, so that she could have some.

We saw her walking, and then running to greet us whenever we left home. We laughed to see her stick out her tongue and wag her tail whenever she caught sight of us. We spent many a pleasant evening discussing her antics.

We still do that now-a-days. In anxiety. For she has disappeared for the past one week, and we have no clue of her whereabouts. When I used to hear of famous pop stars giving away their prized guitars to the person who brought back their pet dog, I used to laugh. Today, I feel the same way...I could give away my computer to anyone who'll bring her back. For even though, we can lay no claim to ownership on her, she can tell the world, that if ever she had a family, it is us!

Mere Paas Paer Nahi Hain

Mere paas gaadi hain, bunglow hain, naukar hain, aish-o-araam hain par mere paas paer nahi hain.

My feet I have come to realize do not belong to me. They belong to little kids who kick you and then push with unbelievable Complan energy in the line for tickets to 'Rang De Basanti'.

They belong to older women who are trying to get off the train when suddenly everything between them and door becomes invisible.

They belong to our great potholed roads to fall into and get bruised, and then to dettol, gauge and lint.

Sometimes they have belonged to crepe bandages and plaster-of-paris casts.

Often they belong to the blisters that new shoes lovingly gift them.

They belong to Krack SR cream because gruff ankles are out of fashion.

They belong to ugly green creams and the salts that the latest pedicure mantras eschew.

My feet alas! are not mine

Night Shift

I have just returned from one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. Since 8 pm last night, I have been an audience to an all night concert on Indian Classical music and dance. As the last strain of Pandit Jasraj's rendition of Bhairavi fades away, my eyes are misty with sleep, but somewhere inside I am excited enough to run a marathon.

The event was organised by the Uttarpara Sangeet Chakra and we were lucky enough to get guest passes, which guaranteed us cushioned seats in the front row. Those at the back in ordinary chairs weren't disappointed. After all, we had braved the chill to come here for music alone and no obstacles were going to stand in the way.

The evening started with Raag Bageshri presented by Pandit Jagdish Prasad, who hails from Madhya Pradesh. Most appropriate choice; after all Baageshri is the raag to sing at night. Pandit Ji enchanted us with his mellifluous voice and lengthy taans that were executed with apparent effortlessness.

Following him at midnight was Pandit Chitresh Das who is a renowned Kathak exponent. He lives, teaches and performs mainly in North America now. For the layman, this was a great learning experience, as Pandit Ji recited bols (drawing similarities to mathematics with Kathak) and danced along. We were privileged to watch his enactment of Dushyant and Shakuntala's first meeting in the forest. Also on the list was his famous 'Train' performance, where he never fails to thrill the crowds with his simulation of the movement of a train starting from one station, speeding, moving on a bridge and then slowing down at the platform of the next station before screeching to a halt. All this - achieved with a pair of ghungroos and two feet. Needless to say, I was spellbound.

At 2 A.M Ustad Pervez Sheikh performed on the sitar. The silence in the early hours of the morning was invaded by the brilliant tunes that he conjured continuously for two hours. The reticent Ustad, unlike the earlier performers did not utter a word during his entire stay, but his music said it all.

Finally at 4 A.M when Pandit Jasraj made his appearance, we knew that this was going to be a night to remember. Pandit Jasraj performed the Bhairav and the only word I have for it is 'perfect'. Pandit Ji said that music brings us closer to God and in keeping with his dictum; all his kheyals were based on spiritual themes like Radha Krishna, Mahadeva etc. His final rendition was an ode to Maa Kali in Bhairavi and had the audience (including my parents) in tears.

It is difficult to put in words what we felt out there. This is an experience that cannot be shared vicariously. From my personal view, this was the first time that I attended an all night concert and from the way it has been, 'Yeh Dil Maange More'. Every performance was an epitome of perfection in its own way and I do not have a better way to describe it. I shall never forget touching Pandit Jasraj's feet after the show and getting his blessings. I also noticed that in all the performances, the troupe accompanying the maestro was so deeply immersed in the music that they were oblivious to what was happening elsewhere. Their eyes said that they had reached nirvana and we were watching from outside. As Professor Dumbledore put it, music is probably the only magic that needs no charms or enchantment.


Maybe just a bit of love......

Jai Bajrang Bali Ki!!!!

