HariteMan REANIMATED

The second decade of the new millenium has come by and old heroes have been forgotten...

.... But these heroes still live ... lurking beneath the surface of society ... dormant ... waiting for the zeitgeist to propel them back into the limelight ...

Hariteman lay in a drunken stupor in his decrepit, dingy apartment. He had lain thus for the past 6 years ... since Abhinandanboy had walked out on him ... hand in hand with Nell's son. No one remembered, cared or needed his superzeroic deeds any more. He had neither shaved ... any part of his body ... nor showered ... since God-alone-knows-when and an oppressive, noxious air pervaded the room, impregnating his every pore with its stench.

A persistent knocking on the door managed to creep into his conciousness and made its presence felt. He tried to ignore it but it persisted until the rhythmic pounding started to resonate in his skull. He woke up and growled hoarsely, cursing the Mischievous Monkey Gods - “Stop that infernal knocking! Who is it?”

“Sirjee .... Courier”

Uttering his choicest curses he stumbled towards the door and pulled it off its rusty hinges with a twist of his wrist. A trembling courier boy stood in front of him ... in a baggy green cap, rainbow coloured t-shirt and short pants. Something of his manner and his attire reminded Hariteman of his erstwhile sidekick and his expression infinitesimally softened.

He accepted the envelope, gave a get-the-hell-out-of here grimace to the courierboy and slammed the battered door back into its frame.

It was addressed to Prof. Senile Butt Harite ... it was a name he hadn't heard in a long long while ... the name of his alter-ego, the sour-tempered professor who used to teach at SHIT (St. Hosh Instt of Technology), a terror to his students and a chick-magnet among his female colleagues. He tore open the envelope and found an invite to a reunion meet for all the ex-professors of SHIT.

A very human chill ran up his superhuman spine.

In the alternate universe that he inhabited, all the super-villians, femme fatales and arch nemeses of Hariteman had their alter-egos as various members of the faculty at SHIT. To invite all of them to a single venue was an invitation for disaster ... culminating in events which could bring about the next Armageddon.

Hariteman would have to resurface once again! He would have to protect the populace from perdition! He would have to prove to the world (and Abhinandanboy) that he wasn't just a drunken old has-been, but the macho, heroic figure on whom nubile nymphets and middle aged aunties would swoon over.

But first he had to bake himself some blueberry pancakes with his cute pink oven mitts.

.... A couple of hours later ... fortified with honey-laced blueberry pancakes ... Hariteman flew towards the reunion venue ... Mount Poinsur.

By the time he arrived, the party had already begun. A look at the guest list confirmed his worst fear. They were all here.

Hairy Prasad – Part Man – Part Monkey ... Hairy Prasad had been tranformed into a mutant monkey when a Mechanics (or as he pronounced it “Mechonics”) lab experiment had gone horribly wrong and mutilated him in the wrong place. Driven mad with pain and fury due to the loss of his favourite appendage, he had developed a serum which had not only regrown his ... er lost limb ... but as a side – effect gave him an additional appendage ... a prehensile tail and covered his body with thick, coarse black hair. His natural physical strength grew three-fold and he could perform such feats that only our genetic cousin ... the chimpanzee can replicate.

Fatty Jose – This sultry siren, voluptuous vixen had that mythical figure desired by all ladies: 36-26-36 .... Multiplied by 2. Despite her additional tonnage, she was the object of desire of all the super-villians. Most of Hariteman's adventures involved Fatty Jose being the damsel in distress, the Olive-Oyl to his Popeye. But despite the offer so readily available from her side, Hariteman never caved in to his basic instinct ... and this had made Jose bitter towards him ... A Poison Ivy to his Batman.

... And finally Hariteman saw his arch-nemesis, the perennial thorn to his flesh, the flint in his eye

Absolute Jeero – Mild mannered Groovy-Shankar had been a Professor at SHIT and had enjoyed 5 years in his capacity as Professor of “One-Subject-Or-Another”. He was an incompetent, near-sighted fool and finally the students of SHIT after having suffered him long enough decided to complain against him and had him booted out of the college. The only man who could have saved him from expulsion, Hariteman himself, a venerable figure in the eyes of the authorities had chosen to remain silent. Apparently his goal of converting SHIT into a training-ground-for-future-leaders-of-the-industry had led Hariteman to realize that having Groovy-Shankar out of the way was not a bad thing.

Nursing an implacable grudge againt Hariteman for this act, Groovy-Shanker decided to use his scientific prowess to develop a robotic armour which he would use to massacre the students of SHIT and kill Hariteman. However his incompetence proved to be the better of him. The armour's cooling unit malfunctioned and Groovy-Shankar was frozen alive inside. But he did not die. His body turned into a living ice-box and he gained the power of manipulating the ambient temperature around him to kill people. He adopted the moniker of Absolute Jeero (Jeero is how he pronounces Zero)

Over the years Hariteman and Absolute had many epic battles but ultimately Hariteman used to always be the victor.

The EPIC AWESOME FINAL BATTLE had begun and nothing less than the future of humankind was at stake.

CONTINUED IN PART 2:

THE DEATH OF HARITEMAN

Numbness

Numbness.


A feeling of numbness permeates my sensory organs. A feeling of emotional bereftness. A void filled with work related stresses and a relentless drive to achieve meaningless (in the overall context of life, the universe and everything) numbers. The inner artist (solely self-perceived though he may be) has been mollified, suppressed and replaced with a vacuum which envelops anything chancing upon it. 


