Music and lyrics

If a continental youth wants to declare his love to a girl, he kneels down, tells her that she is the sweetest, the most charming and ravishing person in the world, that she has something in her, something peculiar and individual which only a few hundred thousand other women have and that he would be unable to live one more minute without her. Often, to give a little more emphasis to the statement, he shoots himself on the spot. This is a normal, week-day declaration of love in the more temperamental continental countries. In England the boy pats his adored one on the back and says softly: "I don't object to you, you know." If he is quite mad with passion, he may add: "I rather fancy you, in fact."

-George Mikes, How to be an Alien

It's that season of the year again when one tends to get a wee bit soppy. More the continental in the above context, if you will. It also helps when it's pouring outside, one's child has the half-yearly exams coming on, and mummy has taken full control of affairs. Going out is ruled out by exam and weather, and having gotten hold of a half-decent Maths tutor ensures one is rendered fairly redundant in the household. Having a dram of ol' Scotland in stock can't hurt. What does one do, under the circumstances? One can listen to one's favorite ghazals, watch the rain yonder through the window panes, and ponder. Quite a nice way to be!

Ladies and gentlemen, I then present you, what I've been listening to.




Kabhi yun bhi aa meri aankh mein ke meri nazar ko Khabar na ho
Mujhe ek raat nawaaz de magar uske baad sehar na ho

Woh badaa rahiim-o-kariim hai mujhe ye sifat bhi adaa kare
tujhe bhulne ki dua karoon to dua mein meri asar na ho

Mere bazooomein thakee thakee abhi mehr-e -khab hain chandni
Na uthe sitaron ki palki abhi aahaton ka guzar na ho

Woh firaaq ho yaa visaal ho, teri yaad mahakegi ek din
Woh gulab ban ke khilega kyaa, jo chirag ban ke jalaa na ho

Kabhi din ki dhoop mein jhoom ke kabhi shab ke phool ko choom ke
Yun hi saath saath chalein sada kabhi khatm apana safar na ho

If I have a problem with the the original poetry of Bashir badr, it is that the ghazal doesn't have a suitable climax. It fails to really build on the first two brilliant couplets. However the matla' alone is enough to make it count as an all time favorite. While I simply love the Hussain Brothers' version, the same, alas, I can't say about Jagjit Singh's. He seems to have taken a beautiful love song and turned into a wailing in pain directed towards the divine. I can understand the grave personal trauma he was going through at the time when he recorded the song in 1991, but still.

For months now, I've wanted to translate the poetry. From my lame attempts in the past, you'd know my bad propensity towards doing it in rhyme. Here, then. Promise not to make fun.

Appear in my vision once, just so

Naïve eyes do not need to know

Stay with me but a night, just so

Dawn never breaks on the morrow.

Praise be to God, may He please

Bless me with a virtue so rare

Pray I might, make me forget you

He must never answer my prayer

Wrapped in my arms, one kind dream

Lies still a pale and tired moon

The stars won’t fade out just yet

Heartaches won’t fall asleep so soon

Together, or far apart, your thought

Like incense, on my mind 'll grow

Flourish like a blossom how can he

Burning in flame who’s yet to know?

Basked in a bright summer sun

Kissed by the night in full hue

Strolling forever hand in hand

May our odyssey ever continue

p.s. I've since managed to embed the song sung by The Hussain Brothers.

Irshad!!

I don't know what is the deal with social drinking. You ask somebody "Do you drink?"-"Y'know, I'm only a social drinker." What does that mean? Nobody ever says "Like a fish." Though most of them do. In society.

Ours is a nation of wannabe dancing stars. Middle aged men and women get sloshed in polite society with the objective of inflicting on us their dancing talent. Ours is also a nation of intellectuals. I have spent many an evening listening to them after they've had something to drink. Socially. They'll pick up a slipping thread of discussion. On anything. Danny Boyle to Masood Azhar. And they'll talk in circles. All evening. I have a dear friend who'll eventually get Stephen Hawking into all these threads. Needless to say he has a background of theoretical Physics. He's also a social drinker. Thank heavens for that. He'll never drink alone. He'll call me up, "Dear fellow, I got this twelve year old malt. But y'know I'm but a social drinker. Come over one of these evenings and be my society. And do hurry lest somebody else gets social sooner."

Me, I'm not a social drinker. I don't drink like a fish. I mean, not any longer. Gone are the days for me when juice of a lime and aspirin used to be the breakfast of champions. Today I drink like the devil. I measure fluid ounces and I shake. Or stir. I like to make a ceremony out of having a drink. Because I can't have too many. Oh no no don't get me wrong. It's not the Doc's orders. Who listens to them in these matters anyway? It's just that with age I've grown allergic to hangovers. As I get better and better with every next drink, I forget how much I can drink without having a throbbing skull next morning.

The news that started me on this whole thing was this. Now I, feel a bit loosened up today. I feel the need to rejoice. Maybe this evening I'll relax my norms a little and seek society. To celebrate this historic event. And we'll stroll over to Mesrs. Darbhanga General Stores and buy a case of the good stuff. Achtung, Bangalore! Jharkhand has arrived.

Get a life
(Background score :
I wonder why nobody don't like me
Or is it a fact that I'm ugly?)


