A Tainted Caviar

Toilet Paper 2

2009-03-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

Worked backwards, the numbers looked like this - three million dollars a month meant an average of hundred thousand a day, which spread over hundred outlets worked out to thousand dollars a day. With an average selling price of ten dollars, he would have to push more than a hundred quantities per outlet to make the numbers. That was, of course, assuming that he operated within the area norms that were set for each sales manager. Breaking the law would help him rope in another hundred customers at the very least. That made the equation a lot simpler. Fifty units per outlet seemed realistic given the daily demand of his product in the areas put together was definitely more than fifty.

Summarising the plan in a worksheet, Sachin saved the file on his desktop. Since his plan involved area encroachment, he didn’t think it wise to e-mail it to his boss. He wore a smile of satisfaction – satisfaction from his efforts and from his calculating and scheming mind. It was ten in the night. The day’s work was coming to a close. He planned a quick smoke before heading out to the parking lot towards his car.

Suddenly, his pocket vibrated. Sachin was happily distracted in his self-glory, and the vibration caught him unawares. His wife was calling him on his mobile phone.

Same old stuff – when are you coming back home, honey. I’ve been sitting around watching TV all alone, waiting for you to return. Dinner has been ready for the past hour or so, and we’re getting late….we hardly get time to talk Sachin, we haven’t even finished watching Slumdog Millionaire coz you’ve been so tired every time you come back home…blah..blah...blah.

On his way back home, he stopped by a twenty-four-seven supermarket outlet, and bought himself a packet of condoms. Evidently, sex remained important. Biological need. And perhaps a good release after a hard day’s work.

Back into the car, Sachin turned on the radio, and turned up the volume. He was typically Gen X, so he refrained from old forms of music, and was an ardent follower of hip-hop. And he liked them loud. Like most of his generation, Sachin belonged to that cohort that endorsed hard work and hard partying. Hard liquor. Hard women. Fast cars. But he always kept his priorities in place – his work was worship, he believed in fast organisational growth, he believed in cracking sales orders that others found difficult to, even if it meant servicing the market till the wee hours of the morning. And even at that hour, our Gen X protagonist had enough time to down a couple of beers, get that quick high and return home to wake up his mistress and knock her up.

Gen X. Generation X. Work hard, party hard.

Inside the car, the radio played back to back rap numbers with techno beats. Got the adrenaline rushing in Sachin’s body, and he pressed the accelerator harder. The songs ended and the radio aired an ad on Mother’s Day, and it spoke about special ways of greeting your mum.

It hit him suddenly. He had a mother! He had nearly forgotten…it must’ve been twenty days since he last exchanged words with her. She had called him in between but he was busy, and he didn’t find time since to call her back. This was well timed-this Mother’s Day. He thought of what he could do for her. He decided to spend five thousand rupees this time, just so that his mum knew how special she was to him. He was sure something good would come for that sum of money, and in any case, he would leave it to his wife to actually go shop and pick something up.

For the remaining part of his journey back home, he kept thinking about his sales plan. The promotion had better come this appraisal.

He turned the keys to his house, and entered it with dainty steps. The lights were out, and it seemed that his wife had reconciled to a night without dinner.

Emotional b****.

He opened the fridge and fixed something for himself. He didn’t want to wake her up, for this would mean an unnecessary resistance to him watching the repeat telecast of MTV’s latest reality show. What he really loved about the show was the aggression and attitude it portrayed. Women were swearing and scheming, men were shouting and flirting. Survival of the fittest. Sachin liked this kind of stuff. Like his other Gen X cohorts. He liked it when someone flipped the middle finger on national television – it demonstrated a new wave of courage and independence. In peace, he scooped up another episode of the reality show, and happily enough, his wife kept snoring in the other room.

He entered the bedroom. Slowly undressed and got on the bed. Climbed on top of his wife’s body and started kissing her gently.

“Not today please, I’m sleepy and I’m tired. You take so long these days, Sachin. I feel like spending some time with you in the evenings. Our marriage wasn’t meant to be like this, Sachin. "

Sachin looked at her from the corner of his eye. She could spend the rest of her life whining away. She simply didn’t belong to his generation.

“ Today was your mother’s birthday. Did you wish her? "

Sachin felt his brain freezing into a cold mass. He had forgotten his mother’s birthday. Despite God’s way of reminding him through the radio ad a few hours before, it didn’t register to Sachin that the day also happened to be one that he had celebrated with pomp for the first twenty odd years of his life. He used to be the first to wish his mum, and always made paper cards for her. Those cards had words like “ I love you Mummy” written on them. Even at eighteen, he brought home a big chocolate cake and arranged for fifty candles to be mounted on them. His mother would, almost always, work hard in the kitchen, preparing the most delicious of dishes for her Sachin. Even on her birthdays. Those birthdays were fun. Really were.

But all that was before he identified himself with this burgeoning generation of conscious career minded individuals. Before he joined Gen X.

It fittingly took the coward to arrange a few words to reply to his wife’s question.

“ I did call her, but her phone was not reachable. I felt miserable about not being able to wish her. Infact I was thinking of buying her a nice gift this time…I’ve kept aside five thousand…You know what, we can go back to the home furnishings shop…or wait, how about that sari you were telling me about…I think Mummy will love something of your choice………………..”

He kept talking. But his words didn’t reach his mother, who was fast asleep in another part of thr world, with moisture collecting on her cheeks.

Toilet Paper - 1

2009-02-23T10:01:00.000-08:00

After a long hiatus, I wear the gown of the tainted caviar once again. This one is for, and inspired by Faraz, my fellow social analyst. For most of you, this post will seem exaggerated and unecessary, perhaps in some cases even blasphemous. I only remembered Dylan’s fine words in ‘The Times They Are A Changing’ as I wrote this .

'Come mothers and fathers /Throughout the land / And don't criticize / What you can't understand / Your sons and your daughters / Are beyond your command / Your old road is / Rapidly aging / Please get out of the new one / If you can't lend your hand / For the times they are a-changin'.

A word of thanks to Faraz and Sritanu for helping me make the edges finer. :-)

Deliriously scanning the abundant options that lay before her on the dressing table, she began her hour long preparation for hosting her son's soon to be in laws. Garnished in a fashionable maroon sari, Tulsi decided to leave no stone unturned in her efforts to please her guests. After all, this was about a potential family union, and, all said and done, it was important that the guests got a feel of the status of the family their daughter would get married into. Tulsi set about the only task that her parochial and insular mind-frame best allowed her to perform – a fashionable look.

I’d love to write a few words about Tulsi, and as it turns out, a few words are all that I have. She struggled to pass out of high school – failed in mathematics in her board exams – and chose wisely to opt out of college education. Her parents married her off to a wealthy businessman in Gujarat, and since then she has done few more things of consequence than breast feed her five children. Any more words on her, and I’d feel, out of justice, the need to write a piece on a pebble in one of the coasts of Malabar.

Her son, Ram, was twenty five and still unmarried. She had been persuading him to tie the knot with the daughter of an associate of her husband. It was, in her eyes, plain unwise to keep a good rishtha on the hold for so long – the girl came from a noble family with several fat bank accounts, a marble floored villa with ten servants that (as against who) attended to them. Hence, she was a good girl. The only potential stiletto in this affair was the subject of the girl’s looks. Tulsi was yet to see the lovely lady.

Cut to the present. Tulsi dressed her hair in a traditional manner – yes, tradition went hand in hand with religion and race. The maroon sari and the maroon lip stick blended exquisitely. She was ready – ready to gift her son a woman to go to bed with.

She made a quick call to her husband, who seemed to be running late with a series of meetings lined up for the evening. Work is worship – so she did not want to create a sense of immediacy in this matter. Plus in her society, the rich Indian society, a woman simply could not be impudent enough to be telling her husband when to wind up his work. She quietly made a note of this on her laundry list – the girl she would soon visit needed to be obedient, and if need be, ready to subjugate herself to her husband’s emotional and physical needs. The man, her son, would be the bread earner. Well, in their case, let’s call him the diamond earner. Yes, the son should be given enough space to bring home the diamonds.

