You know what I miss?
I miss the rains in Mumbai.
I miss the shiny streets after a shower.
I miss the smell of damp smoke in rooms full of laughter, whispers, assorted music, bonding sessions.
I miss the abundance of everything but food and money.
I miss waking up to friends standing over you, trying to wake you up because there's a plan. What? A Plan? With no money? Impossible. Think again. We do have a plan.
I miss meeting new people at new places and mulling over whether I like them or not.
I miss sharing knowing looks and charming new girls with old stories.
I miss the intense feelings of fear, anger, confusion, regret and the tummy-churn that comes along with them.
I miss feeling intensely happy, unperturbed, part of a whole, euphoric.
I miss the bad reputation that I created.
I miss walking for half hour and then taking a rickshaw because I knew if I walked that much I'd have just the right amount of coins to pay the fare.
I miss living alone and smoking black in chhota rizlas that'd last me days at a time.
I miss the hunger cramps I'd get cos I hadn't eaten.
I miss taking the train from BO to C and back to kill a coupla hours.
I miss not taking phone calls from family and well wishers cos I was too stoned.
I miss being ridiculed for hours on end for the way I was living my life and then being told about my talents and virtues.
I miss being asked to sing all night.
I miss seeing the respect and admiration in peoples' eyes fall after each meeting because I didn't live up to their expectations.
I miss apologising without thinking twice and meaning it every single time.
I miss my shamelessness and callousness.
I miss my arrogance without having anything to be arrogant about.
I miss rationalising and sorting out situations in my head way before they even arose.
I miss trying to tell the perfect lie.
I miss eating alone at station dhabas.
I miss hanging out of the C Fast and taking in the sunset at Marine Lines.
I miss the endless glasses of Ganna juice I drank at every station that I went to.
I miss travelling ticketless and not getting caught.
I miss the irony of leading all my friends to cross the bridge, ticketless and being the only one caught out of 7.
I miss the reliving the photo albums of memory after an evening of pub and house hopping.
I miss going through my phone book to find someone whom I haven't already asked for a loan from..and not finding any.
I miss waiting for the 304 from Ghatkopar to Andheri, having a cigarette and masala chai.
I miss preparing to watch the Simpsons everyday at 6.
I miss wandering off to different places while reading a book.
I miss trying to resist the urge to call friends I was not talking to.
I miss not spending money on smokes, saving up for a Bombay sandwich washed down with a chilled mountain dew.
I miss feeling rejected when people didn't invite me when they went to nice places cos I didn't have the money.
I miss people who came in my life like angels and loved me for what I was.
I miss trying to con people into buying me a beer.
I miss trying to rekindle broken or strained relationships. Time heals everything.
I miss hiding from dhobis and panwallahs cos my credit line with them has gone from 0-600 in 3 days.
I miss losing myself in the music my walkman gave me.I still have it.
I miss long train journeys in 3rd class with nothing but my music, something to smoke and a packet of 50-50.
I miss working out how much I could spend on that train so as to have enough to pay the auto to get home.
I miss those times where I felt that there actually IS someone pulling the strings, after all.
I miss reaching home and breaking down, tired and relieved to have a roof over my head.
I miss the food reviews chechi used to take me to.
I miss the occasional phone call I got when I was all but alone.
I miss the simplicity of having no money.
I miss being told off.
I miss my country.
I miss my friends.
I miss my aunts and uncles whom I lost through distance and misunderstanding.
I look forward to reliving it all..
Saturday 4 July 2009
Sunday 17 May 2009
The Sibling
Ever since I can remember, I've had more fights than conversation with my Chechi. She's a couple of years older than I am, but we're more or less the same age.
My earliest memory of the mischief that she got up to is of this one time when she asked me to try this real fun thing- putting my finger into an electrical socket and flipping the switch. She said it was good fun. She was there, right next to me, ready to turn it right off after I'd shocked myself, but to this day, I'm still scared of electricity, even lightning. I'm very comfortable with electronics and etc., and I'll happily connect, disconnect, take apart and mix and match things, but I'm just scared of electricity. Scared, being relative to my otherwise live-on-the-edge personality.
My affinity for tipple also was kick-started early, thanks to Chechi. Once, when dad and mom were away, she invited me to open this little display case, which was of just the right height, full with miniatures collected from Dad's travels abroad. So I opened it and we chose a bottle of Gordon's to try. We chose it because of it's colourless(thought to be harmless) contents,pristine white label and the dark berries on it. So she cracked the bottle cap off, took a swig and passed it to me. Not wanting to get caught in the act, I quickly took a swig myself and emptied the lil bastard. Before I knew what hit me, we both were in the bathroom with our mouths under open taps, gasping, coughing, spitting and laughing, our eyes watering. I still remember it burning my throat and how we promptly hit the bed and fell deep asleep, when usually, we'd be up late into the night playing games with imaginary people, situations and places. I couldn't've been more than 6.
There was also this one time when dad brought home a bunch of Bananas. Beautiful, green-tipped, golden bananas. All but one, which was slightly squished and black. I'd written my name on all except that one, on which I wrote Chechi's. That's because I loved bananas and Chechi wasn't overly fond of them. Later in the afternoon, I thought I'd have a banana or two and went to the dining table. What do I see?? All the bananas were gone except the one on which I'd written chechi's name. Serves me right for writing my name on fruits.
Later, when we moved to Muscat, we shared a room and we each had our own cupboards, study tables, side tables and beds. When we fought, we'd mark the carpet to divide the room into territories.The idea was to pick a fight by stepping into the other's territory, being warned not to, and doing it over and over again till physical contact was made. I'd get hammered most times, and she'd end up sitting on me and dangling threads of spit from her mouht over my face, till either I gave up or mom came and broke it up. No matter whose fault it was, we'd both get belted and then we'd sob, cry and apply cold cream to the welts we got after the belting. That kinda re-bonded us an made us one in our enmity against the punisher.But that arrangement would only last a day or two.
She's always told my folks all the secrets I've told her but I still don't learn. I still end up telling her stuff that my parents needn't know. And she still ends up using it against me. Its ceased to matter now, but its funny how we think we're intelligent and we keep telling others to learn from their mistakes, but when it comes to application, we just don't learn.