For many many months now, I've seen people summarily dismiss and humiliate people just with the expression "get a life." Now, this would be quite acceptable if the recipient of the insult was overly stressed over where did Kim Kardashiyan get her tattoo or who does David Beckham's nails. But what of those people who have got a life that seriously curbs their, um.., life? At least one definition of the phrase suggests it can also mean get a paying job, or something to that effect. And here I am so weighed down by a day job, my e-life languishes. I look overawed at the blogs of the Bertie Woosters and Ms Butterwicks of today who never seem to worry about paying the rent. They appear to have all the time in the world to seek out every WTFness in the news, attend movie premieres, art exhibitions and fashion shows, travel countries, and then manage to put up meaningful and entertaining blog entries almost everyday. Such beautiful people! I wonder why do I put in so much effort to even try. Where can I even start? Where are these lives, waiting to be gotten?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's a mean season. This is that time of the year again. The kid has an exam on Environmental Studies on the morrow. Announced only today. It's evening, she's cramming, and her mother is helping her cram. In these matters I, in the household is as much help as the pest control during a cardiac emergency. Nay, as the fitness instructor during bridal makeup, or, better even, like a quarterback in a home run. I could go on, but I sense you've got the picture. I'm completely out of depths, much useless, kaput. Even then I sometimes saunter in on their study session. The results are like this :

(Fill in the blanks Q&A)

Mummy: During a case of nosebleed, you should ______ on the head of the patient
Daughter : .......................
I (hoping against hope): sit?
Daughter : pour water
dark stare.

Mummy: you should also ask the patient to breathe through his____.
Daughter :...........
I (a bit more hopefully now): eyes?
expletive.

Mummy: you should furthermore ask the patient not to __________.
Daughter :...........
I (in utmost earnest): be impatient?
At this point I have to hide in the bathroom to avoid flying objects. Apparently blowing the nose was that one taboo. Who'd have thunk?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've decided to get away a little tonight and watch DevD. Alone. It's sacrilege even to propose such a joint outing to the missus at this hour of crisis. If I come back happy I'll try to write about it. The 12 Mb clip of the first part of travel video has failed to upload on utube after a good night's effort. I'll retry.

In the meantime, bitten by Naren's bug, I've written this little couplet :

O beloved Balma, I could die to see your one smile
Tho' with all your lipids, I'd rather you ran a mile

Don't take chaddis lightly!

On a fine day many moons ago, we were in the presence of RK the sage. (I believe I've introduced him earlier on this blog). Being the keen observer of human situations he is, RK was making his trademark original observations. Presently over chai, we got talking about the improved buying power of the middle class in India, their good life thanks to a rising disposable income and nonsense like that. Somewhere in the middle of it, RK wondered aloud : "All you ever talk about is a better standard of living. How is it better, I ask you, when I still haven't got more than a coupla chaddis in good shape. It never went from two to three. The old ones will retire in a week whenever I buy a new pair." This was quite some years ago, and the observation struck a chord. For until then, we used to buy chaddis in pairs and inevitably, not too early. The concept might sound a little dated now as we're well into the American way of life. Then again, maybe not. Consider this. If we buy two, we get three free. In no time, two of them mysteriously disappear from the clothing lines (or the machine eats them, I'm not too sure) and we're back to status quo.

But I'm not back after a longish break to theorize on chaddis. In fact, I'm mighty peeved over the way the venerable chaddi is being tossed about over a piffling non-issue. For one thing, I don't really fancy the celebration of Valentine's day. In fact I'd go so far as to contest the very existence of such an institution. You may well argue that this is because back when I was young, it did not exist, and I never got to waste my parents' money on the occasion, and you'd have a point there, but what the heck anyway.

What I prefer however, is something more direct and impacting. More importantly, something one can afford to give away freely (after all you don't give away something you've got only a pair of, at any point of time). Why not send to the Sri Ram Sene something which they should think is more alien to Indian Kulture than chaddis? Something that suggests immoral activity in their eyes more powerfully? With that objective, I'd send them this over the coming weekend:


p.s. We hope to resume regular programming pretty soon. It's just that of late the urge to post has ebbed a mite. We watched Slumdog and tinkered with the idea of damning it with faint praise. But valuable days passed by. We'd been preoccupied. Among other things we were caught up in post production work for the DVD release of our last year's vacation video. The missus gave an ultimatum that there'd be no vacation this March unless we finish the video beforehand. We plan to post a clip here. In the interim, we are trying to watch Vicky Cristina Barcelona and write on the experience. Coming March we'll be off to parts of Madhya Pradesh, plans for which are underway. Hopefully that will be good for more stories after that trip.

p.s.2 All of the above is bull, of course. All I need to do is keep off the Savita Bhabhi forums if there's to be any hope for this 'ere blog.

Update : I swear on my chaddis I didn't know of their existence at the time of going to press. The thought had just occurred independently to me, I guess, though in a different way.

The inheritance of Payne

Meltdown is passe'. Finished. Beyond resurrection. It sounds so old it might have been Roosevelt talking about the economy.

The bottom has fallen off can go a long way, but in all the wrong directions. It's graphic, it's cute, yes, but it doesn't really cut the shit anymore.

That expression is clearly inadequate for what's happening in today's marketplace. Besides, the imagery always evokes in the mind something like above. Can't be taken seriously, if you see what I mean.

So the pundits now have a better description of things. Today they only have to say "the market is seeing a lot of pain" and be done with it. Likewise : "Europe's two biggest banks, felt the pain more than most" or, "the pain would only intensify in November with the gloom only getting darker." All these talk about pain has given a new lease of life to a mundane workaday word which was dying a slow death in the hands of oxycodone and acetamenophen.


Across the threshold of all this pain, somewhere I can see the silhouette of Max. His pain indicator inching up to the chin and his bottle of painkillers empty. He's started to stumble and fumble. One more spray from the Ingram of some goon lurking beyond the next alleyway, and he will be done for. He continues to mutter profundities in my ears like only Max Payne can :

You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels.

After a pause :
It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.*

BTW, the film is getting all manners of flak from reviewers. Anybody watch?

* Not my fertile imagine running amok with Max on the stock markets. These are real quotes from the game cut scenes.