Tuesdays always bring back a flood of good old memories. They remind me of the time spent in Delhi trying to acquire a college degree. Of the sunny winter afternoons spent eating oranges in the park, slowly fading away to dusk and then melting into starry skies when the chill set in. Of the sound of silence that stood defeated by the bells ringing merrily in all the temples. Of the bright lights and merry laughter that greeted us on our way to the mandir as we walked faster to beat the cold. Of Pummy’s famous ‘dahi-bhalla’ and ‘paapri-chat’ that lured us after
puja got over. Tuesday always spelt Hanuman Ji!

I recall scurrying home from college, making sure that nothing would stand between me and the weekly trip to the mandir. Like Bollywood characters, we would discard our jeans for the sedate salwar-kameez to appease our gods. We would spend a few minutes in Arti while the Hanuman Chalisa was chanted. As the priest finished
offering our ‘puja’, we would watch with bated breadth. What used to happen next still brings a thrill to me.

For the uninitiated, all sweet shops in Delhi prepare peda and boondi on Tuesdays for Hanuman Ji's worship, and the neighboring ‘Aggarwal Sweets’ is still the best in the business. It is perhaps travesty of the highest order to covet the offering that is meant for God, but the flesh was proven weak time and time and again. Those piping hot,grape size boondis, bright orange in color, dripping in sugar syrup had us drooling over. We often purchased half-a-kilo, and dieting plans (if any) were thrown to the nearest passing cyclone. When the priest returned our offering, a mad rush would set in and we would start chomping on the boondis even before we got home. The mandir was located in the middle of the B-block market and we would often encounter neighbors and friends outside. It pained us to share the boondis but we masked it with a smile. Little street urchins would wait outside the mandir, pestering us for ‘prasad’. Sometimes, we ignored them, sometimes we relented.

Last Tuesday, as our bus passed rumbled by a Hanuman Mandir on Strand Road, I saw a priest distributing boondis to passer-bys. Most people did not care to take. Amidst the noisy traffic and smoke on a busy road, there was no place for hungry street urchins, or college girls in salwar suits. The sound of the circular rail nearby and
the horn of buses drowned the bells. There were just a few devotees inside the mandir and the dim lights were depressing. Sitting in the bus, I could only watch helplessly, while nostalgia like a throbbing pain swelled within.

How to wake up at 6:30 and leave home by 7:15 - Tips from the Expert.

Valuable suggestions from the one who has been there done it.

5:30 -Ignore Alarm. Do not put on snooze.
6:00 - Ignore Father and Mother's polite requests to vacate bed.
6:15 - Ignore Father and Mother's stern requests to vacate bed.
6:30 -Repond to Mother's threat to throw you out with the bed sheet.
6:35 -Find another room to sleep
6:40 -Find Mother wanting to remove bed cover in that room too.
6:45:00 -Start brushing teeth.
6:45:30 -Stop brushing teeth.
7:00 -Stagger out of bathroom, vital essentials completed.
7:05 -Finally decide to wear the yellow outfit.
7:10:00 -Allow Mother to stash spoonfuls of food while putting on dress.
7:12 -Allow Mother to stash spoonfuls of food while combing hair.
7:14 -Gather bag, mobile, water bottle, lunch box, dupatta and socks and with mouth full of food, hound out of the house.
7:15 -Sit in the car, wave to Mother, arrange bag, arrange dupatta, ignore driver's startled looks.
7:20 - Ready to step on to the train in full glory.

Now that ten days have gone down the line, I am finally convinced that we are safely cocooned in 2006 and that there is no going back to the year that was. New Years have always been a time of confusion for me. Adding a year to the date is always difficult given that you have been doing it differently for the past three hundred and sixty-five days. I take my time to clear the confusion amidst the New Year resolutions, and the parties and the cakes and year-end T.V shows. Apologies for being the tube-light but I always console myself by saying that were it not for us tube-lights the world would appreciate the bright sparks or disparage the fused bulbs.