Later, when she had a boyfriend in school, she'd wait for my parents to leave to call him and whisper garbage while I just whiled away the time till it was time to hit the bed. But because she always told my parents everything I did or didn't do, I decided to threaten her to squeal. She begged and begged me to let her call and not tell my parents but I was adamant. Till she said that she'd do anything if I didn't tell. This was when I remembered this boy on our school bus who used to open up his fountain pen and drink the ink. I don't know if he did it for attention or because he plain liked it, but he did it anyway.
This was my chance to see how badly she wanted to make that call and what's the worst I can get her to do. I had plenty of sinister ideas, and I would've asked her to do one of them, but then I was scared that she'd do it and then something irreversible would happen and I'd be in deep shit!!
But I settled for asking her to have a swig of ink from the little pot of Pelican Royal blue ink, if she didn't want me to tell the folks of her secret affair. She did, she made the call and once she was done, went straight to the loo and started wretching and saying that her throat was burning. Having watched plenty of hindi movies and the actors' reactions to poisoning, I freaked out!! I apologised profusely and ran to the fridge to get her a cold drink of water. I promised I wouldn't tell, now that she'd done what I'd asked her to.
Later, she turned the tables by telling mom and dad that I'd asked her to drink ink and now she was having trouble swallowing, breathing, thinking, walking and every possible task.
After college, I moved to Mumbai to start work with Jet Airways as cabin crew. Suffice to say that I lost my way. For over a year when I was there, but I also learnt a lot of hard lessons which have made me the kind of person I am. Don't mistake this for bitterness, because I'm very comfortable with who I am. I'm glad I spent my time the way I did.
I lost a whole lot than just my way, when I was there. My family and friends'll know what I'm talking about.Then,I went to Chennai, where my sister was, with her husband.
This was exactly what I needed. She took care of me like no one else would've. She gave me a comfortable bed to sleep on, good food everyday, breakfast, coffee, music, even cigarette money. I started two jobs and ended up not going like I've mentioned in my previous blogs, but she continued to take care of me and make me feel like it was alright to be 24 and not have a life of one's own. She had a meagre salary at the time and she'd still manage to take me out for dinner, music concerts, give me money for the internet, my weed (of course she didn't know!Till I offered her some once in a while;0) my shrink, everything.
She'd get assigned to review some new eatery and most often, she'd take me, the times she didn't she'd feel horribly apologetic and get me a burger or a coke to keep my spirits up.
That side of my sister's, I've never seen before or after. My eyes well up when I think about those times and I hold them closest to my heart not because of anything else, but the fact that she forgot that she was my older sister and looked after and treated me as a friend. We used to have more laughs and conversation than fights.
But the one fight that changed my life and put me on track was when she asked me to leave the house in Goregaon on a rainy early morning in July 2005. I hadn't liked how she'd treated one of her friends who'd come in from Chennai, so I took him out to Toto's to drown our sorrows in beer and rock. What business was it of mine? It so happened that him and I'd become fast friends during my stay in Chennai. I hadn't liked it and I told her so in more words than were necessary and she asked me to leave the house. It was July in Mumbai. Any Mumbaikar will know what that means- RAIN.
I put my little bag on this concrete bench, put my cap on and tried to sleep in the dripping rain. I went to the watchman's alcove to have a cigarette and tea and he offered to let me sleep in his quarters. What a gesture, from someone I didn't even say hello to. It helped that I was extremely bitter about my sister, the tenant and even more so because I'd been drinking all evening and the bitterness was just flowing like the Mahim Creek.
But anyway, I spoke to my parents in the morning and they asked me to leave as well, and find my own way, so I called the only person who I could count on-my girl, now my wife. And I'd expected her not to offer, but there it was- straight off the bat, "Come on over to Pune, N, we'll figure something out!" So I left for pune that afternoon and since then, nothing but good has happened to me..I've done better and better in life and I've had pretty much everything favouring me.
For this and that time she took care of me and managed a household, I'm eternally grateful to my sister. She swooped in like an angel and nursed my out of a rough patch, then, donning the disguise of the Devil, she banished me into the oblivion of serious living.
Thanks Chechi.
Now, when you're in a spot of bother, I want to be able to help.
I want to be able to make you feel the difference between family and friends.
I hope now, I can return the good you've given me, once twice, for the rest of my life.
I want you to be able to relaxsssss, knowing thaaaat, I am aaaayyyyraaoundd!!
My earliest memory of the mischief that she got up to is of this one time when she asked me to try this real fun thing- putting my finger into an electrical socket and flipping the switch. She said it was good fun. She was there, right next to me, ready to turn it right off after I'd shocked myself, but to this day, I'm still scared of electricity, even lightning. I'm very comfortable with electronics and etc., and I'll happily connect, disconnect, take apart and mix and match things, but I'm just scared of electricity. Scared, being relative to my otherwise live-on-the-edge personality.
My affinity for tipple also was kick-started early, thanks to Chechi. Once, when dad and mom were away, she invited me to open this little display case, which was of just the right height, full with miniatures collected from Dad's travels abroad. So I opened it and we chose a bottle of Gordon's to try. We chose it because of it's colourless(thought to be harmless) contents,pristine white label and the dark berries on it. So she cracked the bottle cap off, took a swig and passed it to me. Not wanting to get caught in the act, I quickly took a swig myself and emptied the lil bastard. Before I knew what hit me, we both were in the bathroom with our mouths under open taps, gasping, coughing, spitting and laughing, our eyes watering. I still remember it burning my throat and how we promptly hit the bed and fell deep asleep, when usually, we'd be up late into the night playing games with imaginary people, situations and places. I couldn't've been more than 6.
There was also this one time when dad brought home a bunch of Bananas. Beautiful, green-tipped, golden bananas. All but one, which was slightly squished and black. I'd written my name on all except that one, on which I wrote Chechi's. That's because I loved bananas and Chechi wasn't overly fond of them. Later in the afternoon, I thought I'd have a banana or two and went to the dining table. What do I see?? All the bananas were gone except the one on which I'd written chechi's name. Serves me right for writing my name on fruits.