The Goddess in Autumn

A one-and-a-half-week spent in a daze of mellow wellness, not counting a minor throat infection afflicted by cold beer in Bong weather. Been to the Durgapujo in Kolkata after a gap of two years. Among many other things, a morning of pandalizing, an experimental cocktail, a dear friend paying for the whole crowd at Tangra at saptami lunch (his novel is out on a Pujabarshiki - his first step into big league, and a call for celebration) and rediscovering New Market.

Some photos. The first two at Badamtala Ashar Sangho, off Hazra road.

We gathered from the hoardings Prabhuji mithun-da is the brand ambassador for this Pujo. (Oh, yes, they all have brand ambassadors now.) Mithun-da would be proud. All in all, we liked the mood and ambiance of the setup. Very old-worldly and nostalgia.

See the old rajbari ( King's haveli) milieu on the sidelines? Update : An utube link for the pandal.

Ekdalia. Garish. I felt like calling it the moor's last sigh (at the moo-rals).

What with the recession, stock crash and all, the organizers at Selimpur Palli were of the grim view that it was the indeed the end of days, apocalypse, Armageddon, whatever. Why else would they think of putting the goddess on Noah's ark?

Rajib, the blackberry guy, was the host for ashtami evening. The inventory included a bottle of Stoli Vanil vanilla flavored vodka, one tequila (Pepe Lopez, not quite top of the line stuff, I hear), and also some VAT (but nobody was in the vatty mood). Rajib insisted that we do the Stoli first, and chase it down with Pepe shots. I suggested, on a whim, that we should try out some sort of a float with the vodka and some vanilla ice cream. Here goes.

1 1/2 oz vanilla flavored vodka

50 ml Ice cream soda/ Sprite

Two scoops vanilla ice cream

Mix the vodka, soda/sprite and ice cream into a smooth consistency. Pour in a highball glass and float a scoop of ice cream on top. Can be served with some strawberry or chocolate syrup topping. Suggested name: Stoli Scream.

The brand Tangra is now a pale shadow of what it used to be. At Kim Fa, the soup was passable, the noodle dishes (as famously put by J.A.P in recent times,) more Shyambazar than Sanghai, the less said about the Szechwan chicken the better. Maybe old man Kim was taking a nap. After all, it was afternoon during durgapujo time and the Bangali Bhadralok who wouldn't know their dim sums from their momos were all out in hordes.

Lately Rajib has developed this annoying habit of having a meal solely consisting of starters while eating out. After a coupla rounds of batter-fried chicken dumplings and babycorns, he sought to secure the kiddies' vote in his favor by announcing : All who want to eat starters only, say "aye", or something to that effect, which, sure enough, was getting some raised hands at the kids camp. Put down firmly by Subroto the mirthless girth with a gem of a statement : "Na. Ami food khabo." Which roughly translated to: "no i want to eat a proper meal", but easily became the best in hungry indignation since Major de Coverley's : "Gimme eat" in catch 22.

The Tangra Chinese are these days cheap neither. We paid 6000 bucks for a crowd of 20 not counting small kids. Sorry, Indranil the novelist payed. Not expensive really, but not dirt cheap by any standards. And the portions don't justify the rates.

The day before I was coming back, I needed to buy some red and green curry paste, lemongrass, nam pla, oyster sauce, bamboo shoots and other veggies I can't buy fresh at my small town marketplace. You can guess I'm trying to dabble in Thai cuisine. I was thinking maybe Spencer's but a friend suggested Hogg market. Hesitantly I went, probably after two-and-a half decades' hiatus. The place was a treasure trove, as ever. I got every item on my list, the way I'd wanted. Not only could I get lemongrass for Rs. 3 a stalk, (Spencer's charge 10, and sell stale stuff) every little shop at the back end alley was a revelation. I even ended up buying some Angostura bitters.

When we were little kids, people in Kolkata used to say that you could buy bat's wings and cheeta's milk at the New Market if you were paying the right price. Indeed. I perfectly see their point now.

Mouse on the house

It's a peaceful evening at the Pronto household. Ms. Ayushi is at her study table steadfastly battling her demons, namely : Averages, Angles and Decimals. At this particular instance there's a vicious quarrel brewing up between some stubborn supplementary and complementary angles who won't listen to to the voice of amicability. They insist on extracting their exact degrees of flesh from this squabble. Ms.Ayushi is in fact contemplating the prospect of seeking arbitration from daddy, who's in the next room in front of his PC reading worthless blogs. She doubts this will be a happy scenario, 'cause daddy, while pointing to a solution, has this nasty habit of running down people who are unequal to resolving such minor tiffs between angles. Those people include mommy, who has washed her hands off Maths ever since Ayushi went to standard five, into the grim world of fractions, geometry and other goblins. At this very moment, mommy is grappling with one of her endless phone calls, which threatens to eat into her appointment with sa-re-ga-ma-pa.

All in all, a pretty picture of blissful domesticity, with all indications that God has turned in a bit early for the night after a long week at office( sending another half a dozen i-banks packing), seeing all's well with heaven and earth.

Suddenly blasted to smithereens by a deep, lusty, soul-stirring cry of eeeeeeeek emitting from Ms. Ayushi's room. Followed by mommy slamming down the phone and running into cupboards and bedspreads with a broom in hand. Such a commotion that even daddy has to reluctantly abandon his schemes of changing the world, pondering on the latest entry in Dilbert blog.

Peoople will ask why all that fuss over a puny liddil mouse. What they don't seem to understand (to paraphrase John McCain), is that nothing can put on a homeowners' pride and self-belief a bigger dent than a rodent in the house.

