Walk tall

It’s dawn. I’m walking down Mumbai’s Marine Drive. It’s strangely warm, despite the drizzle. My left eyebrow itches. Suddenly, the Queen’s Necklace is switched off.
I turn to the sea. The Arabian ocean. It’s glassy, but somewhat revolting in appearance. I can’t understand it; I love the sea. I love the sheer sense of space – an expanse of wide open water. Today, it just seems so pale, like a corpse. There’s no colour to it. It’s a pasty body of water.
A million thoughts are running through my head right now. There’s no order to them, they’re random, popping up like conversation blurbs in a comic book.
I look down at my toes, I look at the bollards, I turn a full circle, taking in the odd morning walker. There’s a bum coiled up in a corner, a stray dog next to him.
This is Mumbai, capital of the world.
Dead on a Saturday morning.
I cough and spit out the sputum. I hate spitting, but I can’t keep it in either. One more thought: you’re contradicting your self. You hate people who spit. Oh please, shut the fuck up.
I’ve been smoking again.
There’s a slight breeze, but none of the early morning gusting I remember. Even the wind isn’t in a good mood. Somehow that sets the tone.
I try to arrange the thoughts.
I don’t want to be a martyr. But I don’t want to live in fear. I want to walk tall. Yeh mera desh hai, behenchod, I curse at no one in particular.
You can’t change the world, sonny boy. Your fists won’t solve every problem. My father’s voice echoes in my head. My ears are ringing with it.
I wish I could make a living monster out of all the things I hate, and beat it to death. With my bare fists.
But Dad is right. Dad is always right, isn’t he? He’s seen so many more moons. I’m his son.
I look down at my balls, and it makes me laugh. I adjust my underwear, more to reassure myself my testicles are still there. The same testicles which will one day sire a child of my own.
You’re the perfect candidate to leave this country, a well-meaning NRI told me as I dropped him to the airport on Thursday. No, I say, never. But why not? You can’t do much in India. You’ll be far more successful abroad. I can’t and I won’t I retort, because of some misplaced sense of patriotism.
That’s it then, isn’t it?
Some misplaced sense of patriotism.
I almost joined the army after high school. Fauj mein rakha kya hai, all the ex-army uncles told me. So did my Dad.
Then I went to engineering college. Graduated, and decided to become a cop. Laugh, oh how they laughed. Your career will be finished before you know it, they mocked me.
And now, here I am.
Scratching my balls on Marine Drive on a Saturday morning.
Fuck this shit.
I try and construct the monster. Pakistan; Nehru, if he were still alive; Raj and Bal, for a bit of ridiculousness; the IAS joker on tv; the stupid, over-hyped female journalist; those damned militants of course; and sundry other politicos and babus. A chaddar party would be perfect.
The bum is now awake. He fastidiously collects his meagre belongings, climbs over the promenade, picks his way among the bollards, and sits down to take a crap. Craps in the Arabian sea.
I sit on the promenade, perversely looking at him as he takes a leisurely crap, beedi in hand.
The little dog is now barking. Someone is walking a happy golden retriever. The retriever makes me smile, I see him often. As they pass, I whistle and he comes to me. It’s like a semi-ritual now. I scratch his ears, he licks my fingers and scampers off after the middle aged gentleman who owns him.
As I get up to leave, I hear a voice. Sir, can you please give me a cigarette? The bum asks in perfect English. He has wild hair and a wild beard, but he doesn’t look like the wretched beggars I see so often. He’s thin, but he looks like he eats regularly. And he’s standing ram rod straight.
I open the pack, and hand him one. He fishes for a matchbox in the waistband of his pants and lights it. Thank you, he says, looking me straight in the eye.
I hand him the pack. He thanks me again. There’s that eye contact once more.
He turns and walks away. He’s not hurrying, but he’s walking with purpose, the scruffy pooch at his heels.
He’s walking tall.

ZERO SUM GAME

it stumbled. stalled. stuttered. sparked again
would it be all in vain?
he new it mattered little
but thoughts of walking away
caused too much pain
"you walk, and walk away, keep walking"
the voice told him
why should i care?
he thought for a moment
it was harder still, to stand the ground
songs of victory, AND memories of toil
"this is my land, my soil"
i will fight
stand my ground
"burn, ye heathen,
torched you shall be"
the vile lie vanquished
in truth, there's victory

Contemplation

Does Pathos inspire or conspire?

Is Time enough?

Does Guilt wane?

Does Hurt fade?

Is Forgiveness real?

Is Love everlasting?

Are Pain and Longing the same?

She, The Sacred Feminine

Friend
Lover
Confidante
Mother
Teacher
Giver
Taker
Maker

it needn't have been this way. it needn't have. oh, you fool.
the loss and longing
the courage and the cripple

the human male is but a drone. the progenitor of life, the maker of the home, the tender to the hearth and heart is Woman. and when you find her, cherish. relish her. love her. respect her. want her and make her feel wanted.

you, Man, exist but to be Hers. It is She who gives you worth. And meaning.

The Night of the Living Dead

the knot was tight
it closed around me
the emptiness

the crime, grave
the penalty, harsh

spoken in a moment
contemplated over time

the sentence was swift
the plea, over-ruled

the cell was cold
questions of heart and head
made no sense

the heart seemed alive
the head, dead

the dawn was slow
there weren't any pieces to pick up

the water was tepid
the shower, rapid

contemplation with the car keys...
u-turns made
and made again

the aimless drive
early morning sunlight

the door opened
She knew...

clasped to Her bosom
my tears seemed to flow

She wouldn't cry
She couldn't
She had to be strong

that tenderness was so poignant
it hurt even more...

i left
living, but felt dead.

From a million miles away
Like a waking hand
The touch of a sun's ray
A flower understands
Like a smile it opens wide
Blowin' rainbow kisses
To the skies...