Later, when we moved to Muscat, we shared a room and we each had our own cupboards, study tables, side tables and beds. When we fought, we'd mark the carpet to divide the room into territories.The idea was to pick a fight by stepping into the other's territory, being warned not to, and doing it over and over again till physical contact was made. I'd get hammered most times, and she'd end up sitting on me and dangling threads of spit from her mouht over my face, till either I gave up or mom came and broke it up. No matter whose fault it was, we'd both get belted and then we'd sob, cry and apply cold cream to the welts we got after the belting. That kinda re-bonded us an made us one in our enmity against the punisher.But that arrangement would only last a day or two.
She's always told my folks all the secrets I've told her but I still don't learn. I still end up telling her stuff that my parents needn't know. And she still ends up using it against me. Its ceased to matter now, but its funny how we think we're intelligent and we keep telling others to learn from their mistakes, but when it comes to application, we just don't learn.
Later, when she had a boyfriend in school, she'd wait for my parents to leave to call him and whisper garbage while I just whiled away the time till it was time to hit the bed. But because she always told my parents everything I did or didn't do, I decided to threaten her to squeal. She begged and begged me to let her call and not tell my parents but I was adamant. Till she said that she'd do anything if I didn't tell. This was when I remembered this boy on our school bus who used to open up his fountain pen and drink the ink. I don't know if he did it for attention or because he plain liked it, but he did it anyway.
This was my chance to see how badly she wanted to make that call and what's the worst I can get her to do. I had plenty of sinister ideas, and I would've asked her to do one of them, but then I was scared that she'd do it and then something irreversible would happen and I'd be in deep shit!!
But I settled for asking her to have a swig of ink from the little pot of Pelican Royal blue ink, if she didn't want me to tell the folks of her secret affair. She did, she made the call and once she was done, went straight to the loo and started wretching and saying that her throat was burning. Having watched plenty of hindi movies and the actors' reactions to poisoning, I freaked out!! I apologised profusely and ran to the fridge to get her a cold drink of water. I promised I wouldn't tell, now that she'd done what I'd asked her to.
Later, she turned the tables by telling mom and dad that I'd asked her to drink ink and now she was having trouble swallowing, breathing, thinking, walking and every possible task.
After college, I moved to Mumbai to start work with Jet Airways as cabin crew. Suffice to say that I lost my way. For over a year when I was there, but I also learnt a lot of hard lessons which have made me the kind of person I am. Don't mistake this for bitterness, because I'm very comfortable with who I am. I'm glad I spent my time the way I did.
I lost a whole lot than just my way, when I was there. My family and friends'll know what I'm talking about.Then,I went to Chennai, where my sister was, with her husband.
This was exactly what I needed. She took care of me like no one else would've. She gave me a comfortable bed to sleep on, good food everyday, breakfast, coffee, music, even cigarette money. I started two jobs and ended up not going like I've mentioned in my previous blogs, but she continued to take care of me and make me feel like it was alright to be 24 and not have a life of one's own. She had a meagre salary at the time and she'd still manage to take me out for dinner, music concerts, give me money for the internet, my weed (of course she didn't know!Till I offered her some once in a while;0) my shrink, everything.
She'd get assigned to review some new eatery and most often, she'd take me, the times she didn't she'd feel horribly apologetic and get me a burger or a coke to keep my spirits up.
That side of my sister's, I've never seen before or after. My eyes well up when I think about those times and I hold them closest to my heart not because of anything else, but the fact that she forgot that she was my older sister and looked after and treated me as a friend. We used to have more laughs and conversation than fights.
But the one fight that changed my life and put me on track was when she asked me to leave the house in Goregaon on a rainy early morning in July 2005. I hadn't liked how she'd treated one of her friends who'd come in from Chennai, so I took him out to Toto's to drown our sorrows in beer and rock. What business was it of mine? It so happened that him and I'd become fast friends during my stay in Chennai. I hadn't liked it and I told her so in more words than were necessary and she asked me to leave the house. It was July in Mumbai. Any Mumbaikar will know what that means- RAIN.
I put my little bag on this concrete bench, put my cap on and tried to sleep in the dripping rain. I went to the watchman's alcove to have a cigarette and tea and he offered to let me sleep in his quarters. What a gesture, from someone I didn't even say hello to. It helped that I was extremely bitter about my sister, the tenant and even more so because I'd been drinking all evening and the bitterness was just flowing like the Mahim Creek.
But anyway, I spoke to my parents in the morning and they asked me to leave as well, and find my own way, so I called the only person who I could count on-my girl, now my wife. And I'd expected her not to offer, but there it was- straight off the bat, "Come on over to Pune, N, we'll figure something out!" So I left for pune that afternoon and since then, nothing but good has happened to me..I've done better and better in life and I've had pretty much everything favouring me.
For this and that time she took care of me and managed a household, I'm eternally grateful to my sister. She swooped in like an angel and nursed my out of a rough patch, then, donning the disguise of the Devil, she banished me into the oblivion of serious living.
Thanks Chechi.
Now, when you're in a spot of bother, I want to be able to help.
I want to be able to make you feel the difference between family and friends.
I hope now, I can return the good you've given me, once twice, for the rest of my life.
I want you to be able to relaxsssss, knowing thaaaat, I am aaaayyyyraaoundd!!
Wednesday 18 February 2009
Of Friends In Need and other short stories..
I still remember sitting next to this dude with curly hair writing my entrance for what was going to change my life forever. I mean..how many people actually sign up to spend the rest of their lives working the hardest when the rest of the world is partying the hardest. I did that, and with me, another very curious young fellow.
It was at the Taj Coromandel in Chennai that this entrance test was held and just before sitting down to take the test, (a laughably easy one) I just asked him for a "rubber". He politely corrected me by saying, "You mean, an eraser?".
That was the start of the only love-hate relationship I've ever had or ever will. I used to laugh at people who used those words, love-hate. But to know Dr is to Love-Hate him.