The sales experience has fragmented my existence - replacing my earlier unfocused purpose in life with a purpose that seems alien yet exhilarating at times, meaningful yet not a meaning that I am comfortable with. Life consists of a timetable - a 9-9 all-time-consuming process broken only by a siesta cum lunch hour. The expected physical toll, in varying degrees of severity to varying parts of my anatomy, largely ignored though not completely forgotten. The lack of a genuine mirror at home is responsible partly.


The two post-work pre-sleep hours are precious to my existence and are frustratingly fleeting. They provide me with a larger context to life, a chance to pull back from the daily stresses and indulge in my one true love. Movies and the world of trivia surrounding them. Sadly my first true love - reading has been consigned to 140 character tweets and the occasional Sunday page-turners.


My face - a pock-marked, cratered, post-apocalyptic dark side of the moon - is forever furrowed - a fact remarked by many before realized by myself.. The lack of companionship hurts, only in moments of reflection such as these. The future seems wholly uncertain though not unviable. 


Where do I go from here? What path do i tread? To wait for fate to run its course or seize matters into my own hands and alter and shape-shift my destiny (something I have done rarely in the past).


Sunday the only day of refuge, the last bastion of defence against insanity beckons, its welcoming magic already working its way into my brain, pressing down upon my eyelids, beckoning me to close upon this post.
I yield to its command. Writing after so long has been fun, providing me a chance to be verbose and let loose my mental demons onto the keyboard.


Blogging - one of my listed hobbies (an untruth) needs to be re-pursued with vigour.


Signing out.

Confidence! Baby! Confidence!

The boy sat on his bike and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

He liked what he saw. A day’s stubble sat well on his face. He did a spot check of his breath.

‘Hmm, could have been better’ he thought. But he didn’t worry about it much. He doubted that he would get lucky this early in their relationship.

It was only their third date after both of them had professed that they were attracted to each other.

‘Confidence! Baby! Confidence!’ That’s the key to success he told himself.

But where was she? He’d already been waiting for half an hour below her building. Well not exactly below but well out of view from her balcony and dear daddy’s eyes.

Grimacing, he took out his cellphone and dialled her number. The not reachable message annoyed him further and he silently abused all telecom operators to eternal damnation.

He got off his bike and casually strolled towards her flat.

Oh Shit! Her daddy dearest was in the balcony looking out. He sprung back into the shadows.

She came out of her apartment complex. But she wasn’t dressed to go out. And the look on her face was far from relaxed. Tension was writ all over it.

She came towards him and said those 5 words he was not yet ready to hear – “Papa wants to meet you”.

Wordlessly he followed her and all along the way all too fully aware of the intense glare he was being subjected to from two storeys above.

He entered into her apartment feeling like a lamb being led into a slaughterhouse. It was the first time he had visited her home. In any other circumstance he would have noticed the shoe rack placed at the entrance and the potted plant placed just to its right.

But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and he managed to trip over the shoerack and the vase clattered to the ground. Mud spilled out and the plants privates were exposed for the world to see.

He started apologizing profusely and bent over to straighten the pot when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘Leave it! The maid will clean it up!’

Colonel Randhir Singh Shekhawat’s booming voice had frightened the hardy Pakistani soldiers into giving up their arms at Tsang Po pass near Kargil.

The boy gave up on the vase much more easily.

They were sitting face to face. The Colonel didn’t say anything. He just kept on staring at the boy.

The boy not knowing what to say decided to concentrate on the Colonel’s fine moustache instead. And what a fine moustache it was!  The Shekhawats since ancient ancestry were known for the magnificent moustaches. It was their one and only true love. They used to lavish more attention on it than on their wives. It was said that the Shekhawat women would be so jealous of the moustaches of their men that they would fantasize in their dreams about cutting those hairy monsters off but could never gather the courage to do so when they woke up.

Colonel Randhir Singh Shekhawat’s moustache had never flinched once – not even in the midst of the most difficult phase of the Kargil battle. But it was flinching now. Or so the boy imagined.

Finally the Colonel spoke. ‘So I hear you like my daughter? Is that so?’

The double question sounded so ominous that the boy almost said no. But he soon came to his senses and stuttered out a yes.

Another 10 second silence followed by a loud Hmmphh.

‘And what are your intentions?’

‘My intentions sir? They are to uh, you know to er, I’m sorry sir I didn’t undertand the question’

‘Your intentions Goddamit! Are you playing around or are you serious about my daughter?’

‘Ssserious sir! Very serious!’

The Colonel got up, went to the fireplace and brought the fire poker – a fine strong steel rod.

‘Young man! I am not someone to be trifled with. If I ever find out that you have hurt my daughter in any way. This is what will happen!’

And in one easy stroke the colonel bent the poker into a horseshoe pattern.

The boy almost peed in his pants.

‘Do you understand?’

All the boy could manage was a nod.

And all of a sudden the booming voice which manhandled the Pakistani sepoys was 10 tones friendlier.

‘So what are you waiting for young man? Go show my daughter a good time. Bring her back by eight!’

And in the earlier hostile tone an addendum ‘And don’t be late!’

As he exited her house in relief his inner voice was laughing at him. ‘Confidence! Baby! Confidence!’

Oye Lucky Lucky Oye!

What an underrated gem this movie is! Sure it won some national awards, but never achieved the kind of box office fame it should have.