- Sudheer

Seek

in between heartache and a kiss,
maybe there lies love, beauty, peace, truth...
for ours to find, ever

Of shagmobiles and pointless wheeled crap

The car, or self-propelled carriage, is a relatively recent invention. But it has inspired more people than can be accounted for, it has changed the way the world travels, it has widened the common man's horizon, it has been art and beauty and technical brilliance. But, for something which at the end of the day still has only four bloody wheels and is used mostly to get about, we have plenty of variety. Take the engines for example. You could use petrol, or diesel, or even bio fuel, distilled from leftover cooking fat or made from plants. You could put the engine in the front, in the middle, or at the back. You could even turn it through ninety degrees. You could have 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12 or even 16 cylinders. And so on...
It could have 2-wheel drive, front or rear, or all wheel drive. It can have an automatic or a manual transmission, or even the arcade style flappy paddles.
You could put the steering wheel on the left, or on the right.
You could do so much with your car.
What then, seems to be the problem?
The problem is, we have too many 'big' cars. I mean who needs big saloons? Or huge SUVs with a gazillion horsepower? I have never understood the point of a Cayenne GTS, and probably never will. Don't even get me started on the X6. And before you even answer my question why BMW built it - "because they can" - and I'm sure there are plenty of idiots out there to whom this rotten piece of engineering debauchery appeals - let me say that it is worthless.
Thankfully, they cost a helluva lotta moolah, and so that helps, somewhat, in keeping their numbers low. But what about the big saloons?
Why do we have Honda Accords, Hyundai Sonatas, Toyota Camrys, Mercedes E Classes, BMW 5 Series', Audi A6s and so on? Why? 'Coz some genius thought that well, there might be people out there for whom an A4, 3 Series, Civic or Corolla was not good enough, but for whom an S Class, an A8 or Lexus LS was a bit much. Really? Don't get me wrong, you need a boot. And yes, if you're a big shot, you want a nice big and comfy saloon to be chauffeured around in.
I think the product planners - the engineers-turned-accountants - need to go back to their roots. Infinite differentiation and a bit of stickering and platform sharing will only get you thus far. And that's before I even start with the Germans and their hideous obsession with quantifying every 'new' generation of their cars in percentage terms. I quote: "The new Audi A4 has 13 % more torsional rigidity." Wow! Did you just say 13 % ?! Hmmm...no wonder the older car was such rubbish around corners. "The new engines use more precisely controlled injection and valve timing for a 7 % increase in fuel economy and 3 % lower emissions." So, if the bloody car gave me 6kpl, 7 % better fuel economy would mean 0.42 kpl more. That really goes a long way in lightening my fuel bills and saving the planet.
But wait, I have a plan. I think all car makers should sign a pledge. No more technical redundancy. Keep it good, keep it simple, and instead focus on really improving the 'Car of Tomorrow'. Think about it. The time and energy invested in retooling a new plant; the obsolescence of older dies and fixtures in a manufacturing unit; the added complexity of wiring all the add-on electricals; and the stock-pile of outdated cars which are then flogged for huge discounts, losing the company and the retailers a chunk of money anyway. In the end, it's mostly a generic look which is propagated from one 'generation' to the next.
And then we have the pointlessness of certain designs - today's crash safety requirements mean most cars come with chunky A-pillars. Do we have data to collate how many accidents happen at junctions and roundabouts because of obscured vision? Can we prove, either way, then that these A-pillars proved beneficial?
Point is, there are only two types of cars which make any sense at all - compacts, and sports cars. You don't need more than an i10 or a Spark or an Alto for the bulk of your urban existence. You'll save time, consume less fuel, help the environment, cause less crammage on the streets and not seem like a cad the next time you pull up to a traffic light in your superfluous Accord.
For the weekends when you want to 'go for a drive', pull out your sports car. Buy yourself a shagmobile. A car which you will love, lust after, and cherish. Something with silly horsepower, a bright colour, and handling which truly makes your penis tingle.

Me, metrosexual

"Do you exfoliate?" she asked me.

Huh?

"Do you use a scrub?" she enquired exasperatedly.

A scrub?

"Never mind." She sighed, the long whistling sigh.

I was getting the look. You know the one; it mixes maternal disapproval with boredom and a sense of 'why am I with this idiot'.

"You should use a scrub once every two days," she explained. "It removes the dead skin giving your face a fresh glow," she further elaborated.

Ah, so, I replied. But why do I need to? I'm sure it comes off when I shave anyway, I reasoned.

"Do you shave your forehead?" she retorted.

Realising that it was a pointless discussion, she turned back to the shelf marked 'care products'.

I made for the cold storage.

"No bacon. You're getting fat," she called over her shoulder.

This from a woman who calls me Fatty anyway…

I'd be damned if I was going to give up bacon and use a scrub to exfoliate.

Anyway, it's been years since that incident, but it serves to highlight one major point: I am not one given to 'taking care of myself'.

I eat too much, drink quite a bit, enjoy my cigarettes… but I have a bath twice a day. But I've started to use 'products'. It's not that I capitulated or anything, but women in general like a well-groomed man. And as a perfectly heterosexual man, if I needed to exfoliate to keep my woman happy, I damned well would.

Over time, I started to use shave foam and shampoo. Actually, it was the shampoo which started it all off. Said girlfriend at the time was appalled to discover one measly bar of soap in my bathroom. I used the same bar to bathe, wash my hair, and shave.

So it was that a bottle of shampoo found its way to my bathroom, followed by a can of shaving gel. Having a girlfriend who stayed over often meant that there was no escape. Shampoo and gel levels were monitored.

When I un-did my helmet, I realised it smelled flowery.

To be fair, I nicked myself less when I shaved.

But I couldn't get my head around the exfoliating.

Once, before lunch, she handed me a vegetable peeler and some carrots and cucumbers. I couldn't resist. "Honey, I exfoliated the veggies," I exclaimed gleefully, while admiring my handiwork. I nearly got stabbed!