I have my pet set of resolutions that I have been making for the past as-old-as-I-am minus eight years. This New Year, my newest resolution is to get rid of them. And what better way to do it than post it out here for the world to read and ridicule. So watch out for here I come:

1. Topping the list every year is my intention to look like Kate Moss by December 31st, so that I can get into that skimpy little top I purchased in a moment of optimism, but never was able to fit into. I promise to give the ‘roshogolla’ a miss, look the other way when ‘gulab jamuns’ are served and say a big NO to Cadbury’s Perk with extra crunch. I promise to wake up at five every morning and spend an hour in fruitful exercise. When I find myself weighing five kilograms more every December, I hang my head in shame promising to make amends the following year. Not any more, from now onwards, I shall not watch my weight, my weight shall watch me.
   
2. Coming a close second is resolving the eternal fight between my ego and my id. My ego is of the opinion that unless a girl is always on her toes, she will turn into somebody’s girl friend by December 31st.
   So, my ego says that ‘thou shall strive to survive another year from the onslaught of potential boy friends’
   My id is a little lazy. By June sufficiently aroused, my id makes fun of my ego ‘Thou shall succeed in restraining thyself only when a potential boyfriend appears on the scene’.
   Ego: Refer to Resolution #1
   Id: You think men are going to keep running behind you as soon as you lose weight????
   Ego: Haven't you heard of Bridget Jones ?
   Id: Let’s challenge you to drop your guard for a month and see if it wins you the attention of anybody.
   The argument continues. Well, I don’t know who wins but fact is that status quo is maintained on 31st December year after year after year. So why keep fighting?
   
3. And this is the one that I would hate to give up. Will I finally succumb to the lure of hair colour? Splurged all over magazines, television and bill-boards, Aishwarya Rai, Kareena Kapoor and Andie McDowell urge you to get rid of that ‘boring black hair’ and give copper, burgundy and purple a try. When I see my friends coloring their hair blonde the temptation is almost irresistible. This year I refuse to think about it anymore. Surely with earthquakes, train accidents, drought and explosions there are better things a girl could think of than what pigmentation her hair should assume.
   
4. Finally I have started taking guitar classes. Every year I resolve to take Raam Pyaare – my dashing young Spanish guitar a little more seriously. I love the bruises on the fingers of my left hand that are formed by pressing metal strings. They used to be on probation, but they are becoming permanent now. I am, as promised, taking classes and RP is getting his due, so chuck goes the resolution.
   
5. When I started getting pocket money, I promised myself that I would buy a book every month. Sadly, I was too busy spending it on other things. Now that I have finally managed keep my promise, the publishing industry must be silently blessing me, my Mother must be silently praying that a little more space may miraculously appear in the cupboard for the books and my friends who want to borrow from me must be silently praying that I read faster.
   

So what will 2006 hold for me, my friends, for the people I have never met and for the world that is ravaged by disaster and destruction? Only time will tell. But if I were to make a sincere resolution it would be that we learn to love one another and live in peaceful harmony.

Amen

For Sale: extra calories at ridiculous discounts

Someday i wish to meet a charitable anorexic billionaire.

For every extra calorie that I was willing to trade, he could give me a dollar (USD only please!)

I would be a happily rich girl and the fat of the matter would be his.

Now days when I walk down the East Wing of our office building heads turn to look at who is coming. The same happens when I am in the canteen and at the reception area. People in the West Wing are a trifle busy with work, but I have managed to capture the attention of quite a few busy bodies. This unexpected fame is getting on my nerves. I have never been a very high profile person and I shun the limelight as much as I can. I walk as fast as possible and sink into my cubicle, red all over my face. It’s of no use because, the faster I walk, and the more they seem to notice. I hope they will get used to me sooner than I get used to the stares. All remedial measures have failed and I stand at the brink of desperation. I hope there is something I can do about this mammoth issue that is causing me such ignominy.

My shoes squeak.

Winter Carnival

Rather than have the 7:32 dump me unceremoniously, I have decided to initiate the breakup. 7:32 has become the lover who comes two hours after the appointment. You know she will arrive, but when? There is a tryst to keep, but its destiny knows no time.

So i have been quite taken by the 7:20 in the mornings. She is on time and i also get to sit most of the days. It means that i have to get up an extra 15 minutes earlier on winter mornings and get ready doubly fast, but its worth it.

This morning, on my way, I saw a bunch of people from my school, all apparently going to school, but none in uniform. It reminded me of the 'Sunlight' ad where everybody wore coloured clothes to school and pretended it was their birthday. Age is catching up with me because it took me a good 5 minutes to figure out that today is the Christmas party.