Although the girl had earned herself a masters degree in economics, and was presently employed with a bank, Tulsi thought it short work to convince her to renounce her employment. In an attempt to be logical, she felt that divorce rates in India were going up because of women choosing their own careers. Not that she had read a report on divorce rates – she’d never read anything except her prayer book – but a fellow member of her kitty party had made this point last week. Kitty parties were often her window to current affairs, and the vaginal dialogues were surely a treat to experience. The new generation was beginning to displease her by the day – women were being educated, relationships of love and romance were acceptable amongst youngsters, religion was not being taken seriously, women had increased tolerance towards the consumption of alcohol – a host of social changes that unsettled our Tulsi. She remained a naysayer, a cynic through this apocalyptic social reformation. Not only were some of her son’s friends atheists, some of them even had Muslim friends. Her good sense had prevailed, and Tulsi never let a Muslim walk past the doors of her house. Krishna, and Ram, and Bhramha, and Shiv, and Lakshmi and Saraswati would not forgive her for it. Never.

Our class conscious woman then makes herself comfortable in front of the television. She would miss her favourite Ekta Kapoor soaps today, because the guests were expected any moment. Yes- Ekta Kapoor was her partner in this contemptuous attack on the changing Indian society. Her artistery, and febrile works brought out the delicacies in our social fabric, a fabric that needed to be maintained, preserved. A culture that could not be compromised with the changing times. A set of values that need to be frozen in time regardless of the changing socio-economic and political situation in the country, in the world. To be fair to her, she has a point. As long as the floor in her mansion remained marbled, why would she take the trouble of engaging herself with a social evolution. I mean, one can understand if one has to change one’s beliefs based on an economic requirement. Even today, she had budgeted for 50 lakhs for her son’s wedding. Actually ‘budget’ is a big word in this context, but if you add the 10 lakhs that came as gifts, presents and other sophisticated words that sound better than dowry, then one had to question the very need of trying to make a social change.

The doorbell rang. The guests were slowly ushered in by the trained servants. Tulsi directed her focus on the girl. Her skin was dark. Darker than her son’s.

Our protagonist needs to get back to work –she has to somehow find a way out of this. Her son simply didn’t deserve this. She uttered a silent yet trembling prayer to Lord Krishna, and slowly set about her task.

3rd February

2009-02-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

The road ahead bends once, bends twice,
Where only fools rush in, say the wise,
I’m a trained jester, with a pair of lonesome eyes,
Caught in the wrong place, where only my mind applies
The verdict of this tainted life-elect,
Is measured by the minutes spent in retrospect,
In the hour of darkness, hour of strife,
You make all the difference in my life
But I just can’t stop hoping in vain,
To be that little boy once again.

When I couldn’t count two and two,
When I didn’t know who’s who
When I couldn’t use a knife or a spoon,
When I didn’t know how to blow a balloon,
A surreal calm had protected my world,
My vision was never quite so blurred,
In my bland existence, a butterless toast,
You’re the ones I miss the most,
But I just can’t stop hoping in vain,
To be that little boy once again.

Blessed am I who had you around
Who kept my feet firmly to the ground
Who taught me the simple things in life,
Things I’d never learn from my wife,
Thank you for that extra sweat,
That you rolled out for me without regret
And now that my words are nearly through,
I want to wish Happy Anniversary to my dearest two,
You’re the reason I am,
For me God and you are one and the same,
And I just can’t stop hoping in vain,
To be that little boy once again.

Turn to the rain and the wind

2009-02-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

Percy's Song - Bob Dylan

Bad news, bad news,
Come to me where I sleep,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin' one of your friends
Is in trouble deep,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Tell me the trouble,
Tell once to my ear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Joliet prison And ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Oh what's the charge
Of how this came to be,
Turn, turn, turn again.
ManslaughterIn the highest of degree,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

I sat down and wrote
The best words I could write,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Explaining to the judge I'd be there on Wednesday night,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Without a reply,
I left by the moon,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And was in his chambers
By the next afternoon,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Could ya tell me the facts?
I said without fear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
That a friend of mine
Would get ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

A crash on the highway
Flew the car to a field,
Turn, turn, turn again.
There was four persons killed
And he was at the wheel,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

But I knew him as good
As I'm knowin' myself,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And he wouldn't harm a life
That belonged to someone else,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

The judge spoke
Out of the side of his mouth,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin', "The witness who saw,
He left little doubt,"
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

That may be true,
He's got a sentence to serve,
Turn, turn, turn again.
But ninety-nine years,
He just don't deserve,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Too late, too late,
For his case it is sealed,
Turn, turn, turn again.
His sentence is passed
And it cannot be repealed,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

But he ain't no criminal
And his crime it is none,
Turn, turn, turn again.
What happened to him
Could happen to anyone,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

And at that the judge jerked forward
And his face it did freeze,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin', "Could you kindly leave
My office now, please,
"Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Well his eyes looked funny
And I stood up so slow,
Turn, turn, turn again.
With no other choice
Except for to go,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

I walked down the hallway
And I heard his door slam,
Turn, turn, turn again.
I walked down the courthouse stair
sAnd I did not understand,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

And I played my guitar
Through the night to the day,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And the only tune
My guitar could play
Was, "Oh the Cruel Rain
And the Wind."

A Beautiful World

2009-02-01T02:45:00.000-08:00

I see beauty in handwritten letters, in knitted sweaters, sometimes even in gutters
I see beauty in a flooded street, in a rock n roll beat, sometimes even in polio feet
I see beauty in the innocent eyes, in your harmless lies, sometimes even in hopeless sighs
I see beauty in lemon fish, or in any other dish, sometimes even in an unclaimed wish
I see beauty in a beggar's bowl, in a lonely soul, sometimes even in a mine of coal,
I see beauty in vanilla ice cream, in an interrupted dream, sometimes even in a flat hymn.
I see beauty in morning walks, in old wall clocks, sometimes even in electric shocks.

Beauty lies in the beholders eyes, even if your cosmetics think otherwise.

I see beauty in mickey mouse, in a doll house, sometimes even in petulant spouse
I see beauty in a spelling class, in a steel glass, sometimes even in untrimmed grass
I see beauty in your nightgown, when you're lying down, sometimes even in your ugly frown
I see beauty in my unkempt hair, in my absent minded stare, sometimes even in my shabby officewear
I see beauty in the marketplace, in the parent's hundred metre race, sometimes even in your open shoe lace
I see beauty in everything that is, in the birds and the bees, the forests and trees.

Beauty lies in the beholders eyes, even if your cosmetics think otherwise.

The zero sum game - someone wins, someone loses

2009-01-29T10:12:00.000-08:00

you know i hate this feeling, sittin around chillin, my pod playing dylan
watching people get fired, people unwired, man im so tired,
peolpe buzzing like bees, demanding more fees,
when all that this world needs is just a little peace

you know i feel misplaced, workin in haste, cut copy paste
dressed in ties, dreaming of a rise, with their eloquent lies,
lambs in a lions cave, tryin to be brave
surrender their rights and workin like slaves

oh you dream bout that villa,
you wanna be the legand killer,
you’ll own a private jet with a mini bar set
your limosine it'll be yours for sure
as long as your slaves are willin to endure
this disgraceful strife
lose the rights to thier personal lives.

you know he feels he puts in his best, so he needs some rest, in his own house he's become a guest,
he shows up midnight, sometimes drunk sometimes allright, but doesnt have time to hold his wife tight,
his kid has forgotten his dad, and he feels really sad,
this aint the dream he had

you know she's making the right passes, lickin the right asses, of the rich higher classes,
shes doing some favours, and shes only getting braver, for attention shes a craver
hopin to rise on another man's plight, its the corporate world so its perfectly right,
to suck her supervisors cock at night

oh you dream bout that villa,
you wanna be the legand killer,
you’ll own a private jet with a mini bar set
your limosine it'll be yours for sure
as long as your slaves are willin to endure
this disgraceful strife
lose the rights to thier personal lives.

i know you're always right, you're the erudite, who am i to help set your visions right,
but think about the kid, every night he wishes his daddy did, come back home and see who mommy's with,
she calls the man sir, she lets him go down on her, and the boy is alone in a quiet corner,
you'll get your fame, you fucking shame
so let your baby boy be alone, who's to blame
its all in the spirit of the corporate game.