Bungalow Days

“O Shantaben….paani ochhoo vapro,” yodelled Tanay as he splashed out of the bathroom, leaving a dripping trail on his way to his room.
“Toh amhe nahiyye ke nai?” Shantaben screamed back from the servant’s quarters downstairs.
Vijyant meanwhile was preening in front of the little mirror, hair slickly combed back, as he proceeded to dab a sulphur-based medicated cream upon his pimply countenance.
“Ganja wait for me!” yelled Tanay again as he hurried to get ready lest he miss his lift to college on Vijyant’s (Ganja’s) bike. But Vijyant was almost out the front door.
Vijyant was the proud owner of a Hero Honda CBZ, the coolest bike back in the day. At the time, he was the only one with wheels in that bachelor pad, something he was immensely proud of, though he tried hard never to show it. Today though, he wasn’t going to wait for Tanay. Someone was surely waiting for a lift from the girl’s hostel to the hospital.
Barely had Tanay got one shoe on, when the CBZ was kicked into life. As Vijyant accelerated shakily up the slope, Tanay cursed under his breath. “Ketlo haraami chhe!” he told me with utter vehemence.
I looked on benignly from my newspaper. I had no college to go to. I had flunked out. I was a year down, or YD as they called it. The year was 2002, and we’d just moved into our bungalow.
The fourth character in this piece had just surfaced after all this commotion, and emerged into the sunlight on the terrace. “Madon, doodh puru thayu,” Persy informed me. Translation: ‘Bastard, you drank all of it.’ No I didn’t. It boiled over.
Persy was, and probably still is, one of those people who you never really knew. Some days, he was up with the rooster and off on a morning jaunt. Often, he slept till noon. Today though, he intended to sleep till noon. And the love ballad of Ganja and Gujju had put paid to that.
I returned leisurely to my paper.
Those days provided plenty of time for reflection. Life was strange. Yet simple.
I had been the only engineering student in the entire hostel of Bharati Vidyapeeth, or BVP.
One particularly lazy Sunday afternoon, over the excruciatingly stingy portion of chicken in my non-veg lunch, I observed the crowd around me. Most of them were living away from home for the first time. 18-year old boys would cry over the phone to their mothers. A lot of them walked scared, with shifty eyes that never rose from their toes. There was, however, one noisy one. His name was Tanay. Do you know the difference between a practical joker and a prankster? A practical joker engineers a situation to cause inconvenience to somebody; by contrast, a prankster is more of an opportunist. And nobody was a bigger opportunist than Tanay.
That day, an unfortunate soul found his pants around his ankles as he stood in the lunch line. It was a Sikh student, who’d washed his hair and left it open. Post bath, he was in the hostel for the Sunday feast, and now all of a sudden, he had a plate half-filled with food and no pants on. Worse, he probably hadn’t worn any underwear, for there stood Tanay guffawing and pointing to said victim’s crotch: “chootya ni polly jo!”
Till today, that incident sums up the boy.
Anyway, he walked up to me some days later and we got talking and then he introduced me to Persy who in turn introduced me to Vijyant and the rest as they say is history.
We searched high and low for a place to rent after we moved out of the hostel, settling on a derelict bungalow which hadn’t seen a lick of paint in probably a decade. Better still, it was supposed to be haunted. Over the next four years, 35/A Sai Krupa society became a sanatorium for madness.
There were barbeques, fights, all-night movie sessions, birthday parties, make out sessions and some voyeurism thrown in for good measure. Parents visited now and then. Floors were swept. Porn was carefully stashed. Ashtrays were hidden. Bottles were given to the raddiwallah.
We furnished it as we went along. So we got the fridge and electric stove. Then we got the big boombox and speakers from one of the peths. Essentials like beds and cupboards were rattly iron items purchased from second-hand bazaars.
“Bungalow people” as we came to be known, we had the coolest pad in all of BVP-dom.
It was those days when cell phones cost the earth.
I lived off 3500 rupees, inclusive of rent and food and all the debauchery I could get up to in that paltry sum. But we still partied. We still got drunk.
And then we sweated in the summer because we didn’t have money to pay the electricity bill. But then we’d sleep on the terrace, gazing at the stars as we drifted off…
We’d make movie plans 15 minutes before the film started, and race to catch it in time.
We’d stay in on Sundays and read.
We’d have eating competitions at Ashok dining hall.
Then cell rates became cheaper. We had free night calling. And free sms. Friends would sms from the front door: “darwaza khol” because at some level it was funny.
We’d prance on the terrace during the first rain, and haul out the eternally lazy Ganja and dump him in the rain.
We had a dog, Raul, who ate and drank everything we did. His name was even on the front door. When he mounted a Pomeranian in the neighbourhood, Ganja had to live with the joke that he was the only virgin in the bungalow.
We rode out to Mahabaleshwar and Mulshi and Lonavla and Matheran and Alibaug on countless weekends. We took Raul on the bike with us.
We chased chappals which floated away in a stream.
We crashed our motorcycles and cursed our friends as they cleaned our wounds.
We’d talk about movies and books and sometimes just sit and argue about almost nothing for hours. Tempers would flare. Sometimes, we almost came to blows. But we laughed. And of course it was everybody’s turn to get ragged.
Then life happened.
We graduated, and moved out.
Today, it’s all action plans and career moves and family time and finding the right woman.
Our parents have aged.
Our siblings have married.
We watch what we eat.
We curse less.
We’ve ‘grown up’. Damn.

Do you know the hallmark of a second-rater?

"Do you know the hallmark of a second-rater? Its resentment of another man’s achievement. Those touchy mediocrities who sit trembling lest someone’s work prove greater than their own – they have no inkling of the loneliness that comes when you reach the top. The loneliness for an equal – for a man to respect and an achievement to admire. They bare their teeth at you from out of their rat holes, thinking that you take pleasure in letting your brilliance dim them – while you’d give a year of your life to see a flicker of talent anywhere among them. They envy achievement, and their dream of greatness is a world where men have become their acknowledged inferiors. They don’t know that that dream is the infallible proof of mediocrity, because that sort of world is what the man of achievement would not be able to bear. They have no way of knowing what he feels when surrounded by inferiors – hatred? No, not hatred, but boredom – the terrible hopeless, draining, paralysing boredom. Of what account are praise and adulation from men whom you don’t respect? Have you ever felt he longing for someone you could admire? For something, not to look down at, but up to?"