In the good old days of the yore when i was in school, came home before sunset and like a good girl shunned the television in favour of home-work in the evenings, winter meant sprucing up the wadrobe because the Christmas party was underway. The last day in school before the winter break was reserved for some wild partying in the school grounds, (yes, we girls jived, rocked and some even slow-danced between themselves - all in good spirit ofcourse) There were ganmes to played, prizes to be won, and lunch. As a one time exception, we were allowed to carry cameras inside the premises ( I am sure, now-a-days they allow mobile phones too on this day) This is the day we all waited for.

As i watched the excitement on the faces of my juniors, i realized how the party meant so much to me. Winter breaks meant visiting my grand parents in Delhi and often i would be whisked away to the station soon after the party broke up at 2PM. The last moments were spent hurriedly exchanging addresses, promises to mail (snail mail for the ignoramuses), New Year cards exchanged, flowers for our teachers and the excitement of a long break ahead where i could sleep late into the mornings!!!!!

Those days.....................

The Society Scandal

Rumors flew thick in the air. The whole society was abuzz. Mrs. Rastogi had not attended Mrs. Malhotra’s pet Pommerian’s birthday complaining of a headache. Mrs. Ghosh whispered, “Even last week, she walked in the last moment to Mrs. Malhotra’s kitty party.” Mrs. Mishra nibbled delicately at paneer pakora and remarked, “That’s because she had to water her Star of Bethlehem’s. She always says that 4pm is the only time of the day when the plants can absorb water. Fo..fo…she called it fotosynthesix.” “Actually,” replied Mrs. Ghosh, “the whole fallout was because Mrs. Rastogi lost to Mrs. Malhotra in the Mahjong party at Mrs. Mirchndani’s”. “Ssshhhhh!” Joined Mrs. Krishnamurthy. “I know the real reason. Mr. Malhotra is soon going to get a big promotion and then he will be senior to Mr. Rastogi.” “Oh! My gosh” exclaimed Mrs. Mishra and Mrs. Ghosh.

It was official now. Cold war had begun. Chintu Rastogi was not allowed to play with Bobby Malhotra. At Pummy’s wedding, Mrs. Malhotra gifted her silver anklets and Mrs. Rastogi hit back with gold earrings. When the Rastogi family decided to spend their summer at Singapore, the Malhotras chose New Zealand.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Krishnamurthy was doing her best to bring them together. She paired up the two of them in the three-legged-race at her residence on a sunny winter Sunday afternoon. It did not work. She went to Mrs. Rastogi’ place and under the pretext of learning how to maintain Star of Bethlehem’s, tried to gain her confidence. Mrs. Malhotra poured out her heart while showing her how to cook Paneer Butter Masala. Mrs. Krishnamurthy had all the inside dough and people flocked to her for news.

Equations in the company were changing very fast. Mr. Ray the President was about to retire and there was speculation about who would succeed him. Opinion was divided between Mr. Malhotra and Mr. Rastogi. Many said, Rastogi would be promoted over Malhotra and he would be the next President. Mrs. Malhotra and Mrs. Rastogi continued to smile their plastic smiles when they met at parties and grimaced as soon as their backs were turned. Tension was rife in the air.

The day arrived. Mr. Ray was retiring. He would name his successor and a grand farewell party would be thrown at the club soon afterwards. Mr. Rastogi and Mr. Malhotra arrived in office in spotless white shirts and their wives got their best Kanjeevarams ready. Mr. Ray called everyone to his office and said; “The management has decided that in the event of my retirement, Mr. Krishnamurthy will take over as the next President of the company. Mr. Malhotra and Mr. Rastogi will be assisting him. They will both be promoted as Vice-Presidents. Thank you.”

The party was a grand success. Everybody commented on how appropriate it was of the wives of the newly appointed Vice-Presidents to turn up in South Indian silks. Mrs. Krishnamurthy was particularly pleased. She commented on how glad she was to have Mrs. Rastogi and Mrs. Malhotra as her dearest friends. She demanded that they jointly throw a party at the women’s club next week. Mrs. Rastogi and Mrs. Malhotra had suddenly become best friends, together venting their ire against the newly appointed President’s wife. Mrs. Krishnamurthy had the last laugh!

Didn’t I say so?