The pain and the rain – The Hate Song

2009-01-17T12:25:00.000-08:00

Surreal girl you play your magic tricks on me,
Make me dance to your imaginary tunes,
I dance I dance till I’m down to my knees,
Enthralled in craziness that I innocently festoon

Surreal girl with your naked charm that penetrates,
Like a knife that cuts the human heart
But as I stand here bleeding away my life
The delusion takes me back to the start

I’m not like them, I won’t regret
Some people feel the rain, others just get wet

Surreal girl you release the tyrant in me,
Unleash a monster that I’d carefully hidden,
You toyed, you played with my vulnerability,
You tasted my blood, my fruit forbidden

I could call you a bitch, I could live to hate
The Messiah of Satan, you delicious cheat,
I’m just another guy, with an ordinary dream,
To poison you to death, a revenge so sweet.

I’m not like them, I won’t regret
Some people feel the rain, others just get wet

The Brilliant Performer

2009-01-13T03:02:00.000-08:00

In the wake of a difficult economic scenario, I thought of writing something that most of us, affected or otherwise, might be able to relate to. The barrage of nearly antithetical messages that are composed by the Human Resource Divisions of the biggest organisations in the world are ambrosial to say the least, with a sense of flattery that tends to embarass. The dextrous use of language, expression and concern warms the blood in even the most cold blooded amongst us. I, for one, am moved to tears everytime I read or hear about these philanthrophists and their deeds. Perhaps a most consummate display of altruism is what it takes to carefully asses every individual and analyse where his talents lie. And they dont even charge us for it. In a world of soaring prices, we, the working class should stand up and appreciate this gesture.

Type 1 (e-mails)

Dear Mr. NotIntertestingEnough,

Thank you for your application in XYZ. Whilst your file was very interesting, we regret to inform you that we do not have a suitable opening for your profile. However, as soon as something comes up, we will definitely get in touch with you.

Thank you for your interest in XYZ, and we wish you all the very best.

Regards,
FaithlessHR.

Type 2 (verbal)

" Please sit down, Mr. You'reAboutToLoseYourJob. I would love to take this opportunity to tell you how happy we are with your performance in our organisation. Over the past 5 years, you have truly proved your worth to the entire organisation, and I would love to congratulate you on your performance thus far.

However, as you know, our organisation is going through some recent structural changes, and as a result we do not feel that we have a position which cater to your competencies. Due to this unfortunate lack of fit, we feel that you will be better able to utilise your skill set in another organisation. You may complete this month with us, and then subsequently move jobs. We will really miss your valued services, but we wish you the very best going forward in life."

Type 3 (Memo)

This is to inform that Mr. WeJustFiredHim has expressed his desire to pursue other career opportunitites, and has requested us to relieve him from his present duties immediately. Mr. WeJustFiredHim has had a very successful stint of 3 years in XYZ, where he contributed sufficiently in the growth and profitability of the Export Businesses of XYZ. Please join me in wishing him the very best in his future endeavours.

Faithless HR

* Not to be taken personally.

Layla

2009-01-08T03:08:00.000-08:00

Me name is Layla and this is me story.

Hail the Princess

Me born in 1973, in small village called Cantagalo near Rio in Brazil. In those days, most of the people used to work in coffee plantations and sugarcane plantations. Yeah, me Pa worked his finger to the bone, and his hardwork allowed workin’ people coffee breaks in other parts of the world. I don’t know meself what Mom did, Pa neva’ wanted to talk ‘bout her work. Me house was bordering the big fields, and me love to walk around with Pa during sunsets. Mom and Pa don’t make much money then, so we grow up in small hut without light and water. But me still remember that shack fondly. The floor was red, we had one small window with yellow curtains. Pa often stand in front of the window to smoke. I loved Pa, I really did. Pa thought I was a princess, me don’t know why. I neva’ thought he was King, but he thought me princess. Called me Princess Layla. Irony was that this Princess didn’t have no pretty dresses, no throne to sit on. No bedroom of her own. No servants. This princess had a set of dolls that Pa bought her hopin’ to keep alive the illusion. He always spoke to the dolls and asked ‘em to follow the royal instructions that came from me side. And then he’d take the dolls and make a very funny doll voice at shout “Hail the Princess.”

Pa neva came back from work before sunset, and almost always with a bottle in his hand. I dunno what was inside that bottle, but he sure seemed to love it. But sometimes me thought he went crazy when he drank that thing. Must’ve been hell tasty – but mom didn’t allow me to try it. When dad went crazy, he fought with mom. Mom threw things at him, and me neva’ know why. She shouted bad words and say that she leaving home with me. But me don’t ever wanna go away from my pa. When pa wasn’t crazy, he showed me how to read English. Me neva’ liked English, but pa said if I learnt English, me don’t have to live like mom. He told me that princesses outta know that language, and soon when me gonna be a queen me come on television and speak in English. Pa had a way of explainin’ things to me – but me still remember the three things he asked me to remember – first, to be a good and honest girl, second – to work hard and third - to stay away from bad habits. When me ask Pa what bad habits mean he didn’t reply. He said – Princess, just remember these. And smiled. Pa taught me numbers also, and sometime when I learnt how to add ‘em, Pa left home for good. Me cried that night sittin’ alone outside the house.

Pa left when Mom was carrying me brother. I don’t know where Pa is today, but I miss Pa like hell. I miss being a princess. I miss the delusion that transformed my shack to a castle. I miss the unrealities. I miss his cigarette smoke. Adrian was born in three months time, but I neva’ moved on to learn subtraction.

The Man in the white hat

In the early 80s, we were a tiny little family, with Mom workin’ pretty hard for our eatin’. Adrian loved football, and me wanted to see Adrian play for me country sometime. He had that dream too, and me wanted to buy him good shoes coz he get hurt too often on the ground. Adrian played with the boys in the neighborhood, and me started working in a big house – cleanin’ the dishes and wipin’ the floor. Didn’t make much money outta that, but I was happy to help mom out.

There was some issue with the land we had where Pa used to work, and Mom had to surrender it to the community. Don’t know what happens there now, but me miss that part of my life, where me walk around uselessly on the fields. Mom said it aint a good idea for me to be walkin around anymore, because I was attainin puberty, and bad guys would wanna take me to be bed with ‘em. Was that one of the 3 things Pa warned me of? Me don’t know. Pa neva’ spoke about Mom’s work, but methinks me knows now. White people used to come to me house very late in the night, and Mom would ask us to sit outside on the steps till the white man left. Me and Adrian used to hear Mom scream inside, sometimes for very long. It was from her we first heard the word ‘fuck’, coz she used to scream that word pretty often. Me sat outside and hold Adrian really tight, and he cried on me shoulder. Maybe Mom didn’t know English, and that’s why she be screaming all night. Me hated sittin on those steps, waitin for that bastard to leave and we’d enter the house, see Mom crying naked with her hands coverin her face. These white people used to beat up mom every night. The house smelt of alcohol and cigarettes. Mom used to have scratch marks on her body, badly bruised. These men always left fixin their pants, and they’d always take off their shirt to beat Mom. But for some reason, they always left some money on the table. They paid mom to beat her nude. We used those Reals to eat food the next day.

But me know me didn’t wanna get beaten up so bad to get some money. Me decided to learn English again, but sadly there wasn’t no one to help me out.

