The Brilliant Performer

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

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

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

“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

“ 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

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

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.