A few months after this short conversation, I ran into him again at the Hostel. Ah, the Hostel. Some people probably get nightmares when they think about the hostel. But me, I get a feeling of warmth, with laughter bubbling up from my centre of gravity, ending up in a throaty cackle/laugh, only to be replaced by a long sigh and deep sense of loss. But I'll save that for another day.
So we kept running into each other more and more and exchanging(read giving one-sidedly) music. I remember, at one point, when I opened my drawer of tapes, I only found 4 or 5. A couple of Megadeth, an Ugly Kid Joe and a coupla nameless assorted tapes. This couldn't be happening. Besides my wit, charm and obvious eloquence, I'm nothing without my music. So I walk up to Dr.'s room and ask if I can have my tapes back. He responds by handing me two peices of plastic with a lot of casette tape wrapped around it and says, "I've got the rest as well, but they're all pretty much in the same condition. Do you still want them?" At that point, I'm thinking, "What do I wanna do with tapes that are not in their casing anyway?" But I shoulda known better. This is Dr. we're dealing with, here. He probably had kept them better than I ever did and made it part of his own private collection. Till I he got to see my CDs, that is.
Dr. is your typical mercurial madman/intellectual psychopath. I guess he's not so typical after all. But he is close to my heart. And this is an Ode to you Dr. The name Dr came about one rare evening when he actually sat up from his bed to roll a J. Rare because he barely did. Turns out, that when he did, he made fantastic, straight, cigarette like Js. These were consistently neat, standardised and a pleasure to toke. I mean, if you weren't in the room and you came in after it was lit, you'd know first by looking at it and then get assured when you smoked it. It was not so much the actual J that earned him the nickname, but his focus and organised preparation before and during the act. Like a scientist. Anyway, stories about Doc are plenty, but this one's about how he was by my side, during my toughest times. Like Bruno, the Doberman in Poona. I think our bond was stregthened when we went for our OJTs to the Taj Residency in Indore, for Kitchen and HK. We were the only ones who could relate to the other and we were both re-doing the year due to all reasons, but academic. Indore was crazy. We'd work hard and then party 42 times harder. Just the two of us. We even asked the HR Manager, whom we were sharing the flat with, by the way, for an advance on our stipends!!! He was like, "Hmmm..I've been in this industry now, 22 years and no trainee has ever asked me for his stipend in advance, but why not!!" And we got it! Bought a crate of beers, some good food and threw a party. We ran up bills with the STD booth, the internet cafe, the mithai waala, even the medic and we ended up telling everyone, "Nikhil paisa dega!" I'd go to one of these places and say the same thing and so would Doc. Now there was a third guy called Nikhil who never seemed to come in to pay these bills and we kept racking them up!! Hilarious. What a scam that was, huh, Doc!! I remember when I'd broken my wrist during a drunken, mock fist fight. Doc actually came to my room, asked me to get dressed and we took an auti to the hospital where they put my wrist in a cast and we came back to the Institute to convince everyone that we hadn't just bunked Front Office Theory class. There was a legitimate reason! Come to think of it, that might've been the reason he came, but it doesn't matter, cos I remember how that created a bond between us. He has been the same brash, foul-mouthed, callous prick throughout the time that I've known him, but times like this make me think. Another time, I got involved in a little drunken fight, which turned out to be not so little after all. I was hammered, complete, with a swollen, black eye and I couldn't raise my arm for over a month. Some nervous injury. Brachial Plexus or some other. He was the one who came with me to the hospital to do my tests. He'd offer to hold my books, pick up my chair, get me a smoke, a tray of food at the cafeteria. Doc just doesn't do stuff like that for people. Anyone.
Not that he's always been great and someone I can count on at all times, he's caused me quite a lotta damage as well, but that's just me blaming someone else for my errors in judgement.
Later, in Mumbai, we shared a few good laughs, fights and good, honest bloke talk and we still do. The occasional drunk dial and reminiscing about the good old days. The occasional wall post on FB.
We've even spoken about starting something together. Someday.
Doc, I know you'll agree with me when I say that this is one of the most biased opinions anyone has about you. Everyone else will prolly give you a lot less credit. And call you the prick you are. But then they don't know you as well as I do. Cheerio.
It was at the Taj Coromandel in Chennai that this entrance test was held and just before sitting down to take the test, (a laughably easy one) I just asked him for a "rubber". He politely corrected me by saying, "You mean, an eraser?".
That was the start of the only love-hate relationship I've ever had or ever will. I used to laugh at people who used those words, love-hate. But to know Dr is to Love-Hate him.
A few months after this short conversation, I ran into him again at the Hostel. Ah, the Hostel. Some people probably get nightmares when they think about the hostel. But me, I get a feeling of warmth, with laughter bubbling up from my centre of gravity, ending up in a throaty cackle/laugh, only to be replaced by a long sigh and deep sense of loss. But I'll save that for another day.
So we kept running into each other more and more and exchanging(read giving one-sidedly) music. I remember, at one point, when I opened my drawer of tapes, I only found 4 or 5. A couple of Megadeth, an Ugly Kid Joe and a coupla nameless assorted tapes. This couldn't be happening. Besides my wit, charm and obvious eloquence, I'm nothing without my music. So I walk up to Dr.'s room and ask if I can have my tapes back. He responds by handing me two peices of plastic with a lot of casette tape wrapped around it and says, "I've got the rest as well, but they're all pretty much in the same condition. Do you still want them?" At that point, I'm thinking, "What do I wanna do with tapes that are not in their casing anyway?" But I shoulda known better. This is Dr. we're dealing with, here. He probably had kept them better than I ever did and made it part of his own private collection. Till I he got to see my CDs, that is.