Mom had an appetite for gettin beaten, and that scared me. Me remember this one night when there were four men – with bottles in hand and actin pretty crazy – stormed into me house screamin Maria (yeah, that was Mom’s name). Me told mom we weren’t leavin the house coz she would die if four men beat her black n blue. One of those men, and this guy was black, like me, took me and Adrian by our collars and pushed us out. I remember that night for 2 things, one – because Adrian started smoking that night (he was only 7) and two – because I looked through the keyhole to see if mom was alive.

Mom was a prostitute havin’ sex to pay for Adrian’s football boots and me food.

Me was 16 in 1989, and me slowly started feelin’ comfortable about English. Me decided what me wanna do in life…wanted to teach kids. In Rio and in Cantagalo, there were more bunnies who didn’t know no English nor Math. Those girls also cleaned their master’s homes and kept themselves alive. But not all of them were lucky enough to have a Pa to tell ‘em what to do. They lived in ivory towers, oblivious of the beautiful world around. Methinks I’d do a good job at primary school. In our part of the world, the girls either cleaned homes or posed nude in beaches. Me wanted our girls to look dignified, you know, like the white women. They dress up like the men do. In suits. They speak nice English, and drive good cars. We weren’t born any different, so me didn’t know why we had to tolerate this life for too long.

Mom had customers over every night, and I was big enough to walk around with Adrian outside in the market till those assholes left. In the marketplace, people used to play radio and some pretty fancy dancers be dancin’ to nice reggae. They call it Samba then. Me always take Adrian here, coz me see him smile when he here. We didn’t need to sit on those steps any more. We knew mom wasn’t gettin beaten up. She was just intercoursin’, and yeah, if me didn’t tell you already, me already hated her. There were bright lights in the marketplace, and right up to midnight there used to be hummin’ of human voices. Me loved it. Me checked out some shops there – some doll shops, and me remember bein a princess once. Adrian like goin to the toy car shop, but me never felt good bout it coz we neva had no money to buy him those. But just seein some people smile felt good, man, really did.

One night we came back to me home at around one in the morning, and found Mom sittin with a white guy who was smoking a cigar. He had a white hat on his head, and was in black denims. Me thinks they were waitin for us to come back, coz the man looked at me and gave me a smile. Mom had a fat bundle of notes in her hand, and a stream of tear rollin down her eyes.

“Layla, you’ll be workin with Mr Brown from tomorrow. He is takin you with him to America. You will have a good life – he’s gonna make you a movie star. You don’t need to live here no more. Be good to him. I’ll take care of AD. I’m puttin him in a soccer scout group, you don’t need to worry bout him.”

And with those words, me life came crashin down on me. I knew what kind of movies mom was puttin’ me up for. No, me didn’t wanna take this nonsense anymore. Me have a life, and me wanna live a good life, be a good teacher. Me don’t wanna get sold for visual pleasures. I know me family got no money, but me learnin English well. Pa would love to see me spend time with the kids in our village, helpin’ them become someone. Everybody looks happy in Brazil, but the dirty tapestry makes me shameful of who we are, where we come from. Me tellin’ you, me wasn’t born to live the degraded life of a ‘movie star’.

On November 17th ’89, mom sold me to Sean Brown, and I only looked at Adrian weepin and reachin his hand out to me, as I left the shack with the man in the white hat.

The Industry [Taken from a paper on ‘The Ethical Consumer’, in 2006]

Pornography is an enormous business, with estimated worldwide sales of over $57 billion.

Although costs are low, with most mainstream porn movies costing only $5-10,000 to produce, multinational corporations are involved in selling the end products, for instance through the pay-per-view channels available in many hotel chains or the distribution of pornographic DVDs and magazines.

Child pornography is the area which most concerns anti-porn campaigners and is most often considered in the context of abuses of the human rights of society’s most vulnerable members. Much child porn is produced by underground abuse networks and individuals and is separate from the kind of corporate responsibility concerns that EC deals with, although some internet service providers have been criticised for not acting strongly enough to close down child porn websites.

Sometimes, however, the lines are blurred, for instance in 2004 when Spearmint Rhino became the subject of controversy over the discovery that a 15-year-old stripper had been employed in its Birmingham lap dancing club, or when some tabloid newspapers are found to routinely run ads for sex telephone lines with slogans such as “take off my school uniform” and “virgin/teenager.”

Psychological experiments conducted in the 1980s suggested that repeated exposure to porn gave the male subjects more and more extreme tastes, caused them to be desensitised to the sufferings of rape and child abuse victims, and gave them inaccurate ideas of the commonness of extreme sexual practices.

The proliferation of ‘porn star’ t-shirts and a few big names like Jenna Jameson have created a myth of glamour around the porn industry. In reality, most porn movies are made cheaply, paying low wages once the costs of production are covered. In addition, the conditions under which some actresses work range from the dispiriting to the abusive.

In 1977, porn actress Georgia Stark told Newsweek that: “the first film I made was really a downer. Afterwards I started to think about suicide. But after a while I got so used to it I could do the Eleanor Rigby thing – you know, leave your mind in a jar by the door. Then I’d know I’m just an animal and they are taking pictures of an animal.”

As well as the abusive treatment of women in the porn industry, other health and safety issues exist. A series of high-profile porn star deaths from AIDS-related illness in the 1980s led to a general policy of frequent tests for actors, but the long incubation period of HIV means that this is not foolproof. Mainstream porn films rarely show condoms being used, and frequently include unprotected high-risk acts, endangering the actors and perpetuating the idea that safe sex is less arousing.

CaviarSpeak

Friends, the idea behind this post was not to pose as a moral policeman in a matter where I have, as much as any of you, been guilty of helping the industry grow exponentially. In fact, it must’ve been while watching one of those millions released every year when I was hit by the idea to know more about the social and environmental damage that it has on women. Actually, I don’t even know if there is a solution to this, where we can reduce the number of sex crimes being committed on some very regular girls like Layla. If nothing, let this go down as an attempt by the tainted caviar to increase awareness on a crime that is convenient for all of us to preserve, much like the diamond industry. In one industry, 90% of the victims are men and 90% of the consumers are women, while in the other it is exactly the other way around. But for men and women to survive in this world happily, I think it is fair to say that there’s lot of place for diamonds and lust.

Nameless

2008-12-31T00:46:00.000-08:00

This then is the last post in the first year of my blogging career. As always, it’s largely fictional yet says something that I would want to say, but for my poor articulation. Its been kept short and to the point. Readers of this blog are very few in number, but here’s wishing each of you a good year ahead. Let us all be better individuals, and let the world be a better place to live in.

Somewhere inside the ghettos of Calcutta, a broken lane filled with the stench and garbage of the city was home to a man and two street dogs. He had been there for many years, waking up everyday with the hope of seeing a new expression on the dogs’ faces. Perhaps the only real change to look forward to. The lane was filled with muck - his own, the dog’s and some street children’s. He had a dual-purpose bowl with him. Sometimes he’d go over to the nearest lunch canteen to pick up some rice and curry, perhaps the leftovers for the day. Other times he dipped the bowl in the nearby lake to wash it, then dry it by wiping it on his singular piece of body cloth and sit on the sidewalk hoping to fill it up with a few coins, at the pity of some of the more big hearted passer-bys. Tonight he noticed something different in the air. He was closer to the elements than most human beings, sometimes the elements being his only friends. The elements told him that tonight was different. Some firecrackers were set off in other parts of the city, and he could hear them. Some people were possibly celebrating. But for what?

He looked at the black dog. Nothing new about his expression. But everytime a cracker went off, the dog ran for cover. Very typical with dogs. And human beings like him. There were no passer-bys tonight, so he couldn’t really make sense of the time. Perhaps it would be wise to sleep the night off. But he was hungry, and he wanted to grab something to eat before calling it a night. But where else would he get food except inside the garbage bin. Some people threw unfinished bananas inside garbage bins. That was lunch for him when the canteen chose not to offer food.