- Ayn Rand, ATLAS SHRUGGED

Indians for India - A five-point agenda

Screw five-year plans.

This is what we need:

1. A uniform civil code. Scrap reservations. All are equal under law. No more religious processions through the streets.

2. Compulsory conscription and basic training for all for one year, to be served between the ages of 18 and 21.

3. Constructive opposition in Parliament. The Opposition should exist to question what action the ruling party has taken on its election manifesto and promises. A quarterly 'report card' to be circulated to the press - regional, national and vernacular.

4. A more active judiciary, which will be ruthless with the Babu-Neta lot. CORRUPTION = TREASON and punishable by DEATH.

5. Operational autonomy to the armed forces, which includes paramilitary and police, BSF, Coast Guard etc. Chiefs of staff to meet regularly. National Security Advisers and Defence Minister to compulsorily be ex-armed forces, of the rank of Brigadier or equivalent.

Free

Why don’t you see?
Why won’t you?
You can, can’t you?

Whether it’s you and me
Or not
We all have a price
Some paid grudgingly, some willingly
Some bought, some sold
Some rusty, some gold

And then we feel
Our senses clouded
Misguided
Affected
But do we feel when free?

What do we feel when free?
Do we feel free?

I have felt trust
I have felt lust
Sometimes I want to be evil
Sometimes cruel
Sometimes I just want to hold her
But is it she?

Am I hers?
Is she mine?

My mother calls
She asks me what I want

My friends call
Let’s do this and that
Let’s do it all

My woman sighs
She was given to me that night
I could see her fright
Her eyes white…
I felt her tears as she cried

But then I must go
I don’t know

I earn a wage
But I’m confined to this cage
Is it me?

Is it me?
Am I free?
Was it or was it not to be?

Who wrote this prophecy?
Who wrote my destiny?
Is it mine?
Do I belong?
What of free will?

I want to eat
I want to read
I want to sleep
I want to be free…

Blue Magic

Words fail me. This is either the most over-rated piece of musical chaos, or sheer genius, far removed from the aural abilities of mere men. It rises and falls, a piece strung together by the awesome delivery of its theme – the overriding chorus if you will.
Yet, at its centre, it remains very hollow; the lilting piano seems plaintive, the clarinet quintet a tribe of sycophants which hang on every word, or note, of their master.
The rest of the orchestra combines in servitude to be most slobberingly obedient.
Where, where is the power of an orchestra? What it lacks isn’t uniqueness; in fact, it might have too much of it. But nor is it a celebration of the piano in isolation. The piano is the Mona Lisa of musical instruments; she, most achingly beautiful at her loneliest. She mightn’t be the dutiful wife, nor the temptress. The piano is virtue itself.
And what of the violins? Must they come in late, an afterthought? What was Gershwin thinking? No, no, no! I must have violins. I must! But why, when their only purpose is to provide a note or two?
But why Gershwin, did you neglect the trumpet? The trumpet remains the faithful page; he announces most honourably the advent of the maestro. Then he fades. Gershwin has instead, killed it. Killed the page boy. That naïve instrument.
Through it all, Rhapsody in Blue has you sitting not quite on the edge of your seat. You sit up, and listen. But may you rise? It is disturbing. It moves you not until it reaches the climax, wherein you’re most awkwardly perched atop your seat. And then, it has you rooted. It is illicit. Which is why it works. And why it fails.
And you shall listen again…

Now what?

Stop and look at me now…
See where you’re going
Why’d you stop running?
Why’d you start?

There’s that look
The one at which I melt
You hold the power still
To make me cry
And then you ask me why
Like you don’t know how

You smell the same
You still have that walk
You still stand close
You let my hand brush your ass
Your nails are still the same

When you sip your drink
Your big eyes over the rim…
I look at the lipstick marks
When you set it down

And then you know what I’m thinking
Why’re you with him?
Did I push you away?
I still miss your ass, by the way
And not just in bed

Was we too hot to be?
When did us stop needing we?
Livin’ in each other’s pocket
It worked best that way

Burgers and fries on my bike
Walks in the evening
The swimming pool at night
Coffee later, with you on my lap
My hand on your ass…

Your sing-song voice
Biscuits and tarts at the bakery
Little baby-doll dresses
And tea on the lawn

It terrifies me to think
I let you go
Someone I love so much…
Am I The Fink?

Those fingers again
THAT nose…
But I learnt to live
Without those

A sip for courage
Two to reminisce
Three, and we’ll kiss
You’re the girl
Who should’ve been my missus

I’m lost now
I have nothing much left to offer
Maybe you miss me too
What do I long for?
For you?
For your lovin’ ?
Or for the chance to love you?

I still want you
I’d take you any chance
I got
But would it stop you asking
Now what?