The military attache' at the White House placed a frantic call to Pentagon : an wild moose is scouring the lawns, threatening national security. Get in touch with the Governor of Alaska ASAP......oops, wrong war story. Truth be told though, SOS calls did get made to various corners of the map. Ayushi's mom calling most of her relatives for advice on assault plan and damage control. It all ended with Daddy running to the nearest mom-and-pops' and heckling them into opening their store well past ten. A pack of ratkill was secured. Chuha jisse kha-kar, mare bahar jaa-kar. Ayushi promptly announced she'd sleep the night on her parents' bed. No, make that every night, till the mouse is gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dead at night, with Ayushi fast asleep save occasionally mumbling something about a mouse creeping over her pillow, the missus tells me she had wind of this. Well in advance. "Y'know, I used to get a mousy smell. Everywhere. In every nook." I'm like,"what, do you mean you kept smelling a rat? And I always thought that smell was about dead rats and financial scams only? Never knew live mice had a particular smell too."

For the next three agonizing days, the mouse kept eating the ratkill. Part by part. Only it didn't seem to be dying. It was very much alive. And it was having one hell of a bowel movement. maybe the Mortein company made sure their poison was full of fiber. Maybe it was meant to go out to defecate and die in the process. The mouse never made that mistake. Everyday, the missus would find inside cupboard and bed boxes, rat stool in quantities I myself would've been proud of as a homo sapiens. Oh for the iniquities of being!

"Hubby, our plan doesn't appear to be working."
"Who do you think you're dealing with, dear lady? It's a mouse, it should know all about the best laid plans."

"Y'know, dear, we should go get a mouse trap."
"What? No, no, no, not tonight, old lass. Tonight I'm not in the mood for Mrs. Christie. Tonight I'll be with Sir Pelham."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They say, (with apologies to The Boss)

You can't kill some vermin without getting blood on your hands
This gun's for hire, even as you're just dancing in your pants.

How the mouse was won, is not a pretty story. It involved gore, a broom, heroics from our maid, and other icky stuff.

Our maid is getting a hefty bonus this festive season. And we're driving down to Kolkata for Pujo after two long years, glum in the knowledge our books and blankets are safe once again. Wish you all a happy Pujo, Dussera and Navaratri !

My wife has information from the grapevine there might be bomb blasts this Durga Pujo in Kolkata. I doubt it. Militants never pick Kolkata. Didi is doing enough here already towards disrupting public life.

Feeling mushy



This album was lying somewhere in the car. Listening after eons while driving to work on a drizzling Friday morning. Magical.

One wants to listen to Rekha Bharadwaj a lot more. She's gold.

Road Rash

One day, when I have enough money, I will buy a big bad SUV. And I will fit it with extra strength wraparound grills made of thick steel tubes on the front and rear bumpers. And I will drive it out on the national highway. And I will bump off the assholes who drive their 100cc motorcycles on the middle of the road one by one. I will give me five bucks for every creep bumped and ten for every fuckface sent flying out of the road. Every time I make a hundred, I will open a can of cold beer from the ice box I'll keep handy on the cabin side of the said monster. And oh, I forgot the cattle grazers. Those boys that let loose their herd on the highway. If there is one group of people who have caused me the most physical harm and irreparable mental trauma, they're IT. I intend to do them maximum damage. For them I'll carry an air gun loaded with .22 caliber bullets. I might have to pull off the road for these cattle-men sometimes, but I'm more than willing to take the trouble. Whenever I spot one of them scums trying to unleash cows on the asphalt, I'll slow down and shoot that man in the ass. Maybe shout out a term of endearment too, for good measure. I can do it throughout the day, across state boundaries, while listening alternately to Bruce Springsteen and Led Zeppelin. Yeah that's my medium term ambition in life.

You ask what I'm gonna do in the long term then? Oh nothing much, really. I'll only trade off my SUV for a 12000 cc sixteen cylinder DaimlerChrysler truck. And I'll bribe some official of the Steel Authority of India into selling me some scrap at a cheap price. You see, I need these two pieces of 20 millimeter thick and 250 wide hot rolled steel arisings, about 10 meters long, which I'd put under a shaping machine to give them a sharp wedge shaped profile, and fit them onto the sides of the undercarriage. I'd love it if these attachments could be made to slide out and retract hydraulically, but that feature, while extremely flamboyant and James Bond-esque, might come prohibitively expensive, I suspect. And I'll drive my truck out on the national highway. And on a good day, there will be any number of rogue truckers with emptied cargo traveling at 75 km an hour and trying to overtake other loaded trucks moving at 70. They will easily hold all traffic at ransom for an agonizing 10 minutes, liberally snorting the black soot they belch out. They will take great pleasure playing out this long drawn charade that is the staple of our great Indian highway system. It's precisely at this point that I'll step in. At first I'll politely flash my lights and ask for passage. Failing this, I'll meekly honk my horns at them three times. Upon which, the rogue trucker will extend a condescending arm from his cabin window and ask me to wait. After a few minutes of this, we will be on the clear and he will wave that arm again with supreme benevolence, beckoning me to come take that passage. While passing his truck, I'll smile and wink. And casually scrape my steel wedge against his chassis. I might even slash a tyre or two if I get lucky . After every three rogues I've maimed, I'll treat myself to a bottle of cold Kingfisher I'll keep handy in an ice box etc. I can do it all day, across state boundaries, listening alternately to Daler Paaji and Sukhwindera.

Please don't get the wrong picture here. I'm a thoroughly non-violent man, given to harming nothing and nobody in particular in course of my simple journey through life. For the most part, I'd even rather not talk about my secret fantasies on a blog post. It's only that I took on myself a road trip on my car, driving some 150 km to and fro in a good holiday spirit, on Independence day. And that the cattle grazers and other parties I met on the way brought back lots of older memories. And that these memories gave vent to many a bridled emotion. Also that I still get the recurrent vision of a tall strapping calf flying out athwart my windshield, which wakes me up sometimes in the middle of the night.