Suddenly the dark skies lit up with fireworks. A majestic sight really. He was not so fortunate so see such things very often. But here he saw tails of light dancing in the skies, forming patterns like a kaleidoscope. Sometimes they’d make the shape of a star, sometimes they’d merge into a triangle. Sometimes they’d dance in circles, and circles would overlap and subsequently merge into bigger circles. The circus of the fire, he thought. They’d reach the highest point and do their little jig before falling back slowly to earth. In slow motion, nearly.

He wanted to jump in joy. He thanked God for this wonderful spectacle, this lovely gift for a pair of eyes that had seen very little of this kind.

Everywhere else in the city, the fireworks in the sky was accompanied by new years greetings, hugs, kisses and resolutions.

So to that friend of mine who wanted to jump like a child at the fire display – Happy New Year. Everyone deserves it, and so do you.

Boyfriend – Girlfriend

2008-12-21T04:16:00.000-08:00

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

She smiled.

“So we’re gonna be boyfriend girlfriend?”

“Yes. Forever.”

He was lost for words. She was officially his girlfriend. He would go back to school and tell his friends that he had a girlfriend. No more loose talks. This was going to be so serious. It didn’t matter to him that he was only in ninth grade, what mattered was that now nothing would stop him from marrying her. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, for the first time in his life, he made a mark on his calendar. He’d known her for only a week, but now he was preparing himself to know her for the rest of his life. He ran through his wallet. Two ten rupee notes. A good plan would be ask Ma for ten rupees for a small Pepsi and a cricket ball, and actually keep that in the wallet also. That would make it thirty. Another twenty bucks from his sister. With fifty expensive rupees in his pocket, he would be able to buy her a nice “I Love You” card from Archies Gallery (fifteen rupees) gift wrapped carefully, ribboned with a Dairy Milk chocolate (another ten rupees) and a Bollywood audio cassette (twenty five there). For a second he encouraged a silly thought of being gifted on Valentine’s Day. But then again, he jerked off the thought – after all, he was the guy, gifting was his business.

Sunday morning, he woke up with romantic aspirations. Today was going to be his first date, with the woman who he thought he was going to get married to. He had seen plenty of movies on broken relationships, and his recent inquest of Sidney Sheldon books had also made him cognizant of physical relationships that couldn’t survive the test of emotions. But no, his girl was a one of her kind. And he would show the world how to oil the machine as far as long-term relationships were concerned.

He picked up the phone. Dialed her landline number. He prayed to hear her voice on the other side of the call.

“Hello”, answered a husky male voice.

Click. He hung up. Somewhere hoped that she got the hint. He imagined the voice reverberating a few hellos and then hanging up in despair “Aajkal barite khub beshi blank call aasha shuru hoyeche.” But the voice wouldn’t know that they were boyfriend girlfriend. No, not now. This had to be a well-kept secret.

He rushed into the bathroom. Forgot his towel, so came back running into the room. The phone was ringing. His mom answered the call, but kept saying hello for a minute or two before hanging up. He got the signal.

He looked into the mirror of his bathroom. Checked his teeth. Today was probably a good day to oil his hair and then shampoo it. He hated his semi grown facial hair, and he wasn’t getting an opportunity to shave just yet. Ma-Baba had asked him to wait till his ICSE. Another year and a half. Long time. He took a long shower and cleaned himself well. Probably applied more soap on his body than he had applied in the entire week. His hair glowed because of the oil, and was fluffy because of the shampoo. He thought it would be nice to middle part his hair, just like John. John was very popular with the girls. Very poor in studies but everybody in school thought John looked very good, which is why he was always seen on Sports Day with some neighborhood schoolgirl. He made a middle parting and came out of the washroom.

“Kothai jaacho? Ishhh…chool tar ki obostha korecho. Puro joker laagche.” {Where are you going? Look at your hair, you look like a joker}

“Sujay er baari te. Cricket khelte.” {Going over to Sujay's place to play cricket}

He rushed to phone and called up Sujay. Made the instructions very clear. DO NOT CALL UP AT MY PLACE FOR THE NEXT 2 HOURS. Then boasted about his date. Sujay was more excited than him. He congratulated him, and asked him how many people in school were permitted to know about this recent development. They together decided it best to keep to their group for the time being, and then maybe later talk about it outside. That sounded good. Maybe after a few days he would atleast tell some of his classmates that he had a girlfriend. He decided he wouldn’t call it an ‘affair’. That would make things sound corny. He didn’t want that – he wanted to preserve the sanctity of a relationship that was definitely going the distance. He checked his wardrobe for ‘cool’ t-shirts. Denims were the in-thing. He wore a light blue denim shirt and dark blue jeans. The t-shirt hung out. Gave the impression that he was cool and Gen X.

Before leaving for his first date, he finished the last chore that needed to be completed to ensure safety. He told his sister that he was going out to meet the girl who would eventually become her ‘boudi’. Just don’t tell ma anything about it ok?, he said. And ya, don’t call up at Rahul’s place either. If ma is getting worried, just tell her that you’ve just spoken to me and I have confirmed that I am on my way back home.

He ran down and entered his car. Gave the driver clear instructions. Come back and confirm to ma baba that you dropped me at Sujay’s place. The three people he trusted the most – Sujay, his sister and his driver. Three people who’d be able to say on the day of the marriage that they knew it all along. Wow…that felt good.

The wheels began to turn. The rest, they say is history.

Lets have a look back at history. Yes, the date happened. He considered holding her hand once, but the possibility of a known person catching them on the same road scared him off. Valentine’s Day happened. He gave her his fifty-rupee gift. She didn’t give him anything. She was his greatest gift, he had reconciled on the day. In course of time, phone calls also happened. Without signals. They figured out a solution. A three ring missed call meant that he would call her back in five minutes. Archies online happened. He loved designing e-cards for her and writing messages for her, and then mailing her the cards. People in school got to know about the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ thing. They thought highly of him. He told some of his cousins about her, and he planned a meeting for all of them to see her. One more thing happened in the course of the next six months – he dedicated a Backstreet Boys song for her on the dial in show on radio. And recorded it also. Just in case she missed it.

Those were the days. He broke up with her in about a year’s time. Grew up slowly. Did well in his board exams. Returned twenty bucks to his sister after getting money on his birthday. Prepared for IIT and then studied engineering somewhere else. Lost touch with Sujay. Met plenty of women in his life. Dated some. No V-Days, no e-cards, no radio shows. No keeping secrets. No fear of landlines (mobile phones ruled the roost). No marriage discussions. Just regular grown up relationships. The mature ones, you know. Practical, wise and clever. Always open to the idea of moving on.

Do you miss those days if you think this one was about you?

Pain - Ultimate

2008-12-20T04:09:00.000-08:00

“ This romeo is bleeding
But you can't see his blood
It's nothing but some feelings
That this old dog kicked up
It's been raining since you left me
Now I'm drowning in the flood
You see I've always been a fighter
But without you I give up "

He was getting nervous. Very nervous.

Dressed in his traditional wedding attire, he sat trembling on one side of the flower laden bed. The bride was in red, colourful ‘mehendi’ garnishing her soft hands and head hiding quietly inside the head scarf carefully grafted out of her red sari. He could steal a few glances at her nubile body, and it clearly appeared as though she allowed him those minor thefts. There was still some distance between the two, and the inevitable union of man and woman would bridge that sooner than later.

He was doing well for himself, for the most part at least. He kept pace with the unbearable rat race, and yes, he knew that he was also en route to becoming a rat. His investments were made in the right places, and his resume was on the desks of the biggest companies across the globe. Some responded with statements like “You’re profile is very good, but unfortunately we don’t have a vacancy for the kind of position that will suit you best.” But he did not stop running, nor did he wish to. He was planning to finish the race, with best intentions of winning.

But all that did not stop him from feeling nervous about the moment. Growing up, he had heard colloquial jokes, anecdotes and legacies about the ‘first night.’ Tonight it seemed that he had crossed the proverbial bridge, and was on the other side of the river. Yet, despite all that, something inside of him had died even before he reached this point.