Oye Lucky Lucky Oye is the story of Lovinder Singh AKA Lucky (Abhay Deol), a fearless, charismatic and extremely confident thief who manages to effortlessly rob households and escape the clutches of the Delhi police at the same time. The movie is apparently based on a true thief called Bunty who terrorised Delhi households in the nineties.The movie begins by showing the genesis of his thieving ways in his teenage years and then cuts forward to an adult Lucky trying to seek employment under a crime boss, Gogi Bhai (Paresh Rawal). The movie begins and ends with the same scene - Lucky having been caught by the police along with his cache of stolen goods worth millions. The movie also chronicles his romantic entanglements and the betrayals that he inevitably suffers.


** SPOILER ALERT! I am assuming that you have watched this movie already and will be able to appreciate the points I try to make about certain key scenes in the movie. If not I advise you to go watch it immediately **



The first time I saw it, I knew I liked it - but didn't think too much of it. I had been touched by the scenes of young Lucky and that was it.


Especially the scene of the first date of the titular character Lucky at age 15 (played by a terrific Manjot Singh, who won the national award for his role) and the greeting card shop girl (I couldn't find the name of the girl. If anyone knows please reply). 
That scene had terrific staying power and the simple touches that the director, Dibakar Banerjee attaches to the scene appealed to me.


On later viewing I immediately forwarded to that part of the movie and found that I really really liked the scene. The line "Happy Birthday hai mera. Saal mein do hi baar aata hai bus" - followed by the sweet amused grin that the girl flashes at him. The scene in the restaurant where the waiter immediately recognizes Lucky for what he is - a penniless teenager out to impress his girl and insults the couple in such a way that our heart goes out to them - while we are laughing at the wicked humour in the dialogue.


The scenes of young Lucky are the best ones in the movie. How crafty of Dibakar to show this period in Lucky's life in such short vignettes. Makes them more special and treasure-worthy. 


But there are more scenes in the movie which have stuck in my mind. These include - Lucky's following Sippa - The Ministers son into the Disco, Lucky rejecting the advances of a horny Dolly,  Lucky robbing the News Anchor Babul Awasthis's house using the trick suggested by an unwary veterinarian, Lucky being insulted on the opening ceremony of his own restaurant, etc.



The movie satirizes not just the class consciousness and cheap materialism existent in some middle to upper class Delhiites but also the news media which sensationalizes everything (This is in fact mentioned by the character of a TV Anchor who laments that he uses the words 'Sansani Khez' too often on air). At the same time this is a movie which is clearly fond of the unique quirks of Dilli wale and presents these lovingly in exquisitely subtle detailing.


The detailing that Dibakar Banerjee has included in this movie is intricate and incredible. The ear- perfect accents and the nuances in the speech of the various Delhi characters populating the movie - the gentry, the police, the criminals, the Haryanavi Jats and the Punjabis.
As I mentioned before, the comedy in this movie can be subtle some times while laugh-out-loud hilarious at other times.

Banerjee also employs an unusual technique - of framing scenes comprising solely of still photographs shown in succession - filling in the gaps in the story. This works most of the times but can distract especially when used at the end of certain key scenes.


The movie benefits hugely from some excellent music (Sneha Khanwalkar). I am a huge fan of the earthy rustic ballad - Tu Raja ki raj dulaari as well as the title track (to which we unforgettably danced on Management Day)



A special mention needs to go to the actors who seem a near-perfect (and at times more than perfect) fit for their roles.

Paresh Rawal plays 3 different roles - Lucky's Dad, his criminal boss Gogi Bhai as well as the crafty veterinarian Mr. Handa - and is able to create three vividly different characters. The most underdeveloped is the character of the father - as he is present in only a few scenes. 
The best performed and most nuanced is the character of Mr. Handa. Look at how Rawal is able to drop his mask of pleasant geniality and display the venomous inner personality in a crucial scene. The anger that the audience feels towards him is immediately turned into pathos a few moments later when he is threatened with bodily harm and humiliation. Lucky laughs and we laugh with him.

Abhay Deol (whose talent I'm still sceptical of) is also perfect for the role - his the-boy-next-door looks and relaxed dialogue delivery prove to be essential for the success of the character of the lovable thief. 

The actress who performs the role of Dolly(Richa Chaddha) is good too. Watch how she lashes out at Lucky (in her horribly mixed wannabe Hinglish) when he rejects her advances. The character who impressed me the most was Lucky's sidekick Bangali (Manu Rishi). Most of the laughs in the movie come from his dialogues. This is a pretty good actor and I have yet to see him in any other movie. I liked the character of the Jat Inspector(Anurag Arora) as well.
Even the normally irritating Archana Puran Singh plays her role well and is funny in her role as Mrs. Handa.


Some of the robbery scenes may seem a little contrived and far-fetched as Lucky is able to walk out of houses with their valuables without facing any security so easily that we feel sceptical. This is the weakest aspect of the movie and I am able to forgive Banerjee for this.


This is his second movie after the delightful Khosla ka Ghosla - which had the great character actor Boman Irani in supreme form. He followed this with the dark and disturbing Love Sex aur Dhokha
(LSD).


I await his next movie eagerly.

The Rise of Twitter

Twitter has seen truly a phenomenal rise in India over the past one to one and a half years.