Dr. is your typical mercurial madman/intellectual psychopath. I guess he's not so typical after all. But he is close to my heart. And this is an Ode to you Dr. The name Dr came about one rare evening when he actually sat up from his bed to roll a J. Rare because he barely did. Turns out, that when he did, he made fantastic, straight, cigarette like Js. These were consistently neat, standardised and a pleasure to toke. I mean, if you weren't in the room and you came in after it was lit, you'd know first by looking at it and then get assured when you smoked it. It was not so much the actual J that earned him the nickname, but his focus and organised preparation before and during the act. Like a scientist. Anyway, stories about Doc are plenty, but this one's about how he was by my side, during my toughest times. Like Bruno, the Doberman in Poona. I think our bond was stregthened when we went for our OJTs to the Taj Residency in Indore, for Kitchen and HK. We were the only ones who could relate to the other and we were both re-doing the year due to all reasons, but academic. Indore was crazy. We'd work hard and then party 42 times harder. Just the two of us. We even asked the HR Manager, whom we were sharing the flat with, by the way, for an advance on our stipends!!! He was like, "Hmmm..I've been in this industry now, 22 years and no trainee has ever asked me for his stipend in advance, but why not!!" And we got it! Bought a crate of beers, some good food and threw a party. We ran up bills with the STD booth, the internet cafe, the mithai waala, even the medic and we ended up telling everyone, "Nikhil paisa dega!" I'd go to one of these places and say the same thing and so would Doc. Now there was a third guy called Nikhil who never seemed to come in to pay these bills and we kept racking them up!! Hilarious. What a scam that was, huh, Doc!! I remember when I'd broken my wrist during a drunken, mock fist fight. Doc actually came to my room, asked me to get dressed and we took an auti to the hospital where they put my wrist in a cast and we came back to the Institute to convince everyone that we hadn't just bunked Front Office Theory class. There was a legitimate reason! Come to think of it, that might've been the reason he came, but it doesn't matter, cos I remember how that created a bond between us. He has been the same brash, foul-mouthed, callous prick throughout the time that I've known him, but times like this make me think. Another time, I got involved in a little drunken fight, which turned out to be not so little after all. I was hammered, complete, with a swollen, black eye and I couldn't raise my arm for over a month. Some nervous injury. Brachial Plexus or some other. He was the one who came with me to the hospital to do my tests. He'd offer to hold my books, pick up my chair, get me a smoke, a tray of food at the cafeteria. Doc just doesn't do stuff like that for people. Anyone.
Not that he's always been great and someone I can count on at all times, he's caused me quite a lotta damage as well, but that's just me blaming someone else for my errors in judgement.
Later, in Mumbai, we shared a few good laughs, fights and good, honest bloke talk and we still do. The occasional drunk dial and reminiscing about the good old days. The occasional wall post on FB.
We've even spoken about starting something together. Someday.
Doc, I know you'll agree with me when I say that this is one of the most biased opinions anyone has about you. Everyone else will prolly give you a lot less credit. And call you the prick you are. But then they don't know you as well as I do. Cheerio.
Sunday 15 February 2009
Sunday Cricket Games
The alarm goes off at 8, which I turn off, thanks to the wonderful snooze option that some brilliant dude invented. When it goes off again 15 minutes later, I know its time to go. But I sit up and my head is swimming with last night's revelry, and its a Sunday and I wonder what on earth I'm doing up at 8 on a Sunday. Then I remember that we've a game. The 3rd years.
They were a decent team, made up of bits and peices players. No one who can turn the game around on his own, but a formidable side, nonetheless.
So I trudge to the loo with a cigarette, bleary eyed and blank. But as the cigarette finishes and my bowels empty, it begins to dawn on me that we've a big game today. We've lost 3 on the trot and this one's more about pride than just numbers. I'm psyching myself up because I've an important role to play on the team. I'm keeping wickets, opening the batting, might roll my arm over, if required and I'm part of the think tank.
I finish up, put on my tracks, the quintessential white collared t-shirt and keds. Looking for my cap, I run into some loose change. Perfect. For a Nimbu Paani and some smokes at Mamu's Dhaba. Then, I head to my friends' rooms to wake the lazy bastards up. Well not so lazy as drunk. Then, its off to another, while I check on another friend on the way up. Its funny how little issues pale when it comes to a game of cricket, or any kind of game. There are people on this team I don't talk to, but when it comes to that game of cricket on Sunday, I feel like I have the right to walk into his room, kick his little butt and ask him to get kitted! And he doesn't mind.
We all know, without having to say, that we're going to congregate in the cafeteria in the institute building for a quick brekka. So we have a healthy breakfast of cornflakes, eggs and hot choc and have the minions of the team pick up the kit and mat and hail autos, heading out to the ground. This one's at the Jhalani tools ground. A beautiful round ground, with a turf wicket and tall trees skirting it. The wickets a belter this morning so we're hopin we win the toss. But as Mickey and Chandhok go out for the toss, I get the feeling that the toss is not going to go our way. And of all my predictions, most of which are never on the mark, this one is.
No matter.We run out on to the feild and are ready for the loud mouthed, sledging seniors. I'm opening the bowling with Anish. There's a big Surdy, Rutinder who's good with the wood, he times the ball well, got a good eye. Ashirwad is at point, Beri at cover and Mickey's keeping wickets. We're not allowed to sledge cos we're juniors. You might say it shouldn't matter in a game of cricket, but that's how it is. We can't sledge. Period. but that never stopped us anyway. We were scathing and relentless, often leaving the seniors fuming and actually breaking and bullying us into stopping. There were constant calls like "Khadda hai", "Milega, Milega"
Our team is made of astute cricketers. Beri's got nearly perfect technique and a wide range of shots and as a bonus is a fast fielder with safe hands, but a chicken wing for a throwing arm. Ashirwad, on his day can be lethal with the ball and more than useful with the bat and again, a pretty good fielder. Anish is tall, a good 6'1'' and has a nice, clean action and delivers the ball from a height of about 8 feet, getting good bounce.He's pretty nippy and gets good bounce. Rahul Singh was the suprise package. He was weak, introverted and a pretty fuckin good off-spinner. With a lovely arc, flight and decent length. Mickey is the captain. Good with a keeper's gloves and very good with the short ball, pulling everything a shade short of a length, well along the ground and usually in the gaps. More than any of his skill, it is his desire to win that makes him a good captain, with conservative and sharp field placements. He can go a little over board with that desire to win, but more often than not, his decisions are objective. Savio, the Goan, a solid, dependable opener who is more than handy with his medium pace.Siddharth, a fun guy to have on the team and a very decent bowler. Mahindra, again a helpful bowler and decent bat.