Sometime during his years in the University of Life, he fell in love, or so he thought. His love for the maiden didn’t elude him for as long as his memory served him right. In other words, he was thinking all along about his childhood sweetheart while accepting gifts, flowers and envelopes with one rupee coins on the outside and crispy notes inside.

The woman in red took a miniscule step towards him. He also noticed that she was showing him more of her naked skin, as well as her cleavage. Did she expect him to move closer to her, hold her hand, kiss her softly on her cheeks and stroke her hair? Myriad thoughts clogged his head, and he decided it was best to stay put. He didn’t move an inch.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?”

That caught him unawares. It seemed difficult for him to travel metaphysically through two different worlds. He wasn’t thinking of the real answer to her question. He thought of how he could quell her doubts without giving a good answer to her question. Happiness, after all, is a very vague and subjective term.

He smiled. A smile would always work as the best rhetoric in moments like this. He would be happy to talk to her about his life in general, his life outside this bed. On the up side, he did not feel too uncomfortable with the thought of holding her hand. But surely, he did not want to get naked, or see her naked, or make love to her.

She moved out of the bed, and walked around it, coming closer to him. She took steps that could be called feminine, with the sound of her anklets causing mounting tension in the room. He noticed that she had not made any efforts to get her sari back in position; in fact he could easily see a lot of her skin as she walked towards him. Wearing a mischievous smile on her face, she calmly came and sat beside him and held his hand. She moved her body closer to his, and he could feel her breasts nudge his firm chest.

“Bolo mujhe, tum khush ho na”

“Yes, of course I am.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and moved her neck closer to his lips. He wanted to bite her on her neck, but that was purely a sexually enticing moment for him. The nervousness had not escaped his body, and his non perusal on matters of sex didn’t allow him to make the move she wanted him to make. She waited for a minute or two, but his senility made her try a little harder. No Indian woman fancies making the first move, but she wanted to free herself from the shackles of an unwanted virginity. She had waited for the right man, the right moment. She took his hand and placed it on her soft breasts, helping him caress them gently. He withdrew, obnoxiously.

She started to unbutton her blouse slowly, but he placed his hand firmly on hers, and said “It’s getting late, I think we should sleep.”

She felt a stab right through her heart. She smiled, but felt a tear in the corner of her eye. She had heard that he was a fun loving, energetic person-who had lived his life along the lines of Kurt Cobain’s “Its better to burn out than fade away.”

“ Now I can't sing a love song
Like the way it's meant to be
Well, I guess I'm not that good anymore
But baby, that's just me "

[The references in this piece are from Always-Bon Jovi]

Oh Calcutta

2008-12-20T04:08:00.000-08:00

I think it’s fair to say that we don’t put weekends into context till we have reached that stage in our life where we have to ‘earn our daily bread.’ When the final touches of my week long work are administered on Thursdays, I feel like I am emancipating my mind and body from what we often hear of as ‘stress’. What ensues over the next 48 or so hours is typically my definition of a ‘weekend life.’

It is on weekends that I get my time out from the frenzy of private limiteds and get to absorb the cosmopolitan world around me. Dubai – the big daddy of the world’s riches, the home of the world’s tallest towers and the parliament of the world’s Ferraris and Lamborghinis. I don’t get myself through a weekend without a can of Heineken or my favourite Jack and Coke. I seem to love strolling around with empty shopping carts in the biggest and the wondrous malls of the world. In the night time, we hop into convoys of Hondas and Mercedes to arrive at the busiest nightclubs of Dubai. Thumping beats from the latest Bose surround sound speakers get our feet tapping right up to the wee hours of the morning. That’s Dubai, and my weekend life in the city.
Question is, how the hell did I get myself here.

The story begins in a city that Dominic Lapierre once called the city of Joy. Growing up in the noisy and smoke filled Dhakuria, by the bridge side, I lived and breathed Kolkata city for all the 22 years of my life I lived there. Hopping off the school bus meant that I had to run the fastest sprint of my life to get back home, slip into my sporting gear and head back out on to the streets to play ‘gully cricket’ with my ‘para friends’. Each of them were called by funny pet names, like Bhombol and Motku (yes, you’ve heard these before). These guys were our best friends outside school, and played cricket with us right up to the time one of them tasted his first Navy Cut cigarette of his life. That would imply that he was now a ‘dada’ and had other things to prioritise on.

Sometimes cricket sessions would get the better of us, and we would be devoid of any physical energy after the end of a game between 2 bitter ‘para’ rivals. This would be the best time to hop onto Motku’s cycle and hitch a ride up to Rabindra Sarabar Lake, where ‘Shonkorda’ sold one rupee Pepsi sticks. Ma never approved of ‘Pepsi’ as she felt that they mixed chemicals and colour to produce that taste. However, few things were available for 50 paise, and at my pocket money, ‘Pepsi’ was probably the only thing I could afford. Motku would offer us a nice ride back home, and it would be time for homework with Ma’s glaring stares welcoming me in.

Greener pastures were found in Park Street, figuratively speaking. The Connought Place and Piccadilly Circus of Kolkata is home to the best Chinese restaurants and roll shops of the city. Music World on Park Street was the most incredible thing I had seen in my high school days. The very thought of an air conditioned music shop with juke boxes in it was overwhelming for a music junkie. Park Street, as a matter of fact, was also home to schools that treated each other as arch-rivals, but at the same time, churned out brilliant students year after year. There were days when I walked down Park Street in my Xaverian uniform and exchanged silent nasty glares with Martinians in their yellow and blue ties. Park Street!

As years went by, Park Street became the same road that had Park Hotel on it, and Park Hotel of course had Someplace Else in it. Someplace Else represented a shelter for me, a shelter where like minded souls gathered. Where mundane dwellings and silent nights traded places for clouds of smoke, pitchers of beer and Nondon Bagchi singing Wonderful Tonight with Hip Pocket. Park Street stayed on in my life like a story unfinished, while the rest of the action shifted towards College Street.

In the 3 years that elapsed between 2002 and 2005, I found myself spending a considerable amount of time in College Street. I doubt if I will ever be as possessed with the legacy of a street as I was with College Street. No Music World, no Someplace Else, but College Street introduced me to a world of organised protests, coffee houses and book shops. It showed me tram lines, bus number 240 and small food shops with names like Putinam. You can earn in dollars or dirham, but nothing quite compares to the four rupee snack at Putiram. If you know what I’m talking about, you’re smiling now.

Truly, there was simplicity in the way we lived our lives then. Putiram is long gone; I look for value meals in McDonalds. Music World seems insignificant in front of Virgin Music Store. The Lakes don’t seem to provide the same atmosphere that the Cornice in Dubai does. Someplace Else looks very small in front of the Buddha Bars and the Ministry of Sounds of the world. The one rupee Pepsi sticks have now been replaced by Heineken cans worth five bucks each. And yes, no Motku will drop me home in his cycle-far from it, we’re talking of the Chevys and Hondas and the Nissans here.

I’m having sex with life here. But as the saying goes, no one forgets his first kiss. I love you, Kolkata and I always will.

June

2008-12-20T04:05:00.000-08:00

Oh Juno, what did you do, and honestly why?
She fell in love with another guy,
Footsteps in the sand got washed with the tides,
Destiny said Romeo must die,
And I dreamt of a night in silver leaves and moon,
With wedding bells and the singing chores,
But all I got in the month of June.
Were some get-well soons, and I-don’t-love-you-anymore’s.

Oh Juno, what did you do, d’you think its right?
You kissed me dead with roses white
The golden letters that carved our names,
Rusted with time, through day and night,
And I dreamt of days with children in arms,
Little toys watching them grow,
But all I got in the month of June,Were some get-well soons, and I-don’t-love-you-anymore’s.

The Monalisa Lover

2008-12-20T01:56:00.000-08:00

It was snowing outside. It had been for the last seven days.

There was a faint smile on his face as he walked through the snow to enter the New England Coffee Shop right opposite the St. James Park, Newcastle. The café was decorated with jerseys and posters of the Newcastle Football Club hero Alan Shearer, and Ka made a short registration of that. He was glad to have spent good money on his gloves, for the winter for slowly getting the better of him. He wasn’t one for coffee, and neither was the person he was eagerly waiting to meet.