The ballad of Billy the kid

The Oracle has spoken on the last of the big time spenders. As is his wont, he is absolutely thorough and masterful. Nothing, in fact, needs to be added to, or taken away from that tribute. But since he has kindly linked me in this post, I felt obliged to put forth my two bits on when and how I started to worship the same idol.

I was not a big fan of the man when in college. In fact, I never quite understood his music at that point in time. In college, we were listening to Wham, MJ, John Denver, Eagles, a little bit of Pink Floyd and Dire Straits and all sorts of wrong kind of sound, an ignominy called Modern Talking included. Coupled with the fact that lyric books were not easily available in the 80's, that we would only listen to medium wave radio and some dubious quality tapes on mediocre equipment, made the soul of his lyrics to be largely lost on me. I remember having listened to and vaguely liked Piano Man, and having read somewhere that Manna De's Bengali hit on Coffee House was loosely inspired in theme by it.

Then came 1989 and Storm Front. Even though mtv was not here yet, the crazy video of we didn't start the fire was getting beamed on DD and immediately caught our attention. The power and pace of that dynamic ode to fifty years of Americana and other world events was hard not to get swayed by. It is learnt that he had fired all of his existing band members save the trusted drummer, revamped his team and worked with a new producer to create that new sound. And new it was. It turned everything else on its head.



But the moment of truth for me came on the 1994 Grammy Awards night. River of Dreams had been nominated in more than one categories. And in the runup to the awards the song played over and over. I had never listened to anything like that before. I had hoped it would win song of the year. With due respects to The Boss and sir John, lesser numbers own that year. On the night of awards, the man performed his song. I have been frantically looking for that video on utube and other places, but it's since been removed due to third party copyright issues. (It should be mentioned here that earlier the same night Frank Sinatra was cut short during his acceptance speech for the Lifetime Achievement award.) Billy might have known he was not going to win it that night. He looked dour. At the breath reprise ending the third stanza, where he builds up a crescendo :

I don't know why I go walking at night
But now I'm tired and I don't want to walk anymore
I hope it doesn't take the rest of my life
Until I find what it is that I've been looking for....

He always takes a longish pause at this point, straightening his neck, taking a sip of coffee and all. On that Grammy night, he just seemed to stop on his tracks. A full fifty seconds maybe. Then he said, nay, made an announcement :

Valuable time is passing by. valuable advertising time is passing us by.

He took a sip from his mug, and resumed his song all on a sudden. At that very instant, he made a true believer out of this casual fan.

Cherche la femme' chèvre

This is the new resolution we've passed. Henceforth, on every new post, we'll include a strip from Peanuts. Something that suits the mood. Please bear with us.


I don't even know why I'm writing about this. The incident is in no way significant. Not funny, neither outright tragic, nor of great shock value to our inured minds. Only reason I can think of, (besides that I've got way too much time on my hands) is that it says something about the thought process of yours truly. Something I'll be reminded of, when I come back to this page years later, and mutter, "So, I've been like this only".

I was driving down to the market in our small town a few evenings ago. On the way, there was a a confused-looking mob on the road at a busy intersection. Somebody asked us to turn around and take a detour. The crowd was swelling, somebody saying something about an accidental death. It didn't look like any automobile was involved. We didn't wait. Later at the market , I was told somebody got electrocuted at a faulty electric pole. Power supply to that particular area was cut off for the night. I didn't think about it much at that time.

Next morning at work, while having chai, a colleague was narrating the incident in great detail. The summary is like this. You see, there's a line of butcher shops near that intersection. Late afternoon, a goat escaped from a butcher's place and went scurrying into a nullah. It was a busy day at business, so the butcher called a ragpicker loitering nearby and asked him to go bring the goat back. On the bank of the nullah there was a transmission tower of some mobile network. There must be a live cable leaking somewhere, 'cause when this grown-up male ragpicker went near the nullah, he did not come back. Word started spreading. The scared butcher went to the local police chowki and reported the incident.

The station-in-charge, seeing no merit to the case, sent over an old hawaldar with a known drinking problem. His brief was to cut power, recover dead body, inform next of kin for identification and send the body over for autopsy. While carrying out the third part of the agenda the policeman got a bit jittery. He was getting late for his evening appointment with the bottle. At the door of the dead man's shanty he called out for his wife and unceremoniously gave her the bad news. She was asked to come and identify the body. But the woman started to wail or something, causing delay, and the hawaldar lost all patience. He roughly dragged her by the hand. This is when the mob had risen. The onlookers suddenly got really pissed and they grabbed the old sod and started lynching him. Things went out of control. A full contingent had to be called in and the area cordoned off.

Later a DSP came and apologized to the local people. The hawaldar was suspended. The traders of the area called a Bandh the next day. The usual.

Only, after listening this far, I had to interject, "So what happened to the goat?" Tell me, was that an unreasonable question? Everybody seemed to find it very amusing.

P.S I suppose everybody is familiar with the original reference.

P.S.2 And do try calling in sick on a thursday once in a while and drinking vodka through the day. Busts a lot of stress, I tell you.

Kabhie Kabhie Pyar Mein

You know, you don't have to be wearing Raymonds to be a complete man. For that matter, you don't really have to be a complete man at all. But it helps.




There, it was a-waited. So, Part 2 is now on air. Part 2 is hardly about fairness. Part 2 is about impossible mush. That sort of gooey mush where the fair maiden storms out on an engagement ring when her beau chips her nail trying to put it on her finger. In this mushy world, the jilted girl will still have the number of the man she once loved and lost, through years and through continents. In this world, the greatest dilemma will be over pressing that send button. It's now easier to see where O&M is coming from and where they're trying to go with this. It's all about soft sell. Just replace suitable words in the Raymonds base line from above. And you still have the promise of newsprint white. In fact you have two choices. TOI white and Economic Times white.