Even Orkut, the now out-of-fashion social networking website never dominated mainstream media attention as much as Twitter has. Orkut used to only be in the news for either fake profiles or for creating communities which ended up hurting the sentiments of one group or the other.

But ever since the Shashi Tharoor and Lalit Modi controversies first broke out in the mainstream media based on their Twitter "tweets", Twitter has courted a new found fame (as well as notoriety) among regular Indians who so far associated the word with the sounds birds make. From Bollywood Stars to Sports Personalities to two-bit celebrities - every one has joined the Twitter bandwagon.

So what is Twitter and why is it so popular? (Even I have a Twitter account - but truth be said hardly anyone follows me - mostly because I have hardly anything worth tweeting about). 

Twitter is a social networking and microblogging service that enables its users to send and read messages known as tweets. Tweets are text-based posts of up to 140 characters displayed on the author's profile page and delivered to the author's subscribers who are known as followers.

For celebrities it provides a wonderful way of communicating with their fans without having to resort to the traditional channels of communication which involve a middleman - such as television, newspapers or magazines. For people like Lalit Modi - it provides an easy way to deliver news-worthy quotes (whether his quotes actually are news-worthy is debatable) without going through all the trouble of calling a press-conference.

For everyone else it provides a wonderfully direct access to the thoughts of their favourite celebrities - It is as if Shahrukh Khan directly speaks to his followers through his Tweets. In a celebrity-obsessed age and a celebrity-obsessed society this provides the ultimate visceral high.

But in India anything new or innovative always takes time to be accepted and initially can be rejected quite venomously. This is especially true in the case of the Old Fogeys who are part of the political administration. Poor Shashi Tharoor paid the price for excessive (and perhaps a little thoughtless) use of Twitter.  140 characters can sometimes be woefully inadequate to concretely express the thoughts of a person and thus can be open to misinterpretation. Also his penchant for Retweeting the opinions of others (A common tool used in Twitter which allows news to spread on it like wildfire) was easily manipulated in the media to be his own opinions.

In any case, his Twitter controversies made him a hot-button topic for the Media which enabled them to completely destroy him when the IPL controversy broke out. The IPL Controversy, itself started by a famous (and fatuous) Twit - Lalit Modi - eventually led to his downfall as well.

The few famous people I follow on Twitter are quite unlike the celebrities that most of the Indian Twits follow. I was a follower of Tharoor on Twitter much before his first cattle-class controversy broke out. I also follow the renowned fantasy-writer Neil Gaiman (author of Coraline, Graveyard Book, Sandman - The Graphic Novel Series, among others) as well as the facially impaired uber-critic Roger Ebert. I follow these people because they are interesting, extremely intelligent and I enjoy reading what they Tweet about. 

I also follow this guy - VeryShortStory - who writes wonderful and thought-proving micro-short stories ensconced within a single Tweet. I also do Tweet occasionally and almost never get Retweeted. Also, My friend Shantesh keeps on tweeting about Tech Stuff which always make for a good read.

I end with a shameless plug for my Twitter account - www.twitter.com/Santoshsez 

Laxman Sivaramakrishnan

The current IPL has confirmed a long-running suspicion of mine.

Laxman Sivaramakrishnan is the worst commentator of all time. Ever.

I'm sure there will be some people who disagree with me and will provide the DD Hindi commentators as counter-examples. But these commentators are only guilty of being boring and unimaginative. But Siva (as he is fondly called by his fellow commentators, including Danny "ye beauty" Morrison) is Stupid, Vapid and has sold his soul to the devil (AKA The Sponsors).

Hence, instead of endeavouring to give solid Cricket gyaan or atleast an entertaining view on the gloriously uncertain game that is cricket, what we get from him are a string of sentences which are a poor excuse for including the Sponsors names.

Now again some may argue, all the commentators in this bloody IPL tamasha resort to this. But Siva my friends is not only the worst offender but takes "sponsor-name-insertion" to a new level.
For example, he once included all 3 major sponsor names in a single sentence. "Oh! He tried to go over the top for a huge DLF Maximum but ended up giving a Karbonn Kamaal catch to the fielder and this certainly is a Citi Moment of success ..."
In fact I noticed that he refers to the sponsors name 3-4 times more than the next worst commentator. Obviously he must have cut some sort of a special deal with the sponsors or SET Max.

Looking at Siva's gaunt frame one can assume a long history of malnourishment and maybe the sponsors have assured him that each time he mentions their name they will guarantee him a square meal for the day.

On the rare occasions when he does comment on the occurences on the field he is capable of making the most stunning bloopers - making one wonder if he did ever play cricket at all.
For example, in a particular match when Virat Kohli's run-out decision was being referred to the Third Umpire - the entire world could clearly see that Virat's bat was well short of the crease. And yet Siva boldly proclaimed - "It would be a brave Umpire who would give that out!" Maybe he wasn't even looking at the screen but thinking about which sponsors name would he insert in next.
And as expected when the Decision of OUT came he bellowed, "A Citi Moment of Success ..."

But he did have a career once, before he ruined it with excess alcohol usage. His debut at the age of 17 was spell-binding when he took 23 wickets in a home series against England. But within a couple of years he was nowhere to be seen ... until he resurfaced some years ago in his latest avatar.