The PA system inside the café was playing an old Elton John song that was written for New York City. He heard in the background the words that were written by Elton’s main man, Bernie Taupin – “And I thank the lord theres people out there like you, I thank the lord there’s people out there like you”…Ka had loved this song since his freshman year in college. He used to call his girl-friend MonaLisa at the time, and yes he was the mad hatter that Bernie and Elton wrote about in the song.

A few words about our man, Ka. His name is not Ka. His name is Shloka, and his friends in London found it impossibly difficult to pronounce that, and so his dorm name, so to speak, became Ka. His mother gave him the name after being profoundly impacted by the character in the book, The Last Son of Dusk, a book she read during her masters. Ka secured good grades in India, and like most good Indian students who came from affluent families, he flew West for his higher studies in Political Sciences. After spending 5 years in London, Ka moved to political journalism, and that was what brought him to Newcastle for the weekend.

The words of the song in the background trickled into Ka through his ears. The snow wasn’t going to let go, and Ka began to worry of being disappointed. But while the music was on, Ka felt like a romantic hero from an Elton John pop song of the seventies, who had set off to meet the woman who had been haunting his dreams for years. But Ka had not always been haunted by Nandini, even though in his mind was the vision of a woman very much like her. It was only upon chance that Ka found out that Nandini was in Newcastle, and that’s when he seriously began to think of her again. Today he sat clad in a warm brown leather jacket and expensive gloves, keen to stoke his feelings with music and romanticism.

Nandini entered the café in, what seemed from a distance, an expensive winter dress she might have picked up from Times Square. Elegantly, she came and pulled up a chair opposite Ka and made herself comfortable. There was half a smile on her lips, but that went unnoticed.

As soon as he looked at her, all thoughts of music and romanticism vanished into thin air. For Nandini looked even more beautiful now than she did during their university days. Her well chiselled out face, with fair skin, long eyes and deep colour on her lips seemed to nearly unsettle Ka. With studied composure, Ka smiled at Nandini, as though to welcome her, though the two of them always spoke in ways that did not necessarily involve much sound and noise.

“On my way here, I noticed a lot of fans gathering up for the soccer game. And cameras. You don’t follow soccer anymore?”, she said, hoping to break the awkward silence.

They quickly gathered composure and began talking of various things. Nandini was always good with men’s topics, like football, alcohol or politics. That probably what Ka liked most about his friend. Since the time he used to meet her in his jumper shorts in the wee hours of the morning, only to sort out the misunderstandings of the previous night, to this day, where both were clearly dressed for an occasion- Ka knew that they had not lost the connect. Despite that, it took some effort for them to maintain conversation, though both applied themselves to the task with admirable effort. At least they could both discuss the snow with ease. After that came Ka’s confession- that he had not been able to quit smoking. Nandini had some things to say on that, but she felt her words were best kept for another time, another moment. India. Relatives. Marriage. Salaries. Conflicts. Old friends. Their weddings. Facebook. Elton John. Bob Dylan. And so it went.

The snow kept coming down listlessly. The two repeated their first order to find themselves with fresh servings of Turkish Coffee. Ka asked for the ash-tray, but Nandini told the waiter that it wasn’t required. She looked at Ka and smiled. Ka smiled back. No words were required here.

Ka put on his dark glasses, despite the lack of sunshine. He wanted to admire Nandini today. As she spoke endlessly about the men who came and went from her life, Ka couldn’t but notice her innocent beauty. He felt as much in love with her as he was during university days. Only then, he had to face the bitterness of a defeat to his fellow batchmate who had proposed to Nandini then. Maybe it was his obsession with silence that snatched away his hopes of being Nandini’s forever. Maybe it was his crooked analysis about simple matters that took Nandini away from him, into the arms of another. Yes, he remained her friend, her best friend, but he had to live in the shadows of a great defeat for the most part of his life in England. Today, Nandini was no longer with anyone, and Ka had finished a packet of cigarettes trying to muster the courage to call her and make his intentions clear. He was running against time, he knew he had none. He was not afraid of making a fool of himself, so, in his delight to have Nandini as his audience, he quickly revised the words he had in his mind.

Suddenly the topic changed. Nandini remembered something about Ka that he himself had forgotten. His guitar.

“I’ve quit Nandini. I wrote a few songs in between, but couldn’t find time to put tunes to them. Ya, so I quit.”

Nandini looked at him like she knew this is what would come from him. The utter lack of discipline always kept Ka two levels below his deserved place in Nandini’s heart. As much as she wanted to deny it, she was beginning to sense the foundations in the theory of women being more mature than men, at the same age. Why couldn’t Ka ever realise that it was the little things about him that would make the difference? Little things, like having the courage to kiss her, having the strength to tell her about his feelings, having the drive to do something about his talents, his music, his poems? Having the sense to take care of his health, quit smoking? Sometimes Ka give the impression of not caring enough. And that’s what had always stopped Nandini from taking that extra step.

But somewhere she loved him still. Even if the chap was a fool, well, mostly.

ShloKa took off his dark glasses. Nandini noticed his eyes had swelled, even though partly. Outside the thick flakes of snow kept coming down.

‘While mona lisas and mad hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky But they cant and that is why
They know not if its dark outside or light.’

My Search For the Truth with Paul Simon

2008-12-18T06:01:00.000-08:00

1. Yes I would, if I could

2. Shades of Mediocrity, Emptiness in harmony

3. If I never loved, I never would’ve cried

4. I touch no one and no one touches me

5. The song I was writing is left undone

6. Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera

7. Words of the Prophet

8. A Poem Poorly Written

9. The Only Truth I know is You

Yes I would, if I could

[El Condor Pasa]

“I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail, yes I would, if I could, I surely would.”

My fingers dab furiously at the piano. The resounding noise makes me feel as though I’m getting there. I share a silent moment with Yoko Ono – I’m sure she doesn’t know me – as I roll into rhythm for a nice progression of chords. Imagine. Surely enough, I don’t have round glasses on my eyes, and nobody calls me John. Someone pops up – “ What is the price of this, my friend?” I get back to work. I explain to him why Yamaha is a better choice than Casio. So that’s precisely what my education has added up to. Why Yamaha is better than Casio. The same education will probably compel me to say someday that Casio is superior to Yamaha. I can say whatever I want to. No fucking person to check. If I don’t say – they don’t pay. If they don’t pay I don’t eat. And that wouldn’t justify my old man’s expenses on my education. It was always about food for the body, not for the freakin’ mind.

What if I had no education? What if I couldn’t tell the difference between force and thrust? What if I didn’t learn those trigonometric formulae by heart? What if I didn’t come across 4 Ps of marketing, or some crap like that. I would pick up a guitar a sing on the road right? Yeah, forget the Burger Kings and the Fried Chicken, I would have to learn to live on a two pence meal. Or maybe if lady fortune smiled on me, some people might have named me John. Imagine.

Either ways, I’d be smiling now, and would have no business penning down this trash.

Shades of Mediocrity, Emptiness in harmony

[Homeward Bound]

Avi collects his papers together and hands them over to me.

“Ishan, we seem to be getting bigger every year in GITEX. Makes me feel good.”

“ What are we doing?”

“We’re giving out 2 Laptops every hour as a raffle gift”

“ But last year only we did the same damn thing, Avi!”

“ Yeah, but last year we gave away one laptop every hour, this year we’re giving out two!!”

“ Avi, is this where our creativity comes to a stop?”

“Dude, its Dubai…People like to win here. You know anyway what its like in this company right.”

“OK. Whatever”

2 years back we gave out one laptop every hour through a raffle during the biggest electronics exhibition in the Gulf. Last year we repeated the order. This year we asked for one dish more. It took 3 well-bred marketers- all MBAs, a whole year and a battery of meetings to come up with this plan. The sweat still lays well absorbed in office carpets. Papa doesn’t know – I’m glad for it. He would’ve demanded his money back. 6 lakhs on 3 certified degrees. An expensive education. He over paid. Probably. Definitely.