Worries me. My daughter (ten going on seventeen) is liking this. In my opinion, she's kinda fair already and really doesn't need to get fairer, but who gave a hoot for my opinion, ever?

I've loved these days

A good Sunday is one that starts with a benign hangover. Like today. I woke up with a dull head full of bad beer. Been to a wrong kind of party last evening, where the tandoori chicken was cold and the beer was lukewarm. The dance floor, it had all manners of riffraff thrown into a 30'x 30' space. There, you get the picture, so I won't dwell on it.

As a result of which, this morning. Has anybody ever tried swimming to cure a hangover? In my case it was less an act of experimentation and more of compulsion. My ten-year-old dragged me to the pool. Given that I'm a swimmer of repute and my jig involves covering the breadth of the pool on the shallower side swiftly with clumsy strokes, (never get into more than five feet of water, that's the secret of my long and successful career) I thought the water that usually gets in my nose should clear out the old sinus and take care of the heavy head. It didn't exactly turn out that way, but the idea should not be written off. I'd recommend more trials of the method, when need arises.

Coming back to this here Sunday. A Sunday morning should be ideally spent doing nothing. Now, doing nothing is serious stuff, never to be underestimated. Within permissible limits, one can watch television, preferably off news related programming. One can casually read the Sunday papers, without much attention and comprehension. Reading a book would be an automatic disqualifier. My brand of doing nothing involves something like watching the daughter play Dinner Dash 2 from a distance while trying to read a Sunday supplement and advising her on strategy to cross level 12. Top that.

A school buddy calls long distance. No, make them two. One calls, the other speaks. Rajib the hot shot consultant, has been given a Blackberry by his firm, Indranil the pathologist reports on the said berry. (Actually these buggers are in a Sunday adda session with other friends, in another school buddy's smallish flat. Six-seven grown up people, who get endless rounds of tea and fries from the hostess without gratitude. They openly criticize her cooking. Seema, with amazing grace, never gets mad. She just threatens murder sometimes. These lucky sods! There had been times when I got up early on a Sunday and drove 300 Kilometers to join them.)

I've never really wanted a Blackberry myself , but these are moments to be properly envious and sarcastic, so I manage "A black berry at his age? Let's see, so how many years to go before he gets the blue berry? And the red ?" Rajib : "Very funny. Now store this number on your strawberry, for it will be my number as long as I stay with PWC." Me : " Until you move up to PWD?" Sweet badinage. Round one, a tie.

On a beautiful decadent morning like this, I hear Billy Joel.

Like only he can write :

We light our lamps for atmosphere,
And hang our hopes on chandeliers.
We're going wrong, we're gaining weight,
We're sleeping long and far too late.
And so it's time to change our ways …
But I've loved these days.

(Yawn)..Sleepy again after breakfast. See you after this nap.

P.S. In other news, I've finished Namesake in a record nine months time. Now I've started 3 mistakes which I hear is a real page-turner, so I hope to finish it in a month or two. People have writer's block. I got a reader's block.
P.S 2. Oh that Vodka, I forgot. Great drink. Recommended by a great man. Ooh, I am smelling apples already. Time to fix me an Applebottom Pimp before lunch.

Weekend audio

This weekend is for easy listening. This weekend is for nostalgia. I'm listening to perhaps the best duet of Kishore-Asha ever to have come out of the Laxmikant-Pyarelal factory. Film : Bandish (1980). So forceful and full-bodied. A simple, no-frills tune. Pedestrian lyrics. Not Bakshi Sahab's best. Just Kishoreda giving it his all in D-sharp. When he goes in full bloom, inane lines like " bahano ko chhodo, bahana bana do" sounds like Pulitzer winning stuff.

I mean business

I have since long had this business plan. Last night I was reading Naren's groundbreaking business plans which started giving me ideas, and in no time I was climbing up the shelves and dusting off this old DPR volume. I've also posted the gist on his comment space. But that doesn't make it his intellectual property now, does it? Feel free to steal, only after paying me my finder's fees, a paltry fifty grands (greenbacks, silly),plus taxes.

Let me, at the outset, clarify that I do not hail from the illustrated state of Bihar. But I've lived in the vicinity long enough to have tasted, on many occasions, a Bihari delicacy called litti-chokha. Recipe here.

Pic source : foodieshope.blogspot.com

I'm sure the downmarket version one may also notice as street food in many big city ghettoes of India infested by Raj Thackerey's favorite cousins. Do note that it makes for an uber-healthy, wholesome vegetarian meal. It can also be made completely cholesterol-free by making the ghee(clarified butter) dip optional.(won't taste the same, of course)

So, here's my business plan :

Product : Microwavable designer litti-chokha

Product description : Spicy baked doughballs in dip(ghee optional) with assorted veggie mishmash

Suggested Brand name : Choklittoes

USP : Wholesome nutrition of wheat grain cereals, gram and assorted vegetables in designer ready-to-eat packaging.

Designer logo : A piece of sal leaf laminated into the wrapper ( OK OK so I borrowed that one)

Target customer : 1. Health and style conscious professional who needs to make a statement with the workaday lunch he eats, preferably in the company of peers.
2. Sucker.

Retail Price : $ 19.95 for a pack of two doughballs with mishmash and dip(ghee optional : packs containing ghee dip will cost $24.95).

Manufacturing : Sourced from Bhojpuri designer litti company of Chhapra, Bihar@ $19.95 per 100-pack carton

Quality Policy : Will tell the Bhojpuri fellows....forget it, they invented quality, right?