I imagine that the after-effects will be seen in Siva's day-to-day speech long after the IPL is over. If one is willing to be a little snarky, then one can with some effort imagine Siva in bed with his spouse (I know, I know - this is pretty difficult to imagine) and the conversation between the two of them would be something as follows

Siva - "Oh dear, today I will give you the DLF Maximum amount of pleasure. I know I couldn't perform last week and you had to satisfy yourself with just a Karbonn Kamaal Catch. But that was because the IPL was still on and my energies were flowing in another direction. Let's begin ..."

And 10 seconds later Siva shouted out "Ahh! A Citi Moment of success ..."

Tell Me Why

Before wikipedia became so popular and put them out of business, encyclopaedias were in every home - huge volumes of information available to us at our fingertips. They may seem primitive to us now, especially as they lack a search function - but I still remember the pleasure of going through the huge volume - the scent of the pages transporting me to another world.

We had the Tell Me Why series of books in our house - allegedly written by a Mr. Arkady Leokum - atleast the guy's name used to be on the cover page of the books. The books were named Tell Me Why, Still More Tell Me Why, Here's More Tell me Why and so on. Each book claimed to answer hundreds of questions - seems anachronistic in the age of Wikipedia with its multimillion pages of information.

For a young child like me who enjoyed the company of books more than people, Tell Me Why was a wondrous companion and I spent hours upon hours poring through the various sections in the books. Each book answered questions on various scientific and sociological disciplines including botany, paleontology, astronomy, physics, zoology, culture, literature, philiosophy among others.

Ever wondered "Why humans have hair?", "Who invented plastic?" or "Can fish hear?". Were you ever curious about "Who was the first astronaut?", "Why do cannibals eat people?" or "Why did the dinosaurs become extinct". All I had to do was open the books and search for it. Of course the lack of an equivalent of the search function meant I had to go through tons of other questions before I found my relevant query - but these other questions themselves intrigued me and thus hours were spent in their company.

Then i grew up, started to lose interest in books and gain more interest in the people around me. These books were lost in the back of my cupboard - a couple were probably sold off - unknown to me and passed out of my memory.
Recently as I was cleaning my bookshelf (probably after a decade :D) I found a couple of these books - yellowed and musty but still intact. And as i turned the pages, the years melted away magically.

I was a 8 year old kid again with my encyclopaedia, reading about - "Why does an opossum hang by its tail?" and "Why do dogs bury bones?"

Life is good.

Daybreak

A sequel to Nightfall

I am twenty seven.


Life ends up as a string of random memories tenuously bound together. Wisps of smoke framed against the starlit sky. Often, a chance phrase causes a rush of previously withheld memories to come to the fore. Such was the case today.


She died yesterday night. The one who terrorized my childhood dreams. She has finally left the confines of the physical world and escaped into the spiritual one.


I feel a vague unease. A childhood fear penetrating my adult consciousness. I look out through the window and see a few mourners dressed in white. Too few, sadly. Disliked throughout her life, her demise had been keenly awaited by many. And now that it had happened, few had bothered to turn up.


Her husband cut a forlorn figure. She had been all that he had. Their daughter, having escaped her household three years before through marriage, was weeping silently holding her father by his arm. Filial love triumphing over two and a half decades of tortured memories.


A month passes by. Their house is abandoned now. Her husband had moved in with his daughter's family. I have forgotten about her, busy with my daily schedule. I will remember her again. And how!



Tonight the moon is in shadow. The perennial city smog hides countless unseen stars from me. I toss and turn in my bed, unable to sleep. I am alone, the folks having left for our native place yesterday. A mournful dog bays in the forlorn streets below. It cries out to the lost souls of the night. Yamadharmaraja is on the prowl, whisking away his somnolent victims. 


My heart filled with misgivings, my ears filled with the horrific wail of the dog, I almost miss hearing a most singular yet sinister sound. Almost! The window in my balcony is being opened. The incongruity of this occurrence floors me! I am on the third floor and my balcony is protected by inch-thick iron grills. No earthly being could be on my window-sill.

Pure animal instinct makes me turn around. But there is no one there. Yet the window lies open. A gaping hole letting in the wintry night, where a moment ago there had been none. Getting up to close the window is probably the bravest thing I have done in my life. Or probably the most stupid.
As soon as my hand clasps the window latch, darkness envelops my eyes. The last thing I remember is falling to my knees as the world goes blank.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I wake up with a throbbing pain in my neck. My senses take a while to adjust to the surrounding darkness, when I realize where I am. The bathroom. I also realize something  else. I am my eight year old self again. I am reliving the night that occurred 19 years ago, a night which scarred my childhood memories for ever. 


She waits for me beyond the door, wreathed in the shadows. I cry out - a full-blooded guttural cry - to my parents, to God or whoever else who could extricate me from this hellish nightmare. Ten minutes pass before I am able to control myself, my voice spent, my shirt drenched with my tears and my pants drenched with something else. I hear a faint tapping on the door.


It is time to go out. Time to succumb to the fate I should have 19 years ago. I open the door, my hand shivering violently. Events proceed exactly as they did that other night. The room is illuminated by the faint vestige of an almost extinguished 1991 streetlight. The headlights of a passing vehicle cuts an illuminating arc across the corridor, just as they did then. I feel dizzy, illogical - as if none of the intervening disasters and wrong turns in my life have occurred yet.


And there is she is - leering at me - her pudgy pock-marked face contorted with malicious hate. She is dressed in the same nightgown that she wore on that night - frilly material tainted with the grime of age. Her arms adorned with hideous varicose veins, her nails long and sharp, filled with pus and filth. 