The whole idea of giving Ganguly a chance to play in the Kotla Test against Sri Lanka was because the selectors succumbed to the pressure of the public. And though our Dada scored only 40 & 39 respectively, he wouldn’t have stood a chance in the next test even if he had made triple hundreds in both innings. He doesn’t stand a chance at the regaining the captaincy nor will he get his place in the One Day team, if the selectors and Mr. Greg-I-hurt-my-finger-Chappell have the final word. Now it seems rookie openers are preferred to accomplished and experienced batsmen.

It’s a pity that cricket today has become so much politicized. I am not saying that Ganguly is the first choice for the team but I am also pointing out that there are some “great” players who have been struggling to get their 35th century and for this record alone, they have been included in the team sans controversy. Zonal politics has taken over cricket and the whole establishment rots.

Saurav, you have been the best Captain India ever had and there will never be another one like you. If you fight back we are with you and if you decide to hang up your boots and concentrate on the restaurant business, we are nevertheless with you!

My beloved,

I have been waiting impatiently for your reply, but there hasn't been any for sometime. So unable to restrain myself, I am writing to you again. At the cost of repeating myself and thereby incurring your wrath, I cannot help but express how much I hold you in awe. When I saw you for the first time across the bus stop, I could not take my eyes off you. It was a cool 18 degrees outside and you were wrapped in a monkey cap, muffler and a pair of gloves. You looked breadth-taking in the jacket which appeared so puffed up that I suspect there were a couple of pullovers hiding behind it. Your leather shoes were being lovingly caressed by a pair cotswool trouser that adorned the drawers that you indubitably wore underneath.

You shivered and I flipped. You sneezed and my heart skipped a beat. That day I decided to give office a miss and crossed the road to your bus stop. I stood behind you and perhaps you did not notice me because of the large ear flaps of your muffler. You moved aside to the ‘chai’ stall and bought yourself a cup of tea. I watched admiringly as you slipped delicately the steaming cup, your body warming up in the process. Your bus had come by then and in pursuit of my newfound love, I also took the same bus, not knowing where your destination was. I saw you taking the ladies seat and even when I stood in front of you, you felt too shy to offer me the seat. Is this what great poets have called love? I took a ticket to Building More just like you did and gazed into fine wefts of your hand-knit cap. When I was in Grade 9, they taught me how to knit a sweater in school. Even though I don’t remember most of it, I could muster sufficient confidence to knit you a woolen handkerchief.

You coughed and sneezed and wheezed. The infection like love spread to all your near ones and dear ones if you count me among them. When like a 6.8 Richter I sneezed in the bus, suddenly I knew that our hearts had connected. I shall always treasure your first gift to me. Days have gone by and your everlasting gift still remains. Do you understand now, why I have not been able to forget you? Mountains may rise and their snow-capped peaks may add more clothing to your accouterments, icebergs may spring between us and freeze us from meeting, chilly winds may test the strength of your wind-cheaters, but if there is the one thing that will always be common between us, it is ‘cold’.

Three Cheers for Ganguly, We Cheer for South Africa.

I did not go to Eden Gardens, Kolkata to watch the 3rd One Day International between India and South Africa. I am not much of a cricket buff, but I do enjoy the spirit with which we get together when a cricket match is going on. I love the fact that offices are empty on the day of a match in Kolkata, that streets are deserted and all roads lead to Eden Gardens. And when I heard that our Project Leader had managed to get hold of tickets to watch the match live, I felt a twang of jealousy.

Not after I saw the news and read the papers the following day.

It had nothing to do with the fact that India lost so badly. We are used to winning occasionally and losing nearly all the time. 0urs is a nation where cricket is the life and soul and a means of escapism from drudgery of existence. We cheer gustily for our team and also for the opponent. Eden Gardens has always been a much-revered ground and the huge turnout is always a big morale booster for the Indian team.

But on Friday, the 25th of November, things turned out to be quite different. The crowds cheered when India lost a wicket and when South Africa hit a boundary. Rahul Dravid was jeered off the field and the crowds reveled in South Africa's victory. Eden Gardens could have been in South Africa.

All this because Sourav Ganguly was not a part of the team. Since when have we become so parochial that we protest with such vulgarity because our local boy is not a part of the team? I am one of those who believe that if Sachin Tendulkar can continue to be in the team despite so many single digit scores in recent times, then Sourav Ganguly - the dynamic captain, talented batsman and bowler who always gets a wicket or two ought to be in the team.