Of three twerps

Twerp 1, Twerp 2 and Twerp 3, henceforth referred to as T1, T2 and T3 respectively, for the sake of brevity, were three friends, linguists all, who happened to be technically challenged in their respective professional choice of a doctor, an engineer, and an architect, (which, it would seem was no bad thing, for indeed 'twould have hilarious consequences, such as Dilbert's botched attempt at repairing the coffee machine, which failed of course, or T2's attempt to rectify his dilapidated Fiat's wiring, which we shall come to later, or T1's musings about how his first episiotomy, (which is a medical procedure wherein the doctor has to cut a woman's vagina during childbirth) had put him off porn for a while), and so found themselves confined to a life of confounded deliberation, quaffing large amounts of coffee in over-sized mugs while inhaling sickly sweet hookah smoke, all the while berating Fate, for she had cast them into this world as anchorless individuals driven to insanity by a mundane existence which required more than a little patience to cope with, especially since patience was not part of their character, given as they were more to impulse and the need to experience what they would so eclectically describe as "a full life" - a euphemistic reference to a state of perennially doped-out madness, in which they chose to drive to Lonavla for egg bhurji if they so fancied, never mind the respective assignments / exams / ED (emergency duty, a must for all medical students), and tried to decipher, along the way, how Fate had at least given the three of them an opportunity to interact, enjoy the full life together, which, as was the case, while cooped-up in the beat-up Premier Padmini which T2 (narrator) had salvaged from a junk yard for the princely sum of five thousand rupees, and which didn't have air conditioning, or a stereo, but which T2 would proudly point out, was rear wheel drive, never mind that it had 40 horsepower, which, when combined with balding re-treaded tyres and wet tarmac, nevertheless provided plenty of tail-out action, while T1 struggled to slip a CD into his portable boombox, and T2 twirled heroically at the wheel, all the while poor T3 being confined to the rear, trying to decide whether T1 or T2 was more mad, and who had better hair, when promptly she was jolted out of her reverie as one of the batteries for the boombox sailed past T1, right in front of T3's nose, and out the window, which didn't amuse T1 one bit, especially as T2 laughed his evil laugh and T3 rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the expletives which flew like embers from dry driftwood, asking the boys to be quiet and instead focus on the task at hand, which, according to her, centred upon "a nice, quiet drive to Lonavla for egg bhurji" instead of the cacophonous bickering and wild driving which really didn't amuse her and couldn't T1 for the love of god leave his boombox at home for once, since most of the CDs skipped anyway, (as T2 nodded his head in agreement) and could T2 please NOT drive like a lunatic for once (this time it was T1's turn to nod), but then she ended her rant in a loud sigh, as she always did, and wondered aloud why, why did she hang out with these "idiots" as she liked to call them, never mind that she couldn't live without T1 or T2, and indeed it was a mutual adoration, which they reminded themselves over and over, and so, after a few moments of quiet reflection by all parties concerned, the conversation inevitably turned to books, and adaptations of books in cinema (it would appear that T1's sole reason to be present upon earth would be to read a book, watch the movie, and then draw comparison, although, to be fair, he didn't ever favour one medium over another), a topic which, believe it or not, was never done to death by the three of them, since, as T2 pointed out, people would keep writing books and making movies, all the while T1 and T3 nodding sagely in agreement, when, suddenly, T3 screamed, a scream so loud, in fact, that T1 nearly dropped his beloved boombox, and T2 was distracted from the task of coaxing the Padmini to 120, and they both turned in unison to ask what had so startled T3 (they weren't particularly surprised though, T3 screamed from time to time for no apparent reason), which was a futile question, really, for there would be something insignificant; although this time to T3's credit she really did seem startled, and was quiet for a change, instead of muttering away like she usually did, which really piqued T1's curiosity, and so he leaned over to see what had caused T3 to fold her feet under her bum on the seat, when the light from his cell phone reflected off two beady little eyes, and not being the scaredy sort, he scooped up what T3 then realised was the cold nose of a little kitty, who was as frightened as she was, and which she then promptly snatched from T1 to cuddle, while T2 kept asking, pointlessly, what all the commotion was about, and when being told that there was a kitten in the rear footwell, made a mental note to himself to repair the rear window, (which would neither open nor close, but which always remained half open) and cursed under his breath as he realised the downhill section of the expressway was lost and so 120 would have to wait for another day, when, T3, in all her brilliance suggested that the kitty be fed, which of course, was normal, but then there wasn't anything particularly edible in the car, and no, T1 didn't think the kitty would eat glucose biscuits, or smoke, him being a doctor and all, and T3 was inclined to agree, but T2 insisted they try to feed kitty some biscuits while T1 and T3 told him to shut up and drive, since what did T2 know about kittys anyway, never mind the predictable pussy jokes which followed, when T2 did, however point out that they had only enough money for three egg bhurjis and would the kitty eat egg or not, when this time T3 whacked T2 on the back of the neck and suggested they pull over and find some milk, which seemed like a really absurd plan to T1 and T2, since it was nearly 1 am and the whole point of the trip was a middle-of-the-night snack and not breakfast, when T3 made her teary face and T1 melted, whispering in T2's ear that they better pull over, or there would be hell to pay, especially since T3 seemed adamant that the kitty would not eat Parle G, and if the boys wanted to try, they would have to over her dead body, so instead the "nice, quiet drive to Lonavla for egg bhurji" turned into a "find milk for kitty in the middle of the night" expedition, something which T1 and T2 both grumbled about but realised would have to be done or T3 would bawl and then proceed to maul the both of them, not a pleasant proposition, given that she had nails, and so to distract her, the conversation turned to whether the kitty was male or female, with some more predictable pussy jokes of course, and T3 rolled her eyes and clouted T2 once more, when the lights of the food mall loomed and T3’s whining turned particularly voluble, and so T2 shrugged and pulled into the mall, slotting into the first available parking slot, coasting in in neutral to save petrol, and barely had the car slowed that T1 was out in a flash, requesting the grumpy pot-bellied waiter at the food mall for milk, which was brought steaming hot in a steel tumbler, causing T1 to curse of course, by which time both T2 and T3 had disembarked from the Starship Enterprise (which was T3’s unkind name for the rusty, albeit trusty, Padmini), and little kitty jumped out of T3’s vice-like pseudo-maternal embrace and onto the ground, as she yelped and made to stop kitty running away of course, but would you know it, kitty was around T1’s ankles, and he, her original rescuer, scooped her up and set her on the rickety steel table, proffering the milk in a saucer, and blowing on it to cool it for good measure, and it was love of course, pimply doctor and kitty bonding under the glare of neon lights; kitty lapped up every last drop of the milk, by which time T1, utterly smitten by kitty, decided to name her Caramel, for her honey-coloured coat, as T1 elaborated, to which T2 wondered aloud why he wouldn’t call her Honey in the first place, when T3 rolled her eyes again, and the party bounded back into the Padmini, to complete the rest of the “nice, quiet drive to Lonavla for egg bhurji”, never mind that they would have to split two portions among the three of them.