She advances towards me and places her grizzled paw on the nape of my neck, the nails piercing into my skin. I close my eyes, expecting the nails to slash across my throat at any instant. Instead I feel my mind being altered - new memories being inserted into them. 

I am at a school playground. I see a plump young girl not much older then me. Sitting on the sideline eating some oily bhajiyas. Her classmates are laughing at her as they play langdi in the ground nearby. They call her names. She continues eating, sobbing silently. A teacher approaches her with a cane! He calls her a fat dumb cow - pulls her by the hand into an empty shed beside the school. Fifteen minutes later she emerges, tears in her eyes, her frock torn and stained with drops of blood.


I feel a new memory overtaking my mind. She must be atleast 12 now. It is night. She lies huddled under her blankets clutching a doll to her chest. She can hear her father in the adjacent room beating her mother up. Abusing her with the vilest of phrases. Her mother remains silent. She draws the blanket closer to her. She starts pulling the fake hair off her doll and stuffs it in her ears. Replacing the screams of her father with screams of her own.


A new memory, a new nightmare. It is her wedding night. She lays on the bed, decked in bridal attire. She is nervous, shyly anticipating the future ahead. Her husband is in the other room, glued in front of the TV watching the cricket match. She waits for him to appear. In the morning she goes to sleep all alone, the future already appearing as dim as the past.


My mind is benumbed. I cannot take this anymore. But I am not in control of my mind. She is. And she is not yet ready to stop. She sits in the kitchen trying to feed her young daughter some rice. Her husband is in the living room, stuck to his usual routine in front of the TV. Her daughter refuses to eat. Instead she starts bawling a plaintive piteous cry. She hears familiar words coming out of her mouth - Shut up you dumb cow! The child starts crying more louder. Her features contort with hate. By the time she realizes that she is hitting her own daughter - it is too late. 

The script that is to be played out each night has been set in motion.


With a sudden jerk, my mind snaps back to the present. She catches me by the arm and leads me away with her. We go out of the apartment and start climbing up the stairs. In the gloom of the night I follow her, the stench emanating from her decrepit corpse overpowering my senses. We pass through an open door into the terrace. The chill of the night makes me shiver. She releases her grip on my arm and steps onto the ledge. She turns and looks at me, the horrible rage and hatred replaced by infinite sadness. And then she steps off the ledge, into the darkness below.


I am convinced that I have no choice but to follow her. I climb onto the ledge, my body shivering and weary. I glance down and the street below seems miles away. Without the slightest hesitation I step off.



EPILOGUE
My corpse was found by early morning joggers. My parents sold off our flat 2 months after my death, the place being an evil memory of their loss. Years have passed. No new tenants have occupied the flat. 

I am still 27, staring out of the window into the flat exactly opposite to ours.

An Ode to Global Warming

In the merry month of May
Basking in the summer glow!
A wish to float far away!
A wish to feel the winter snow!


A winter lost, A summer regained
The grass underneath turned to hay!
Traces of which none remained!
A wintry night is now a summer day!


Explain not why the soot fills the sky
Explain not where the glaciers went!
Explain not how the seals suffer and die!
Explain not when the lakes were spent!


A parched throat is none the worse
Than a bleeding one cut by the knife!
Countless tho' are the coins in my purse!
They can't save my childs fledgling life!


Kyoto was lost, Copenhagen did sink
The danger though none would deny!
The lobbyists schemed and rose a stink!
Half a century later the world started to die!


A cautionary tale is better not told
'Cos we believe only whats ere our eyes!
Alchemists thought lead turned into gold!
Woe is us! We believe in gilded lies!

... hurting the sentiments of people

Intolerance, backed and supported by the State, continues to be a constant source of amusement for me. A few recent examples will illustrate what I exactly mean.

1. Jaswant Singh's book on Jinnah was banned in Gujurat because it glorified Jinnah and called Sardar Patel as the reason for Partition.

2. Many libraries in the USA do not allow patrons to issue "Tintin in the Congo", one of the earliest Tintin books because of the naive, objectionable ways it depicts Africans.

3. Sites like Orkut have been banned in the UAE because of the moral decay they apparently spread in people.

4. Catholic Groups all around the world demanded a ban on Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy as it supposedly preached atheism.

There are so many such examples, some that make you laugh while others that make you worry. I have tried to include perspectives from around the world, to show that this is widespread even in countries you might assume are liberal.

The USA is certainly not a very liberal country especially as fringe hardball Catholic groups have always commanded great attention.

Banning books or other forms of art on the basis that they preach against a religion is a major form of hypocrisy. How can any work of Art hurt your sentiments about God? This belief is supposed to be a highly personal, highly strong bond. A mere painting should not be capable of hurting this bond. If it does, then your faith was never strong in the first place.

I believe that the Pareto's principle applies in the case of intolerance as well. 80% of all these protests, calls for bans and other extreme reactions are done by only about 20% of the practitioners of the particular religion. The rest 80% are the silent majority who unfortunately let these 20% hog the limelight, allowing them to act as spokespeople.

I hold the worst scorn for Governments which ban works of Art for the apparent "Good" of their people. India is a secular country, but the States are run in a bigoted feudalistic fashion. States such as Gujurat, Maharashtra and Karnataka have generally been at the forefront of banning stuff left, right and centre.