But what pained me was that the Bengali shed his "Bhadralok" image to reveal the beast within. The jeers could have been replaced by silence. There was no need to grab the attention of the world with such a gross act of rowdiness. If our actions have had any repercussions, it has been a challenge thrown by the Selectors in the form of a one-time chance to Dada to redeem himself against the Sri Lankans in the Test Match series. And if Ganguly fails in this do-or-die situation then his career is as good as finished. Isn't it too much pressure for a person to cope with?

When the Metro was unveiled in Delhi in 2000 and the unruly crowds marred the inauguration, noted columnist Jug Suraiyah was all in praise for the enthusiastic crowds in Kolkata who had behaved with so much restraint when the Metro was started here. This is the same crowd that lost all sanity on Friday.

Sourav Ganguly remains the lone sporting icon from the state to have gained international recognition in recent times. To us, he has come to represent Bengali pride. Dropping him from the team was like a personal insult to each one of us. Maybe, its time we realized that sports are a source of healthy entertainment and stop taking it so personally. Stop also to think of the man who has become the centre of so much debate and discussion. Maybe, we should leave him alone and leave him in peace. It would go a longer way in helping him regain form than cheering for his opponents to show solidarity for him.

I go to one of the seven weddings that I have been attending for the past one week.

Everybody looks at me and says "When are you gettting married?"

Old aunties know a dozen men waiting to be cornered by winsome lasses.

Dejected and bored, I take a seat next to a kid.

I ask him, "Which class are you studying in?"

He answers "Class 3. Which class are you in?"

Home but not Alone

When the doctor gave his verdict of three weeks of bed rest for me, I had no idea what I was bargaining for. Two of the longest weeks of my life are almost over and I wait with nail-biting anxiety for what awaits me in the third.

A freak accident and I hurt my foot; just days before Diwali and found that I could not walk. It was the perfect time I thought to catch up with lost sleep, Frederick Forsythe and HBO. It was the long lost chance to regain my privacy after being cooped up in 6X8 cubicle all day, watched by all who may care.

However, my experience has been anything but that. Curious neighbors barged into my room at unexpected hours wishing to see me. Sedate knocks on doors were mercilessly disposed off and supplanted by hard knocks on my ankle to see if it hurt. Guests, who did not exercise the temerity of going to my room, demanded that I should limp all the way to the living room so that they could be convinced that I really was injured. Diwali time; the house was overflowing with people and my harrowed self, overwhelmed by this unwelcome intrusion.

Much advice was given regarding what I should and what I should avoid. They flowed over the phone, and even by email. When the diagnosis of my injury did not match the diagnosis of someone’s twenty-year old injury, I was asked to consult a different doctor. Extensive empirical research was conducted on the medicines prescribed by wannabe doctors who never cleared the pre-med entrance, but still did not lose the zeal.

When the going became intolerably tough, I decided to get limping to a Diwali lunch invitation just to silence my critics, detractors, and sympathizers. It was nothing short of a catastrophe. I was the center of curiosity and those who had not expressed their empathy to my Mother so far, now, saw this as a golden opportunity to regain lost ground. It meant nothing that I had trudged all this way for the lunch, no way would they allow me to go to the table to get the food. I was made to sit in a “comfortable” corner and was unable to refuse four requests of “Beta, have some more puri”

Another week to go and I am dreading it. My foot seems to be recovering steadily, but I dearly wish that I should wake up tomorrow morning and see that it has healed completely. The only thing I want in this world now, is to go back to my cubicle. And to hell with privacy!

When I was Sick and Lay in Bed

Could not walk, just managed to talk
Yawned all through the day,
Propped against a pillow, sheets and cushions,
Nothing was going my way.

Grey skies outside, a dull flat breeze,
Smoke by the windows.
Shrieks of laughter of children playing,
Added to my woes.

Read a few lines of a crime thriller,
Didn’t make much difference to my mood,
Until this spark crossed my mind
And here is what ensued.

Wrote mails and letters
In poem and prose
To long forgotten
Friends and foes.

Called up my friends,
We spoke for long,
Suddenly, the world, it seemed,
Sang a beautiful song.