I'm the one with immense potential but no real weighty performance, yet! I'm handy with the gloves, a quickish, thinking bowler and a good long feilder with good hands and a nice flat throw. This is as objective as I can get.My batting was the most frustrating- good technique, decent range of shots, but no patience or shot selection. Opening the batting, there was a lot on my shoulders.
Back to the game. Anish takes the new ball and the first over passes without event. I bowl the second over and strike. Negi edges a ball outside off and it loops straight up to Ash at point. Lots of jubilation and the traditional Mithun Da dance in the middle of the ground with Anish.
Soon, wickets are falling all over. And before we know it, the pompous 3rd years are all out for 72 and I've got a 5 for. Anish's bagged 3 and two run-outs.
Rishin opens the batting. Very Very strong off his legs, glancing, driving and turning everything on middle and leg to the boundary. I opened with Rishin, scored a quick 10 or 12 and got out. But the ball was swinging a bit, but the senior bowlers were all over the place. Beri came in one down and with Rishin, finished the game off. In 11 overs.
This was a BIG WIN. We beat the thrid years and we beat them hollow.
So, we're sternly warned that there will be no trash talk and making fun of the seniors, just cos we're born a coupla years later. But again, like the sledging, it never stopped us.
We ended up putting the score board up on the Cafeteria Notice board with movie-like warnings about the next game.
While it was so much about the cricket then, its more about the ritual of it all, now. It was each man for himself, but at the same time, we were such a tight ship. I mean, we'd to find our own means of getting to the ground, or risk losing our place to the several hangers-on who came in the hope that they might play, but never did, cos none of us ever gave our places away. Neckless had a CBZ which can take three people at the most and he did the ground booking and everything because he was from Aurangi and he knew people. We'd fight for who's going with him, to get out of sitting in cramped autis and carrying the kit around. Whoever booked for the journey to the ground, basically had him for the rest of the day, till it was time to get back into the hostel.
The Hostel..another story altogether..
They were a decent team, made up of bits and peices players. No one who can turn the game around on his own, but a formidable side, nonetheless.
So I trudge to the loo with a cigarette, bleary eyed and blank. But as the cigarette finishes and my bowels empty, it begins to dawn on me that we've a big game today. We've lost 3 on the trot and this one's more about pride than just numbers. I'm psyching myself up because I've an important role to play on the team. I'm keeping wickets, opening the batting, might roll my arm over, if required and I'm part of the think tank.
I finish up, put on my tracks, the quintessential white collared t-shirt and keds. Looking for my cap, I run into some loose change. Perfect. For a Nimbu Paani and some smokes at Mamu's Dhaba. Then, I head to my friends' rooms to wake the lazy bastards up. Well not so lazy as drunk. Then, its off to another, while I check on another friend on the way up. Its funny how little issues pale when it comes to a game of cricket, or any kind of game. There are people on this team I don't talk to, but when it comes to that game of cricket on Sunday, I feel like I have the right to walk into his room, kick his little butt and ask him to get kitted! And he doesn't mind.
We all know, without having to say, that we're going to congregate in the cafeteria in the institute building for a quick brekka. So we have a healthy breakfast of cornflakes, eggs and hot choc and have the minions of the team pick up the kit and mat and hail autos, heading out to the ground. This one's at the Jhalani tools ground. A beautiful round ground, with a turf wicket and tall trees skirting it. The wickets a belter this morning so we're hopin we win the toss. But as Mickey and Chandhok go out for the toss, I get the feeling that the toss is not going to go our way. And of all my predictions, most of which are never on the mark, this one is.
No matter.We run out on to the feild and are ready for the loud mouthed, sledging seniors. I'm opening the bowling with Anish. There's a big Surdy, Rutinder who's good with the wood, he times the ball well, got a good eye. Ashirwad is at point, Beri at cover and Mickey's keeping wickets. We're not allowed to sledge cos we're juniors. You might say it shouldn't matter in a game of cricket, but that's how it is. We can't sledge. Period. but that never stopped us anyway. We were scathing and relentless, often leaving the seniors fuming and actually breaking and bullying us into stopping. There were constant calls like "Khadda hai", "Milega, Milega"
Our team is made of astute cricketers. Beri's got nearly perfect technique and a wide range of shots and as a bonus is a fast fielder with safe hands, but a chicken wing for a throwing arm. Ashirwad, on his day can be lethal with the ball and more than useful with the bat and again, a pretty good fielder. Anish is tall, a good 6'1'' and has a nice, clean action and delivers the ball from a height of about 8 feet, getting good bounce.He's pretty nippy and gets good bounce. Rahul Singh was the suprise package. He was weak, introverted and a pretty fuckin good off-spinner. With a lovely arc, flight and decent length. Mickey is the captain. Good with a keeper's gloves and very good with the short ball, pulling everything a shade short of a length, well along the ground and usually in the gaps. More than any of his skill, it is his desire to win that makes him a good captain, with conservative and sharp field placements. He can go a little over board with that desire to win, but more often than not, his decisions are objective. Savio, the Goan, a solid, dependable opener who is more than handy with his medium pace.Siddharth, a fun guy to have on the team and a very decent bowler. Mahindra, again a helpful bowler and decent bat.
I'm the one with immense potential but no real weighty performance, yet! I'm handy with the gloves, a quickish, thinking bowler and a good long feilder with good hands and a nice flat throw. This is as objective as I can get.My batting was the most frustrating- good technique, decent range of shots, but no patience or shot selection. Opening the batting, there was a lot on my shoulders.
Back to the game. Anish takes the new ball and the first over passes without event. I bowl the second over and strike. Negi edges a ball outside off and it loops straight up to Ash at point. Lots of jubilation and the traditional Mithun Da dance in the middle of the ground with Anish.
Soon, wickets are falling all over. And before we know it, the pompous 3rd years are all out for 72 and I've got a 5 for. Anish's bagged 3 and two run-outs.
Rishin opens the batting. Very Very strong off his legs, glancing, driving and turning everything on middle and leg to the boundary. I opened with Rishin, scored a quick 10 or 12 and got out. But the ball was swinging a bit, but the senior bowlers were all over the place. Beri came in one down and with Rishin, finished the game off. In 11 overs.