Apart from the obvious profitability of the proposition, it will also generate a good deal of employment locally, and hopefully ease some irritation off the Mumbaikar's mind. I'm sure the scheme will find instant support from Nitish Kumar and Laluji.

There's one small catch. Unlike in Guangzhou, China, they do not have an existing facility for every manufacturing need at Chhapra. A small investment of $10000 will be needed to help the chaps set up their packaging unit. Which will pay itself back in a matter of weeks, of course.

Since you people seem to hobnob with a number of VCs, would you consider selling the plan to one of them, for a handsome 2% of the profits?

Heavy Duty

This was one heavy weekend. It was shaping up differently at the start, of course. Listening languorously to this favorite rendition of Faiz by Mehdi Hassan saab.

Aaye kuchh abr kuch sharaab aaye
us ke baad aaye jo azaab aaye

baam-e-miinaa se maahtaab utre
dast-e-saaqii meN aaftaab aaye

har rag-e-KhuuN meN phir charaaGhaaN ho
saamne phir wo be-naqaab aaye

kar rahaa thaa Gham-e-jahaaN kaa hisaab
aaj tum yaad be-hisaab aaye

na ga’ii tere Gham kii sardaarii
dil meN yuuN roz inqilaab aaye

is tarah apnii Khamoshii guuNjii
goyaa har simt se javaab aaye

“Faiz” thii raah sar-ba-sar manzil
ham jahaaN pahuNche kaamyaab aaye

Idly wondering how the poetry would read in translation, I looked up for something by Agha Shahid Ali. Couldn't find anything. Not on the net, that is.

With that same laziness I started playing with the first couplet. And got drawn into it. It took up all my leisure these last three days. I'm not particularly proud of the effort. I know I've flayed a golden rule of translating shayari. I shouldn't of gone for rhyming verses. Anyway here's what we did manage.

Let the clouds close in; bring on a bottle of wine, rare

Come hell or high water then, the devil may care.

Moonshine on my cup alights, at brim, the urn'd pare

The enchantress' hand, then, pours me the sun, a-flare.

Let a ray of light race thru’ my veins, burn in desire

Beauty, step out of your veil again, do me ensnare.

Pondering myriad dolors of my life, alone, I declare

My cruel concubine, always on my mind, you were.

The tyranny of your grief, inexorable, hangs in the air

Each day this bleeding heart rises in rebellion, despair.

In the heart of emptiness, echoed a silence as it were

A hush harked back, from here, there and everywhere.

Destination lay in this journey we took, dear Faiz

Success, ours on every step, far as we did dare.

Knowing fully well that this is a pretty lame job, I can't but disclose a small smile of satisfaction from the first verse. Two cliche's packed into one single radeef ! I felt like that MP from Yes, Prime Minister who could " talk in cliche's till the cows come home."

Thanks Aligarians for complete lyrics

P.S. It occurred to me last night. Does the rhyme remind you of Bianca Castafiore's piece de resistance ? OK. OK, never mind.

The Surf's rising




I was not always this idle blog surfer who has little else to do to see him through his drab and dreary days and lonely evenings. No siree. Yours truly used to get a little more in the way of amusement, the thrills of life, the rush of adrenaline. In other words, I used to have a life. It's another thing that I never quite learnt the parameters of having a life. Having a career that's fulfilling and rewarding may not be one of them I guess. That'd render so many people lifeless, apart from me. Playing and partying hard may be another indicator. I was never a party person.Been a decade since I last put bat on ball, too.

Besides other unmentionable games I played, I was quite fond of playing the markets. I have a good mind to come back to the unmentionables in another post, but that'll wait. Tonight I'm in a, what's that word? peculiar pecuniary frame of mind.

Once upon a time, I had a very small amount of money. Some monies, if that's what it'd take. Definitely not many monies. I took them to the market. No, not just like that. I'd mostly keep them in my savings account. Where they'd earn a robust 3.5% for most of the year. I'd wait for dips in the market and put some of these into stocks. Sometimes the market would heat up and I'd sell. This went on for about two years. I'd aim for an ambitious 25% p.a. on my net worth, and end up with a promising 11. Not so bad, huh? Prudent investor, that I was.

Then this January, it melted a little. I put in a little. Next day it was dripping. I put in a little more. Then it started to run down the drain. I was in denial. So I put in all I had. They took the shirt off my back and hung it high on their wall and threw me out into the street. Cruel Wall Dalal Street.Then they restricted entry to men without shirts. So that's what brings me here.

Don't let yourself run away with the idea that I'm bitter. I'm not. I'm not trying to whine either. Actually I've completely quit worrying about them small monies. I only ponder sometimes on the BIG monies they're going to bring back. Yeah, that'll be the day.

What I've observed in the interim, however, is a very interesting phenomenon. And that is the crux of this post. I've found out that the art of making a purchase decision gets infinitely easier once you are out of liquidity. I'll elaborate. Let's say we have a dining set which has seen twelve years of wear and tear. I've been getting hints at the home front every now and then. Let's also say my PC has of late started crashing and restarting without provocation. The vendor says it's with this mo-bo. Better get a new machine, sir. All of this going on while I had those some monies in that savings account, remember? But I can't spend it, no? It was earmarked for investment? Then again, is it financially wise to borrow for petty purchases while you have the cash? No. So these decisions were put on hold. All of this past year.

Then one day I didn't have the cash anymore. So wifey falls for that monstrosity in chrome and glass, and I hear myself say, "sure thing, momma." The hardware man yaps about this new pocket-friendly core-2-whatever processors and 2 Gb ram and I say, "why, bring it on!" at the snap of my fingers.

Now that I'm in a debt situation and just about able to breathe with difficulty, I've started to secretly drool over that 42" bravia x-series ( eludes me why Sony should name it like that). Me worry. It's been telling on the last reserves of my prudence.