Now clouds have parted,
And I see the sun,
And I can smell a fresh breeze,
When a new day has begun.

Thank you my friends,
I know you care,
I shall never forget,
This love we share.

Rain rain go away

This Chou - a tribal dance form among the Santhals of Bengal - makes a formidable face while warning the Rain Gods to quit. This is a part of Kolkata's Salt Lake,BE block Pujo pandal this year.

As if to add to the depression of Pujos getting over, its been raining incessantly for the last four days. I haven't been able to leave home for two days, braving myself to venture out only yesterday. Surpringly Indian Railways has been rather sporting and despite the rains, trains have been only ten minutes late on an average, a remarkable feat by any standards.

Worse still has been the predicament of people in South 24 Pargonas and Purulia. Houses have been washed away, crops destroyed and an epidemic is about to spread.For a lot of us, its easy enough to sit in our airconditioned cubicles, sip coffee and look out of the St. Gobain glass and admire the rains out there. Its quite another thing to know that for a lot of people, these rain spell disaster. Much of the attention of the world is focussed on Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma, but back home, our people are suffering the same plight and there is no respite for them. While India continues to send out aid for hurricane victims in USA, cyclone victims in the country itself are languishing.

This post is dedicated to all those whose who have missed schools(gladly),colleges and offices because of the rains. To those hapless citizens who could not get the right trains and buses to their destinations, to those travellers whose flights got cancelled due to the rains (please note: this does not include those who wish to travel by Deccan Airlines) and on a more serious note, those who have suffered personal and financial losses due to the wrath of nature.

Why I am in Kolkata during Durga Pujo

Durga Pujo has been synonymous with Kolkata ever since I was big enough to understand Pujo. I have spent Pujo at different places, different states but nowhere did I feel the spirit of the Pujo in the people, the leaves of the trees, the roads, the stray dogs and in the weather. It seems as if Nature herself has willed that Kolkata should blend into the soul of the Pujo till the city is unrecognizable as a separate entity.

Nowhere will you ever find that you have to park your car five miles away from the pandal and still walk the distance in smiles because of the famed Protima that you are about to visit. Only in Kolkata will you encounter atleast ten more Protimas that will surreptitiously appear along the way during your five-mile sojourn pleasantly surprising you.

Heated discussions regarding the merits and demerits of various pandals can build into fist fights for the Asian Paints Sharad Shamman. It’s a time when relations are mended and forgotten friends remembered. It’s the time for romances while the chill begins to settle.

Pujo is when we shop for months in advance. Carefully planned out garments- the best one reserved for Ashtami are put aside. Girls must wear sarees for the Ashtami anjali and this year there was a resurgence of the old Bengali style of donning the national dress. Makeup and accessories in place and all set and done, nothing can stop them, not even the rain that threatened to mar the celebrations this year. Heat and humidity can be forgotten and the mad crowds ignored for those four days of glory.

As the day fades into dusk, the lights come out and the city is bejeweled with tuni bulbs that weave dreams in the city's skyline. The crowds thicken, but that does not dampen the spirit of the Kolkatan. All night outings are a birthright of the young ones and as the teenager retires into bed wistfully sulking at his elder sister who'll be out all night, there are promises to keep for the time when he comes of age. Suddenly, nobody is worried that a daughter will be out till late night. The city will protect her.

Its a time for gorging egg rolls, ice cream, mutton chops and chowmein. It’s a time for looking good at Maddox Square and shopping for titbits at Park Circus. For the Nagardola at Bagbajar Sarbojanin, bumping into old friends at Mohammad Ali Park, comparing notes by the huge pool at College Square and watching for Maharaja himself at the Pujo in Saurav Ganguly's home at Behala.

Tired but not disheartened, they prepare for the next day and the next. Unmindful of the millions of old people who will remain confined to old age homes and the TV for the Pujo. Fortunately, all is not amiss. There is the Pujo Porikrama at Doordarshan and a host of programs, prizes to win and TV stars who greet the viewers by the minute. Television has managed to capture the Pujo not only in Kolkata but also in West Bengal and outside, in Mumbai, Delhi and far UK and USA.