This was a BIG WIN. We beat the thrid years and we beat them hollow.
So, we're sternly warned that there will be no trash talk and making fun of the seniors, just cos we're born a coupla years later. But again, like the sledging, it never stopped us.
We ended up putting the score board up on the Cafeteria Notice board with movie-like warnings about the next game.
While it was so much about the cricket then, its more about the ritual of it all, now. It was each man for himself, but at the same time, we were such a tight ship. I mean, we'd to find our own means of getting to the ground, or risk losing our place to the several hangers-on who came in the hope that they might play, but never did, cos none of us ever gave our places away. Neckless had a CBZ which can take three people at the most and he did the ground booking and everything because he was from Aurangi and he knew people. We'd fight for who's going with him, to get out of sitting in cramped autis and carrying the kit around. Whoever booked for the journey to the ground, basically had him for the rest of the day, till it was time to get back into the hostel.
The Hostel..another story altogether..
Sunday 8 February 2009
Pravasi Bharati
For someone who's spent a large chunk of his chilhood, teenage and now, adult life in the GCC, I cannot, for the life of me, understand why people like moving here.Especially us, Indians. I can easily broaden that and say Asians.
I mean, for white folks, this place is paradise. I don't mean that badly, but its just the way it is. They get cushy jobs in construction or marketing or hotels(nothing lower than assistant manager), everything is paid for- housing, cars, telephone, childrens' education, travel and everything but your own groceries. Actually, I wouldn't be suprised if these dermatologically 'blessed' species actually run to their secrataries with their Spinney's bills, that run into thousands of dirhams and re-claim them as 'Team Building' expenses.
They have fantastic social lives, thanks to their culture, affinity for partying, burgeoning bank balances and cost-free lives, as illustrated above. Most people you'll see at bars, nightclubs and fine restaurants are white. We all live with the advantage of not having to pay taxes on our incomes, true, but the difference lies in the positions and salaries that people from the western world receive.
They can be rude, incompetent, inexperienced, dull, and have worked only in their neighbourhood supermarket, but when they come to DXB, with their resumes all spruced up, some nicely cut suits and a couple of well rehearsed one-liners, they look for positions such as Director of Purchasing and Distribution or Area Manager for Retail operations. And they get them. But, reporting directly to these Area Directors and Managers are inconspicuous little Asians- an Indian or a Sri Lankan or Filipino, who's actually doing the work. These underlings are actually doing the work of an Area Director and getting paid a 5th of Ms. Tabitha Smith's monthly loot. Not to compare, or complain, but it seems a little unfair.
But, at the same time, I see why a lot of the people in question are in positions of power and money. They're professional and know how to draw a line between their professional and personal lives; they adhere to time and if they can't, are simply programmed to sms or e-mail in and tell the people concerned that they will be a little late or that they might have to cancel. More often than not, they'll party into the early mornings and still turn up for work on time, or if they don't, they'll admit that they had a drink too many the night before and promise for it not to happen again.
We must remember that this is a very general opinion and that I don't mean to offend anyone. But, if you'll look deep inside and be honest to yourselves, you'll slowly find yourself agreeing with me.
So, back to Pravasi Bharati. We, here are second citizens not entitled to a lot of things. If we hold a driving license, for E.g from another GCC country, like Qatar, or Oman or Bahrain, it is mandatory for us to go through driving classes (20 at least @ 120 AED per class) and then for the test; while for a European, American or Australian, they just have to pay a nominal fee, get an NOC from their employers and have it converted!!
I dont' see the logic in this because we drive on the same side of the road in all GCC countries, but in some countries in Europe, like the UK for example, they drive on the left side of the road, while we drive on the right side here. How does it make sense to offer licenses over the counter to people who've been driving on the left side of the road for half their lives and suddenly have found this Oasis where they get everything just on the basis of their passports?!
I guess its all political. But the fact remains that its unfair and illogical.
I think I've lost the plot, here..I meant to write about something else, so I'll just stop for now.
I mean, for white folks, this place is paradise. I don't mean that badly, but its just the way it is. They get cushy jobs in construction or marketing or hotels(nothing lower than assistant manager), everything is paid for- housing, cars, telephone, childrens' education, travel and everything but your own groceries. Actually, I wouldn't be suprised if these dermatologically 'blessed' species actually run to their secrataries with their Spinney's bills, that run into thousands of dirhams and re-claim them as 'Team Building' expenses.
They have fantastic social lives, thanks to their culture, affinity for partying, burgeoning bank balances and cost-free lives, as illustrated above. Most people you'll see at bars, nightclubs and fine restaurants are white. We all live with the advantage of not having to pay taxes on our incomes, true, but the difference lies in the positions and salaries that people from the western world receive.
They can be rude, incompetent, inexperienced, dull, and have worked only in their neighbourhood supermarket, but when they come to DXB, with their resumes all spruced up, some nicely cut suits and a couple of well rehearsed one-liners, they look for positions such as Director of Purchasing and Distribution or Area Manager for Retail operations. And they get them. But, reporting directly to these Area Directors and Managers are inconspicuous little Asians- an Indian or a Sri Lankan or Filipino, who's actually doing the work. These underlings are actually doing the work of an Area Director and getting paid a 5th of Ms. Tabitha Smith's monthly loot. Not to compare, or complain, but it seems a little unfair.
But, at the same time, I see why a lot of the people in question are in positions of power and money. They're professional and know how to draw a line between their professional and personal lives; they adhere to time and if they can't, are simply programmed to sms or e-mail in and tell the people concerned that they will be a little late or that they might have to cancel. More often than not, they'll party into the early mornings and still turn up for work on time, or if they don't, they'll admit that they had a drink too many the night before and promise for it not to happen again.
We must remember that this is a very general opinion and that I don't mean to offend anyone. But, if you'll look deep inside and be honest to yourselves, you'll slowly find yourself agreeing with me.
So, back to Pravasi Bharati. We, here are second citizens not entitled to a lot of things. If we hold a driving license, for E.g from another GCC country, like Qatar, or Oman or Bahrain, it is mandatory for us to go through driving classes (20 at least @ 120 AED per class) and then for the test; while for a European, American or Australian, they just have to pay a nominal fee, get an NOC from their employers and have it converted!!