I very strongly believe in the freedom of expression. For me, no work of art can shake my belief in God. If one actually goes by the holy Books of every major religion, in no Book is it written that Ban something that goes against your religious beliefs. Dialogue and Debate are at the heart of a healthy society.

If you do not agree with the contents of a particular book, don't buy it, but don't stop other people from exercising their fundamental right of being able to buy that book. If you are worried about your children falling prey to the corrupt influences of such material, discuss with them about the pitfalls associated with such material, allow them to build a rationalistic approach towards life.

It is indeed sad that a fanatical fringe group of society decide our lives for us and worse when the very Government (especially one which claims to be a Secular Republic) which should support our rights to express our individual opinions in Society chooses to do the very opposite.

A thought experiment

Is it possible for someone to change their personality overnight?

At least outwardly. And once the outward change is completely manifested over a period of time, will this gradually lead to an equivalent change inwardly as well?

Especially if that someone has entered into the latter half of his twenties?

This is a thought experiment being conducted to ascertain the feasibility of such a theory.

A precognition required for this discussion is the concept of inner and outer personalities, one which is apparent to the outside world and one which is apparent only to the individual.

Let us start by assuming that it is not possible to do so.
It is not possible for someone to change his or her personality once they are well into their adulthood.

This means that this person will display the same set of different reactions to various stimuli consistently according to the dictates of his conscious personality.

Ergo, the person's reactions can be predicted to an accurate degree by keen observation during the application of a same set of stimuli under different circumstances.

But, the one thing that nature has taught us and which has been proved by considerable empirical evidence is that the behaviour of men is highly stochastic.

This means that there is a part of the behaviour which is known, predictable and easily explainable. But there is another, quite substantial part, which cannot be understood and thus predicted or explained.

This is especially true in times of extreme stress or under those rare but unavoidable circumstances when the rational brain is bypassed by the amygdala to achieve quick, instinctive responses.

Thus, an apparent paradox comes into being which can only be resolved by recognizing that our initial assumption is untrue.

Thus, it is possible for a person to change his or her personality even at an age when conventional wisdom states that the personality is more or less reaching a state of stasis.

As to what proportion of outward personality can be changed vis-à-vis the inward personality is still unclear and may require further discussion by people more erudite than myself.

As to the possible application of the conclusion derived above, that is something I plan to adopt in the following days.

Whether the attempt is successful ergo proving my hypothesis is something left to the people in my coterie to ascertain.

I can only hope that it is so.

Note : The desirability of the application of the result of this thought experiment to society is something which is not included in the scope of this discussion.

Homeland Security

In the manufactured world of the media, the detention of Shah Rukh Khan by the security staff at a US airport has knocked off the dreary details of Swine Flu off the main pages. Everybody and his uncle has an opinion on this one and as usual the media is blowing this incident way out of proportion. Our politicians have got into the act as well and now this threatens to be a diplomatic issue between New Delhi and Washington DC.

My opinion is that

a) This is a stupid issue.
b) King Khan is pretty much Kommoner Khan when it comes to the rest of the world.
b) An official complaint by the Indian Government on this issue will have as much effect on the Obama Government as much as that pesky fly did in one of his interviews (It got squished by the President of USA - for the benefit of those who didn't watch the video on Youtube).
c) US is doing a damn better job of protecting its shores with its racial profiling policies than India is.

Of course, its mightily racist of the US to target people in airports just because they happen to be Muslim. But lets face it, Islamic terrorists did attack the US on 911. We must understand that after 911 the Government swore that they'd never let another such incident occur again. Plus, they are doing it within the confines of their country. If we don't like it then we should stop visiting the US.

Hence, a Khan or a Siddiqui or a Sheikh will continue to face detention in US Airports, whether they like it or not. Thats until some Hindu terrorists (Oh they do exist!) carry out some attck on Uncle Sam. Then even Bhats will no longer be secure.

As for India, it has been almost a year since the September 11 attacks and we still haven't been able to convict one Mohammed Ajmal Amir Kasab. We are as vulnerable to another terrorist attack as we were on September 10, 2008. Of course it is difficult to similarly profile people at our airports considering that Hindu or Muslim we all look alike. Also, there are too many options open for the ghuspetiyas to ghus into our country.

Shahrukh has petulantly threatened that he will never visit the US again. Good for him.

On a parting note, isn't it curious that Shahrukh's new film is called "My name is Khan" whose story is about an Indian Muslim in the US who is unfairly targetted by the Government after 911. Is it a case of real life imitating the reel one, or is it just me but this stinks of a publicity stunt.

Either ways we shouldn't care.

P.S. I am kinda glad that Swine Flu is off the front pages after the blitzkrieg coverage it received from the media in the past few days.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYNa4rhxffc&feature=related



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORZ00OyKp0I

The curious incident of the light in the night time

Ok this is some real freaky shit that's happening to me!

Someone is playing tricks with me and my parents swear it ain't them.
On Thursday morning, I woke up to find my mom standing in front of my bed with a frown on her face.

I wasn't in the mood to find out the reason for this so I pulled the covers over me further. But she pulled them off anyways and finally I found out what bugged her.

I had left the room tubelight on during the night. Knowing it was a touchy subject with her, I grudgingly listened to her complaints about the rising electricity bills, the recessionary state of the economy, etc.

Eventually I managed to soothe her frayed temper by promising never to commit such a heinous act again in a million years.