Doshomi brings a gloom that will remain for sometime. Shidoor khela and bodhon over, Ma prepares to depart promising to return again the next year. Bijaya greetings flow across phones, smses and emails. Huge processions of tearful people taking the idol for immersions and teeming millions lined up on the streets watching them. Then there is a wait for another year, amongst the sweets that are distributed; there is an eerie silence that can be discerned. The Kolkatan hopeful of the year long wait till go home in anticipation, because he knows that she will come back again.

One Fine Autumn.....

Clear blue skies.
White tufts of clouds gently floating about.
Bright fragrant flowers.
Dew wet grass.

Office
Deadlines
Working late
Stress


A season of festivals.
A daughter returns home after a year.
Peals of laughter.
The smell of new clothes.

Over-crowded trains
Frayed tempers
Sweat
Traffic jams


Music.
Holidays.
Sleeping late.
Staying out all night.

Here's wishing everyone a joyful Durga Puja free from mishaps and a silent prayer for the people who died from the earthquake. May their soul rest in peace.

Do D Dee

D & I go a long way since our first day in college. I did not know that she lived next-doors and we spoke like strangers whose only meeting ground was our mother tongue and Richie Road in Kolkata. Imagine our surprise next day when my Uncle took me to her house and told me that she could show me the way to college. We started giggling then and we have giggled ever since. In crowded Delhi buses where the seats never emptied, in front of the chat trolley at the college gate, while sipping Bunta in college, ogling at men in the auditorium, at bus stops, at CP, at Sarojini, at Kamla Nagar and when we famously stood outside a cinema hall where I had lied to my folks about attending an important class.

We roared with laughter while ordering a fourth helping of Gulab Jamuns, and when we went to gorge Makki ki Roti at Pummy's instead of returning home after college like good girls. We laughed because both of us took three attempts to get past the first chapter of 'The God of Small Things' and because a day before our exams, we were eating 'Gajar Ka Halwa' and playing the guitar and pretending to study.

We smiled with glee when we managed to bully the keeper to sell the kurtis and pyjamas at CP for less then 50 bucks, and we gasped in delight when we found long-sought-after books selling at half prices. Partners-in-crime that we were, we forged bus passes, befooled teachers and clerks.

We parted, because destiny had different plans for either of us. Lived in different cities, different countries and different continents. Still we kept in touch, we mailed, called and chatted. We shared everything from Chicken Tikka Masala to secret crushes.

It’s been sometime now that I haven't heard from D and I know that even if she wants to keep in touch it is difficult. You are badly missed, D. There are some things in life that we can take for granted, and to your friendship I do.

Football

Twenty-three men including my static Module Leader and electrostatic Project Leader rampaging the field more or less summed up the activities of Sunday morning. Frayed tempers in place of shipping orders, fouls in place of cursors, penalties instead of defects, cuss words instead of staid remarks and free kicks instead of time-sheet entries were the order of the day. It rained and they played on. Sometimes, its seemed that ball willed itself to get stuck in the mud after every two meters, yet resolute in their determination, to make it move, they went on and on.

I wouldn’t blame them of course. It isn’t everyday that a bunch of part young, part middle-aged, part pot-bellied and part washboard abed, part in shorts and part in Bermudas, part in spikes and part barefoot, some balding and some sporting pigtails motley group of software engineers abandon their PCs in favor of the lush, green, wide open spaces. Welcome to the Annual All-Matches-In-a-Day Football Tournament.

There were the obvious concessions given to our players. They weren’t exactly professionals so, behold! Each match was played for twenty-five minutes, (ten minutes a side) During the five minute break, they gulped glucose prepared lovingly by us – the only four women who cared sufficiently for our year end appraisals to prefer the football ground to the cozy comforts of the bed on a sleepy Sunday morning.

Well, we women pretended to enjoy, we groaned when they missed goals, clapped with joy when they did not. We cheered whenever we thought there wasn’t sufficient noise on the field and gasped when a fight broke out between two hotheaded colleagues. We served water, and glucose and lunch and let the guys know that it was their day. I finally felt like an archetypal Balaji Telefilms Bahu. We pretended to get embarrassed when the men took off their shirts after the match, and felt nothing with all the sweat, muck and mud all around us.

And when our team lost, we wept copious tears. After a day full of histrionics, when I couldn’t take it any more, I begged D to atone for all the horrors and do the one thing that would make us feel better. We went shopping!!!