I dont' see the logic in this because we drive on the same side of the road in all GCC countries, but in some countries in Europe, like the UK for example, they drive on the left side of the road, while we drive on the right side here. How does it make sense to offer licenses over the counter to people who've been driving on the left side of the road for half their lives and suddenly have found this Oasis where they get everything just on the basis of their passports?!
I guess its all political. But the fact remains that its unfair and illogical.
I think I've lost the plot, here..I meant to write about something else, so I'll just stop for now.
Tuesday 3 February 2009
Changes
noWho'd think Ozzy, Geezer, Tony and Bill could write a meaningful, soul-felt, melodious and percussion-less(for lack of a better word) ballad. I can already see my Black Sabbath fans/friends shake their head and say, "I've read this kinda prose prose before, he's going to go on and expound on the virtue and individuality of songs like Changes and Laguna Sunrise!!Yawwwwn!! BORING!"
But think again, cos I'm not interested in going into the intricacies of the discology of Black Sabbath-you can find that anywhere on the net. What I AM going to do is just subject you to a heart-felt little peice that came to mind just before I was leaving for work this morning (where I am now, by the way).
Let me start connecting this peice to the title by referring to that very sentence that you've just read-I've started leaving for work, not just leaving work. Wordplay? I think not. That's probably the only way to look at it.
I used to work, so I had something to do all day, for a few days,or months at the most, but only so I could finance my vices(relative).Or cos the rest of my friends were working, and I didn't wanna sit home all day living off watered down tea, vada-paos and Charms. I used to work, till I thought I'd worked hard enough and then simply stop going to work. Managers and bosses would call and I'd ignore the call, thinkin "How can I answer a call when I'm not well. I'm supposed to be sleeping". I'll just call them back later.Right.
Day 2: I can't possibly feel better in just one day. Its gotta be two days at-least. Another day, wasted. More word play?Possibly.
Day3: More calls from work and more ignored. More revelry and oblivion.
Day15: Dude, if I don't go today, I'm going to get sacked!! Reality check. Waitaminit! Its been fifteen days of leave without reason or information. I think I'm already sacked, so that obviously means, they don't miss me so much, so might as well just forget about it.
And so on with several jobs, some plum offers among them. But like I said, that's changed.
I have only Bab Al Shams Desert Resort to thank. More on that later.
Change has come in so many forms. I thought I was the polar opposite of Dad. Turns out, I'm getting to be more and more like him.
His philosophy is what Kabir propounded-to do what you have to do tomorrow, today. I seem to've slowly grown into that.Albeit, not so obsessed with it. But for someone who procrastinates changing the calendar page at the end of the month, its quite a long way to have come.
I can go on and on about change, but then I think I've put my message across.
But think again, cos I'm not interested in going into the intricacies of the discology of Black Sabbath-you can find that anywhere on the net. What I AM going to do is just subject you to a heart-felt little peice that came to mind just before I was leaving for work this morning (where I am now, by the way).
Let me start connecting this peice to the title by referring to that very sentence that you've just read-I've started leaving for work, not just leaving work. Wordplay? I think not. That's probably the only way to look at it.
I used to work, so I had something to do all day, for a few days,or months at the most, but only so I could finance my vices(relative).Or cos the rest of my friends were working, and I didn't wanna sit home all day living off watered down tea, vada-paos and Charms. I used to work, till I thought I'd worked hard enough and then simply stop going to work. Managers and bosses would call and I'd ignore the call, thinkin "How can I answer a call when I'm not well. I'm supposed to be sleeping". I'll just call them back later.Right.
Day 2: I can't possibly feel better in just one day. Its gotta be two days at-least. Another day, wasted. More word play?Possibly.
Day3: More calls from work and more ignored. More revelry and oblivion.
Day15: Dude, if I don't go today, I'm going to get sacked!! Reality check. Waitaminit! Its been fifteen days of leave without reason or information. I think I'm already sacked, so that obviously means, they don't miss me so much, so might as well just forget about it.
And so on with several jobs, some plum offers among them. But like I said, that's changed.
I have only Bab Al Shams Desert Resort to thank. More on that later.
Change has come in so many forms. I thought I was the polar opposite of Dad. Turns out, I'm getting to be more and more like him.
His philosophy is what Kabir propounded-to do what you have to do tomorrow, today. I seem to've slowly grown into that.Albeit, not so obsessed with it. But for someone who procrastinates changing the calendar page at the end of the month, its quite a long way to have come.
I can go on and on about change, but then I think I've put my message across.
Thursday 15 January 2009
Theory of Proportion and Reward
The way the world functions leaves me wondering about all those people who talk about making their own destiny and being Masters of their own fate and other " You-Can-Do-It-If-You-Think-You-Can" kind of wisdom-the kind that Wellness Gurus and Motivation Experts propogate through there books, CDs, Cassettes and other media storage devices. The only people to actually learn or gain anything substantial from these books are the Publishers, Sponsors, Printing Presses and last but not the least, the Authors themselves.
Talk of spirituality and how we can learn from this book and that book, makes me think that I'm being silly and sceptical about things like this. More so when the kind of people who're talking about stuff like this are intelligent, free-thinking, people. Those that don't need loud, biased and insensitive News Reporters' opinions to build one of their own.
The point of this little peice is to high light the fact that there is no greater teacher than experience, retrospection and soul searching. The downside to this is that we have to learn to fall and fall to learn. But, honestly speaking, its the best way.
I can see myself on one of those book covers now. "From the author of the ThoughtWereHouse."
Talk of spirituality and how we can learn from this book and that book, makes me think that I'm being silly and sceptical about things like this. More so when the kind of people who're talking about stuff like this are intelligent, free-thinking, people. Those that don't need loud, biased and insensitive News Reporters' opinions to build one of their own.
The point of this little peice is to high light the fact that there is no greater teacher than experience, retrospection and soul searching. The downside to this is that we have to learn to fall and fall to learn. But, honestly speaking, its the best way.
I can see myself on one of those book covers now. "From the author of the ThoughtWereHouse."
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