Jumbo announces the scheme to the market. We walk away with collars turned up, and I stare in dismay.

“We’re getting bigger every year.” Just like that.

No prizes for guessing what Jumbo’s doing next GITEX. I’ll give you a hint. The number 3.

If I never loved I never would’ve cried

[I Am A Rock]

I slept in a hotel that night. Slept alone, but well accompanied by myriad thoughts. Upstairs he was with his lover. I thought I was done with long phone conversations- but hell no, this one was perhaps the best long conversation Id ever really had. Brought me back to my school days where catching up on the phone with buddies you really spent your entire day with was considered chic. But this time, I didn’t discuss what was on TV, or why mamma didn’t let us stay back after school for the cricket team selection. Not about unit tests and parent teacher meetings. We discussed a life we hadn’t lived as yet – our future. The harmonies and the disharmonies. Our families. Their perceptions. Attitudes. Cousins. Meat. If I gave myself that one opportunity to be honest to myself –Id say this much – I just can’t get enough of talking to her. Not because she and I agree on everything. But because we see ourselves as two vast oceans in which we love to swim. Without tubes. And these oceans don’t have sharks in them. Just small ocean currents that help us flow.

Seeing her after so long, rediscovering her, and discovering myself in her eyes was wonderful. The same eyes, the same smile. Just some extra kilos here and there. And curly hair. Otherwise the same. Pretty much.

It was still dark when I was getting ready to catch my flight. Stopped over for a couple of minutes to hug her goodbye. The last four days changed the course of my life. And for once, it changed in the right direction. Felt a tear somewhere in the corner of my eye. I’ve always hated goodbyes, but this one I hated a little bit more.

I touch no one and no one touches me

[I Am A Rock]

My opinions – yes, they define me. Love me or hate me, you would know that I’m fucking opinionated. But not biased. And not narrow-minded. I just have ideas. You may not agree to them. But then again, I touch no one and no one touches me.

I think religion has done more harm than good. The Gods are laughing at our ridiculous acts of faith. We’re fucking killing people. Slaying them. Raping wives, killing children. Coz you and I have different Gods. Coz you and I pray in opposite directions. Coz you don’t eat the meat and I do and vice versa. I think pre-marital sex is perfectly acceptable. Are you telling me that my wedding is really a license to fuck? I think people who have been deprived of their physical pleasures dwell in that opinion. Making love is nothing less than an expression. Man and woman are biological creatures with organs developed in ways to please each other. Puberty is a biological stage that signals the preparation for sexual intercourse for the human body. So somebody tell me why ruining a man’s ambitions by cheating him in business is considered as ‘strategy’ and premarital sex as ‘immoral’? I think diamonds are as bad as cigarettes. But you wont agree to that because harming, and I repeat, harming ones own health is a good lot worse than killing a few thousands in Africa as a result of diamond-artillery trading. Yeah right. I think we live too much of our lives trying to please others rather than trying to please ourselves. I think Indians have issues with progress. I think I should practice politics rather than despise the men who do. I think you still haven’t gotten over the sense of glory you had about your grades in school. I think there’s some confusion between questioning and rebelling in some of the parents in this world.

So what I’m telling you is this. You can go out there and trade your two pence worth education for setting up your own business, build factories, hire children below fourteen, make them work over time and pay them enough to prefer death over this life, make profits, drive your Mercedes, pay that weekly visit to the nearby temple and pray to the Gods of wealth, come out of the temple and ignoring a dying child on the road, and glorify yourself by not eating beef because you’re a motherfuckin’ Brahmin. You can tell your children that they should not make friends with those with low grades in school, and not play cricket with street children, and not eventually fall in love with a Muslim girl. You can do what the fuck you want to do.

But I wont do it. And you cant do shit about it.

The song I was writing is left undone

[Kathy’s Song]

It’s time to move. Move on to newer challenges, new people and new processes. Time to look back on the last 6 months, and possibly look ahead to the next 6. What I’m leaving behind is a little love story that ended abruptly. Because some banks in America dished our loans without a sense of caution.

I still feel we should be closer to the customer than we are.

Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera

[America]

He was one of the six sons of a middle class bread earner. His father denied him new clothes on Eid and so he left home.

Many years later, he stood in front of the majestic building of Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay. He diligently studied the exterior from top to bottom with supreme precision. It had to match up to everything that he had read about it – and all he had done for the last year or so was study this structure. Every little nook and cranny of it. He could paint a picture of the Taj left handed now. No, he wasn’t an architect. He was here to kill.

Now the inside. The maps were already with him, but nothing replaces on field experience, they say. He was well dressed, and as he walked past the entrance he received a salutation that made him chuckle under his breath. Quite impressed with the marvel that he experienced, he made a few quick rounds of the hotel, spoke to a few receptionist about the rates for an art exhibition he planned to conduct in the coming month and even got to get a word in to the manager about the same. He completed his routine with a nice 4 course meal at the Indian restaurant inside.

He came back a month later, as promised. This time in a boat. With AK 47s. And grenades and Molotov cocktails. And a few friends. To abuse the sovereignty of the great nation we know as India. To make a mockery of it. And to remind his Allah of the great shame that most of his tribe had put Him through.

As for me, I saw most of it on television. And built a few more bricks in the wall.

Words of the Prophet

[Sounds of Silence]

"...if any one slew a person - unless it be for murder or for spreading mischief in the land - it would be as if he slew the whole people: and if any one saved a life, it would be as if he saved the life of the whole people...(The Noble Quran, 5:32)"

A poem poorly written

[The Dangling Conversation]

Mumbai -- One

One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for letter, from girl to boy,
The words flow, and he loves her so.

One war-torn nation,
Fire stations,
Blood stains on our national guest room,
The words in the letter are yet fully read,
But now its his turn to be dead.
The bullet pierces him, and he slowly bled.

We're oneBut were not the sameWe've got to carry each other, carry each other.

One flew over the cockoo's nest,
To the mountains, where the skies are blue,
I want to be that bird, I need some rest.

The Only Truth I know is you

[Kathy’s Song]

We close the door. Silently. The children are sleeping.

No sooner the door is closed than we exchange an uncharacteristic naughty smile. Its been a long time, we both realize. You come closer to me and put your tiny hands around me. I dissolve into molecules. I kiss you very softly on the cheek and say “Wait, we should do this our style.”

I move towards the swanky DVD player and insert a disc. The volume is still low, and I dare to keep it that way, just in case the children wake up. We’ve both always loved Simon and Garfunkel, and so in this moment of romance, I play what Garfunkel once hailed as Simon’s greatest love song, Kathy’s song.

I return to you, into your arms. Your eyes are closed; I kiss you all over your face. In a strange yet rhythmic fashion, like you’d know where the next kiss was coming. There is a faint smile on your face, and it always turns me on to see you being pleasured by me. My hand is on your waist, and I feel the naked skin that’s been my bedmate for almost a decade now. I run my fingers over your stomach and tickle you for a short second. You immediately open your eyes.

“Naughty!” you say.

“Me?”

“ No! Me!!” You press your lips against mine. I can still taste strawberry there, I swear.

You make yourself comfortable in bed. In a way that asked for some more comfort. So I came closer to you, and kissed you all over your body. Your breasts. My best friends. It’s always great to know that some friendships are like wine, getting better with time. I could feel the goose bumps coming on your skin, and I was quite hard myself. Your hands clutched mine, and we made love. Like two colours blending in a palette. Like a shot of Jack Daniel on a glass of coke. We rolled on each other, like snails.

But then I said at the start that Id rather be a sparrow than a snail. Simon makes me move in circles. He makes me visit square zero again. In search of the truth. I’ve completed the circle. I’m back on zero. The truth was right here, all along. The only truth I know - you.

[ The author would like to express his apologies to anyone who's feelings have been hurt by some of the comments and sentiments this post]