India 2020

India, the land of the Indus, a cradle of civilisation, a land of milk and honey, a lumbering global economic elephant. India, independent India, exists as a post-colonial ideal, a Gandhian philosophy which doggedly persists despite a fractious identity crisis – one of belonging to a greater ideal; the ideal of the state. Does it transcend the ideal of faith? Is your identity the colour of your skin, your faith, or the land of your birth?

These questions have no definite answers, but neither can they be kept hidden forever behind a veil of ambiguity. "You are who you are" may sound terribly clichéd, or deeply philosophical, depending on your point of view.

India was once a gaggle of princely states. These states traded, went to war, acceded or seceded according to the prevalent economic climate. Western colonialists came, witnessed a vibrant country, were enchanted by the mystique and spiritualism, the wealth of the land, and the culture of its people. But, sensing political opportunity, what was once simple trade turned into a power struggle. Wars in Europe were waged by proxy for control of the colonies. With so many axes to grind by all parties concerned, it became a question of who had the best arsenal; military and political strategy went hand in hand, and the British, to their credit, proved the most astute. And so was formed British India, ruled by an iron fist by a bunch of goras and political sidekick 'darkies'. The irony of all this was the birth of the nationalist ideal – a united India, with the noble intent of self rule.

A returning lawyer from South Africa burned with a steely resolve, one which would never see him or his brethren grovel at the boots of the white man. He went on to inspire a nation to rise as one, to be self-sufficient, strong in the face of adversity, and to bear penalty which would be untenable for most. What inspires such a man in the first place?

Was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi a saint? A saviour of men, or mankind? Or, instead, was he an astute political manipulator, a king-maker, who, with an oath of penury sought to wreck a debilitating political methodology upon his opponents? It took a misguided fanatic to kill Gandhi, a tragic end to the life of one of the most significant personalities in history,and one who did not realise his ultimate dream of a united, free India.

Whatever his motivation, Gandhi was a leader of men, but, like many great leaders, he left a following who were a rudderless ship. The Gandhian ideology disintegrated pretty quickly after he was shot dead.

His legacy instead, was one of persistent protest; of dharnas, andolans, and bhook hartal. None managed to save the India Gandhi wanted; a land which incorporated and embraced the warrior tribes of the arid lands of what is today Pakistan, to the demure intellectuals of India's Gangetic plains, and all south of this. "Mother India" as envisioned by Gandhi instead fell prey to the politicking of the time; Partition was Britain's parting shot to an unwieldy colony. And so Hindustan and Pakistan came into being.

Religious identity was confused with national identity. Two countries were born, and left to their own vices.

Communalism as such, was born in Partition. Never before had religion and religious identity been the primary bone of contention among the people of India.

Pacifism was Nehru's primary policy; the horrors of Partition and the wounds they left would never really heal. A Kashmiri Pandit himself, Nehru would not commit to an all-out war to stake an Indian claim on the land. Kashmir is a wound which has festered since.

But let us step back a moment; Pakistan was created as a Muslim state. Why, then, did so many choose to remain in India? The decision of Partition was one by representation; and, unfortunate as it may have been, every Muslim should have been made to adhere to it. Every single Muslim should have been forced to leave Hindustan, the land of the Hindus. Would that have been vindictive and vengeful, at the time? Does it sound terrible to say so today? Doubtless, it does. But hard questions and tough decisions are the need of the hour.

Today, India, the secular, democratic behemoth which is India, cannot control a rogue state from perennially instigating violence and communal tensions across the land. Pakistan has turned Kashmir cancerous. Will its amputation save India?

The need of the hour is a tough, uncompromising leadership. While this country should open her arms to all who wish to live peaceably, she needn't spread her legs to those who don't. India doesn't need a police state, nor should it continue with its current impotent governance. Evicting every Muslim from India today isn't the solution.

But, burning the Indian Tricolour and raising the Pakistani flag by members of the 'minority' amounts to sedition. Worse, harbouring and breeding militant ideologies. Can the Indian administration stand back as mute spectators? Will it resort to a few token arrests? Will 'police brutality', where a couple of do-no-gooders are shot dead, be the only response?

Unfortunately, such is the case. What is needed instead, is a trial and a hanging. Due diligence to all the procedures of law should be followed, but a hanging is a must. Hang Geelani, if that is what it takes. And, to maintain the secular ideology we love to parrot about, bring to book the perpetrators of the Hindu-instigated riots in Gujarat.

While popular culture and fiction sees us make much ado of our military traditions, our martyrs and their sacrifices, it is beginning to rankle. For a developing nation to commit such vast resources to simply maintaining a border, a compromised one at that, makes little sense, politically or economically. It is a social question too; must the cross of Kashmir be borne by every Indian? Does preferential treatment of Kashmiris, in terms of rehabilitating them with employment, land, reservations in educational institutions etc, make sense? In my book, it does not.

Yes, we have further questions of secession. What about the North-East? What about the South? Again, Nehru is to blame for wanting to divide the country into states on linguistic grounds. There have been further divisions since; Bihar and Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, and Uttar Pradesh and Uttaranchal. Now, Vidarbha wants autonomy as well, and wants to secede from Maharashtra. And these divisive elements have all spoken a common tongue. How long can this be allowed to continue? Once again, the administration needs to toughen up. Aimless politicking by renaming streets and towns has to stop. Religious festivities and temple donations are not governance. India needs schools, hospitals, proper roads, and food for all. The rest will follow.

Politicians siphoning unaccountable billions of tax payer money must end too. Corruption is modern India's biggest curse. Corruption is tantamount to treason, and should be punishable by death. For every unlit and pot-hole-riddled road that claims a life, there is a string of corrupt politicians and government servants. Add up India's road deaths, and the figures are shocking: over one lakh people die on Indian roads every year. What about deaths due to negligence in government-run hospitals? What about infant deaths because of spurious drugs and vaccines? What about deaths because of starvation, while on average 60,000 tonnes of food grains rot in government godowns? What about deaths because of derailed trains? What about deaths because funds appropriated for relief are siphoned off after every earthquake/flood/tsunami? At least a million a year, would be a conservative estimate.