There's only God to thank, ( and maybe Bernanke, or, Bush, or O'bama, or Chidambaramji, I don't know, whoever deserves my gratitude, kindly accept) I've noticed lately that the surf seems to be rising a little. Which means I can now see my investments lurking like distant shadows below water, as opposed to lying at the bottom of the occean. It gives me a notion of semi-liquidity. Nobody knows if it will hold, but at least now I can hopefully put off my tryst with Sony Inc. for another year.

All you who sleep tonight

A gust of wind in early evening. No, slightly stronger, a gale. Yes, it's a gale. As in, not a storm. With all due promise of a good nor'wester, it peters out. Not a drop of rain. Branches rubbing up each other's thighs. Leaves and twigs blown in on our bedspread through the open third-story window. A whoosh here, and a shoo-i-eee there. Then. Suddenly. No, I don't think Dennis did it. The lights are out all over the neighborhood. Remember that all black panel from Hank Ketcham?

Seven-fifteen post meridian . Early days yet. After an hour's wait lights are back. Not on our street, they aren't. We fret. Fume. Cuss. And call up maintenance. Repent that decision of not buying battery backup before this summer. Head out of home. No choice but. Bad moon rising. Listen.

Get this widget Track details eSnips Social DNA

Turns out there's a snag at the transformer. Maintenance people work out a wonderfully equitable solution. They cut off the substation and go home to sleep. Back to black. Whole square furlong. Thanks to that gale, it ain't that hot a night. Meaning, just below 30 degree c with 75% humidity. Forty winks? Forget it. Me too worked up as it is. Why does my blood boil every time there's a power cut deep into the night and nobody tells me ghost stories?

Toss. Turn. Sweat some. On about my eighth wink, phone buzz. Who the, what the heck's the time etc. My senior colleague at 2:33 AM. Wants me to go to the steel plant and try and fix something some mother's messed up. No it won't wait till morning. I feel kinda relieved, actually. Wasn't getting much sleep anyway. Mustn't let it show, though. Show righteous indignation, fool.

Next afternoon, asleep. Evening, groggy. Now I understand why firefighters write so very few blogs.

Well, everything has to pass, I imagine. That was two nights ago. Tonight we're back in business. Tonight I'm tossing pasta. Oh, how I love to cook. And when it's pasta, I go with my gut. Penne in bianco con salsa di pollo e verdure. La mia bambina mi ama cucinare la pasta. A bit easy on the sauce, all right?

My fav corner of the universe. Ah yes, the drink. Haig. With some ice and water. Like they say, Don't be vague, say Haig & Haig.

In the peanuts mood

All you really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.



Lucy: Charlie Brown, life is like a deck chair on a cruise ship. Passengers open up these canvas deck chairs so they can sit in the sun. Some people place their chairs facing the rear of the ship so they can see where they've been. Other people face their chairs forward - they want to see where they're going. On the cruise ship of life, which way is your deck chair facing?

Charlie Brown: "I've never been able to get one unfolded."

All my life I've wanted to talk in Peanuts quotes and Peanuts quotes only.

O Parmanand !

Now don't talk to me about the polar bear
don't talk to me about the ozone layer
ain't much of anything these days, even the air
they're running out of rhinos - what do I care?
let's hear it for the dolphin - let's hear it for the trees
ain't running out of nothing in my deep freeze
it's casual entertaining - we aim to please.....
Dire Straits..My Parties

Many a blogger would write enthralling posts about their PMS, their mood swings, bad days at office, a secret being pondered upon if at all to be shared or not, and such existential angst. (I've astutely observed that a majority of these is distaff, but that's neither here nor there.) Then there are many who will gallantly rally on for the Tibetan cause and make a case against Amir Khan's decision of torch-running. Much do I admire their sincere efforts towards shaping public opinion and start a raging debate. Personally speaking, I've reached an age most events don't touch me much anymore (excluding ,of course, "Team India" being routed for 76 in 20 overs, I'm still reeling in horror over that ) , expressing opinions no longer seems a priority (actually I've been taking a long hard look inwards to determine if I have an opinion on Tibet and Amir at all, and the jury is still out)

Thus, the only sort of writing I can attempt can be either anecdotal or about trivial experiences and thoughts. Speaking of which, last night, at a party, a good deal soggy, we were revisiting the Ghost of Tom Joad, oops, Parmanand. One of our elderly colleagues told this story. This gentleman, let's call him RK because that's his real name, was in engineering college with a Parmanand, a very sincere and hard-working student. This is by far a minority group in engineering colleges across India, most people should agree. Our RK boss, one of the smarter majority, did not and still does not believe in work. (don't we all love him?) He just got to be a good pal of Parmanand, and for those four long years, happily leaned on P to glide through batteries of project work, thesis papers, tech labs and.... you get the picture. The day they were passing out, P said to RK, RK old man, now you're going out into the big bad world, fending for yourself, sweating your ass off for a loaf of bread. Prepare for work, bro, cause where'll you find another Parmanand ? To this RK answered, dear P, you may not believe it, but there are myriad Parmanands out in that big bad world, one just has to find one's own Parmanand to lean on.

And RK is still making do. Nay, he's thriving. He's given a new turn to this simple story. In his postulate, Parmanand is not a mere mortal. P is a way of being. जीवन प्रतिनियत एक खोंज है अपने परमानंद का। Life, as he sees it, (and it's so easy to see, all of us can) is one's constant journey towards finding a Parmanand for every situation, every problem, every requirement. In the process, one may even have to transiently assume the role of someone else's P. The roles are shifting, but the matrix encompasses all.
Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself. Thus spake Morpheus. In my ears. Dizzy after having had too much to drink. O Parmanand, where art thou?