Do our politicians, then, deserve a right to life and liberty, luxury and pomp?

No.

Is anarchy the solution? No. Anarchy only breeds a monster which will rear up once the current menace is dealt with.

Once again, due processes of the law can provide the solutions. Let there be a fear of punishment, a stigma, which will cause the next corrupt politician to think twice. And it needn't matter if the politician in question is male or female. Bring to trial, incarcerate or execute as deemed just. But do it. This de-lousing is the need of the hour.

India 2020 will either be a vibrant and dynamic land, which merges hi-tech with myriad cultures and tradition, or a bastardised has-been, steeped in mediocrity and a debilitating fear psychosis.

The time is now.

The dating (mating?) game

Aha! Stereotypes exist for a reason. You tell yourself that when you try to understand the fundamental nuances of securing a mate.

‘Mate’ could be a friend (if you’re Aussie), but, as its verb form suggests, ‘tis an act. One to be engaged in with a member of the opposite sex. “Mating” would suggest having sex, doing it, or making out. Here again, we have some difficulties. A colonial hangover, six decades of Indianisation, and the sheer juggernaut of Americanese have conspired to create a language which is difficult to comprehend fully. Bit like fish and chips sprinkled with chaat masala, with dollops of mozzarella on top.

But I digress.

We’re not talking food here, or the English language. Instead, this is about securing a ‘partner’. So, while ‘making out’ in the Indian context would refer to a bit of tits-through-the-t-shirt action, in Yankeeland it amounts to having sex, or sexual intercourse, if you’re going to be picky about it. That would appear to be the end-game, but the process is no less enjoyable.

Let me explain. Boys like girls and girls like boys. God or whoever made it like that. So why are we so phlegmatic about it? We have ‘male’ electrical plugs and ‘female’ wall sockets. Where do you think this terminology sprang from? So, in a civilised, mature society, we have a lot of plugs running around looking for sockets to plug.

This plug-and-socket-syndrome can have some devilishly funny circumstances which can lead to some devilishly funny consequences. But, as is largely the case, the harbinger of all this horniness is the male.

Men need women. That is a simple, and simplistic, conclusion. As a man, I’ve been conceived in a woman’s womb, have suckled at a woman’s breast, have been bathed, fed, tutored, spanked, humoured, indulged, etc by a variety of women.

And then I reached puberty. (I have deliberately avoided saying ‘And then I grew up’ – I still haven’t).

Suddenly the female bosom was no longer simply a food source, or a pillowy comfort. Nay – it had morphed into a thing of magnificent attraction.

As treasured as the first pubes, was the first set of boobs. In retrospect, and a few boobs down the road, does a pair of sweater puppies still ignite the same passion? Doubtless, they do.

But(t), this enthusiasm has been tempered by…expectations. As a full-blooded male in the prime of his life (I know, I know), these expectations are a land-mine riddled two-way street. So, I ‘expect’ something of the women I am with, and they do too. Now, while sex itself is no less important in my life, I ‘expect’ a lot more. Contrary to popular stereotypes, I am not averse to commitment. But then again, maybe I set some rules, some ‘expectations’ if you will. And I can understand the ladies do so too.

Is monogamy an expectation? It should be, provided of course the woman I am with is a great cook, conversationalist and brilliant in the sack, not necessarily in that order. Too much to ask?

Further to that, is the experience phase. Life is a sequence of chaos; and you are more often than not thrown into the deep end. So, unless of course you’re the archetypical Mills-and-Boon childhood-sweethearts-to-incontinent-old-fogie brigade or somewhere in between, please bear with me.

You have your first crush, your first kiss, and so on, till you finally pop your cherry, burst your bottle, or, for the sake of simplicity, lose your virginity. Again, to demolish a few stereotypes, boys do remember the first time. It’s just that we don’t have any comprehension of the last time, so we need to do it again and again. And again.

Now, there are some women who are sympathetic to this male behaviour, but they’re the minority.

So what happens when an average, single male is on the prowl?

He looks for opportunity. Online communities are often the first step, but, if like me, you have little patience with figuring out cumbersome websites, you will try the old school tactics.

Pubs, cafes, malls, supermarkets, ATMs even, are all potential places to bump into an attractive, interesting specimen of the opposite sex. Friends of friends, and friends of colleagues, colleagues of friends…you get the picture.

Now, unless of course you’re a complete doofus who looks like the arsehole of a constipated rat, you have a, say, one-in-three strike rate. (This statistic has been derived from ‘experience’). This initial strike rate is of course relevant only to conversation, and the exchange of phone numbers. Now you’re in with a shout. By this time though, your own finely-tuned receptors screen the prospective mates.

Time for some stereotypes:

Thirty-something professional. Hard-working. Does yoga. Goes to the gym. Great conversationalist. Well read. Eclectic. Shops at the best stores. Perfectly turned out, even at 11pm, when I meet her for a drink after a long day in the office.

Now, this chick is also financially well-off, and insists on going dutch. Fair enough.

A week later, you call her. Drinks, you ask? Sure, she says. But tonight she’s got on the low-cut blouse with the frilly brassiere peeking through. Ooh. Two drinks later, and she wants to fuck. Unless it’s been a really long, dry spell, run. Inevitably, the thirty-something professional turns needy. So you get middle-of-the-night phone calls, expensive, embarrassing presents (how ‘bout an ornate, embroidered kurta which makes you look gay), and, horror of horrors “do you love me?” just when you’re in the throes and about to cum.

Then there’s the much younger girl. Just out of her teens, she’s all starry-eyed and is embarrassingly sweet. Unless you’re a completely heartless, spineless muthafucka, you’ll exercise better judgement and keep your distance. Sunday brunch is ok. Saturday nights at the most happening night club are not.

The nightclub. Ah, the nightclub. She catches my eye. The body of a goddess, and a face which is attractive, if not beautiful. And she has long, tousled hair which catches the light. We’re introduced. We make polite conversation. I’m feeling cocky. I go talk to someone else. She’s the friend of a friend. The friend in question is male, in a steady relationship, slightly drunk, and embarrassing both of us. But she’s an ice maiden. Vulnerable, and brittle. Her virginity is guarded like the holy chalice. It is spoken about in awe. Mount and do? Don’t waste your time.

Travel affords you plenty of opportunity to…experience things. Cuisine and cars are top of the list, but girls figure too. You’ll inevitably meet the eastern European with the charming accent, who loves marijuana and will give you the most amazing head ever. These pitstops however require extreme caution. They’ve been around, if you know what I mean. Irrelevant, but fun, these are to be filed away with the ‘experiences’.

What about ‘good friends’? The ones you’ve known forever, the ones you may have had a crush on a long time ago, or the ugly duckling who grew into a swan? Well, well, well. These women are the ones you’re most comfortable with. They’re the ones you talk to. The ones whose middle-of-the-night calls seem perfectly natural. The ones you can sit chatting with through the night. If, in a moment of weakness, you overstep the line, and sleep with one of them, it’s almost comforting, in a strange way. Like scrambled eggs on toast on a rainy morning.

And then there are the ex-girlfriends. They have a proprietary air about them, can be mother-goosey at times, but there’s a mutual understanding which prevails among exes. Good, if not great sex, no questions asked. Sometimes, however, it may rekindle emotions which are best left buried. You’ll have an ‘oops’ moment and disappear. Six months later, you might sleep with her again. Oops.

Finally, there’s the peer attraction. This one has ‘danger’ written all over it. The woman in question understands who you are, what you do, why you do it, and is somebody whose work you yourself admire. And to top it all, she’s devastatingly sexy. In an ideal world, it would be true love. The end. Roll credits. But no. She comes with baggage. There are ‘moments’. You say stupid stuff. She says stupid stuff. You smooch. You fight. You smooch again. You fight again. Things are awkward. You go back to being ‘friends’. Then, one fine day, you’re hanging out and you need to go meet any one of the above discussed women, and she gets completely jealous, it’s almost endearing.

So we’re done with the stereotyping here. What’s the point again?

Will you meet that one amazing woman? Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic, but I want to run into her in the bookstore (cheesy), help her onto the moving train which she’s running to catch (filmy), or, horror of horrors, let her dent my car so I can get her phone number.

But who is she? Where is she? Will I ever find her? Does she exist to begin with?

The chaos continues…roll dice.

*About three years after this piece was written, this blogger married the sexy peer.

I want anarchy

I who have lived

And so borne the right of passage to be here

To revolt even,

For I care not what they say

I care not what you think.

It is true

The lies are true…

Come now into the light,

Stand up and be counted,

Claim your worth

Weigh yourself in measures of truth.

Sucked have we been,

Fucked over repeatedly.

Enough is enough

I want anarchy…

I want to hold their heads

Stroke their offspring…

I want to experiment

With knife and bullet and syringe and tea

Even fire, and water, and ropes from a tree.

A killing of beings

I hate totally.

I want anarchy.

Them a fungus

A cancer

A virus

A flea

Sucking blood from you and me.

Them a disease.

Screw the lot.

Beat them burn them skewer them grille them

Relish the meat with me.

Come

Join in my anarchy

Café chaos

Irani chai, bun maska, broon and kheema, and bun omelette. I sit and stare into nowhere, just soaking it all in. The sunlight streaming in highlights the dust in the air. There are a few flies about, and the marble-topped tables have been scarred by lovers. The formaica ones have been wiped thin. Cheap stainless steel cutlery and coarse china cups and plates are de rigeur. The waiter has the clichéd checked duster over his shoulder, and the owner-manager picks his nose contentedly.

Each one is the same. The chai is thick and sweet, and you either hate it or love it from the first time you take a sip. The omelettes are fluffy, and the pau, lusciously soft. And they’re all elegantly named; Metro, Café India, Sundance, Diamond Queen, Olympus, Grand Central, Free India Restorant. On occasion, they’re named after the family business or the resident dowager, so you get Kayani, Naaz, and Mahanaaz.

But what really draws me to these joints, apart from the delicacies on the menu, are the signs on the walls. Intriguing at times, sometimes plain silly, they contribute to the ambience. I make my way to the ‘wash besan’ and am greeted by a ‘do not comb’. But I’m bald, so I take it personally. I get back to my table. The facility holds more chairs and tables than seems feasible, but the waiter traipses from table, to kitchen window and back, threading his way with a delicacy that would confound a ballerina.

I turn my attention back to the signs. ‘Do not gamble’, ‘consuming of alcohol is prohibited in the ristorant premisses. – By order’. ‘Only one cup tea will not be served to two persons.’ Fair enough, you don’t want a cheapskate bunch blocking a table.

Then I get back to the menu. All irani café owners have realised that in addition to the traditional fare they serve, ‘Indian snaks’ should be on the menu. So we get sada dosa, masala dosa, cheese sada dosa, cheese masala dosa, onion uttapam, tomato uttapam, onion tomato uttapam, onion tomato cheese uttapam…you get the drift. And there are permutations and combinations for everything. You take a base, which is a dosa say, and pick and choose your toppings. Best of all, you’ll already find it printed on the menu, coz somebody already thought of it. They need to sort out the prices, you see. But how the ‘ghee mysore rava masala dosa’ costs 23 rupees to the ‘paper butter sada dosa’s’ 24 rupees is beyond me.

Then I turn to ‘Eggs’. Aha. There’s omlet, masala omlet, cheese omlet, masala cheese omlet, and all are available as either ‘single’ or ‘double’ – one or two eggs, that is. Best of all, there’s a ‘bred omlet’. The cook made one daddy omelette and one mummy omelette and they keep having baby omelettes. Clever.

But while irani cafes might be fading away, they will never truly die. They live in the hearts, and stomachs, of millions of people. Student, blue collar, white collar, tout, tourist, film star and flunky, lover, and loser, have all dined, and I say dined, at these joints. You walk out heavier, and your wallet not much lighter, and revel in the delight of tasty, cheap meal. I feel a burp coming on, bred by an omelette!