But on Friday morning the same scene was reenacted. This time I was mightily confused. I was damn sure I had switched out the light before hitting the snooze mode myself. This time she hadn't turned it off herself like yesterday so that I could see the proof with my own eyes.

Before hitting the bed yesterday, I paid special attention to the fact that I had switched the damn light off and I had locked my door too. But today morning the damn thing was on again.

Either I'm losing my mind, am suffering from some strange sleepwalking episode where all I do is switch on the light or there is a frigging ghost in my room with a pretty sad sense of humour. I plan to stay awake tonight with the lights off. I am going to solve this once and for all.

Hell yeah!

A style of their own

...and thus, I just finished watching Andaz Apna Apna for the twelfth time.

Amazingly enough, it still managed to make me laugh. Which is when I realized that I had to blog about it.

What is it about this movie, a flop when it was released way back in 1994, which has since gone on to become a beloved cult classic, that pulls me back time and again?

Well for one, the director Rajkumar Santoshi had made this movie at the time when he was at the peak of his art, having already made Ghayal and Damini, two heavy-duty Hindi potboilers, still popular today.

Andaz Apna Apna was an out and out comedy. Unlike other Hindi movies of the time, which used comedy as an ingredient along with parts of romance, tragedy and action (typically termed masala movies), here was a movie which was packed with comedic material from start to end. And what material it turned out to be!

The amazing part of this movie is that even after multiple viewings there will always be a particular joke or a throwaway line which we discover, just like discovering a particularly good piece of prose in a book undetected in previous readings.

The jokes are hurled at us at a breakneck speed, and even though some of them do fall flat, most of them do hit the mark. Till today!

Speaking of "mark", the most brilliantly funny piece of farce I have seen till today, is the scene where Amar (i.e. Aamir Khan) draws a mark on the face of Ramgopal Bajaj (played brilliantly by Paresh Rawal) to distinguish him from Teja (Paresh Rawal again) in the eyes of Teja's bumbling henchmen, Robert and Bhalla. The very fact that someone actually conceptualised this scene speaks volumes of human creativity and inventiveness. In my eyes, no Hollywood movie has ever come up with a scene more funny.

And then there is the evergreen character of Crimemaster Gogo, a brilliant riff on the arch-villian Mogambo from Mr. India. In fact, he is introduced as Mogambo ka bhatija (nephew). Played by Shakti Kapoor, everything about the character is funny, from the costumes he dons, to the modus operandi he uses to rob his victims, to the one-liners he spouts. "Aaya huun, kuchh toh loot ke jayega".

As for the plot ... there is no plot. Basically, the story is about two rascals, Amar and Prem who go to Ooty to marry the daughter of the billionaire industrialist Ramgopal Bajaj, Raveena (or Karishma) who has returned to India from the USA to find a groom for herself. But the evil mastermind Teja, RamGopal Bajaj's evil twin brother has his eyes on the family fortune ...

The movie is so wonderfully amazing, that even Salman Khan (who plays Prem) is funny, a feat that he has never again managed to achieve in any movie after that. Aamir Khan is endearing as the cocky Amar, who always tries to stay one step ahead of the slightly dim witted Prem, but ends up ... but that is something you need to watch.

Me and my friends in Hexaware, Siddhesh and Prakash have been and will be die-hard fans of the movie. We spent countless lunch breaks endlessly spouting the hilarious one-liners in the movies (mostly from Teja) applying them to all sorts of day to day situations.

I could go on and on about this movie. It is one of my favourite films and THE best comedy of all time. If you haven't watched this movie, do watch it ASAP. If you don't understand Hindi, get a friend to translate.

Believe you me, there are few better ways to spend two and a half hours on a Sunday afternoon.

A year of management education

As my first year of MBA almost comes to a close (just two more days remain), the first thought that comes to my mind is "Is this it?"
Is this all that the great Indian obsession, the much vaunted term "Management Education", adds up to?

How much of management have I really learned, in comparison to what I might have learned if I had stayed back at my old job is an interesting question. Not that I would have really stayed back in my old job but that's because my old company is currently in a pretty bad shape. Rather, if I had continued to be in IT.

Sure there was a slim chance that considering the current economic scenario I might have been laid off, but self-deprecating though I am, I do have enough self-confidence to believe that I wouldn't have been thrown out.

I must confess that I possess little of what are generally acknowledged to be "Management Skills". That is something that you pick up eventually with experience. All I have been equipped with is an uncertain sense of jargon. I am vaguely aware of what most of the terms mean. Also, after a year, I can now confidently sift through the Economic Times and understand the nuances behind the articles, and not be bewildered by the unfamiliar terms, as was the case pre-MBA.

So now, after these two days are over and a 5 day break in between, I move into my Summer Internship phase. Ah! Now this is where the real challenge is going to lie. I have been given a Sales profile and I am uncertain as to how adequately I am prepared for it. Firstly, throughout this past year, I have been somewhat of a social recluse, happy to stick to my room surfing the internet, rather then going out there and networking.

I have managed to make few good friends, but not nearly enough. Now being in sales, my attitude will need to show a 90 degree shift. I cannot afford to be a recluse anymore or I might as well kiss the chances of a Pre Placement Offer goodbye. But this past year I have done little to develop this skill, nor is it something that comes to me naturally.

Anyhow, there's no sense worrying about it now and I guess it is going to be a case of Baptism by fire. I am not unduly stressed about it. One thing I have realized is, I do manage to accomplish stuff in my own special, bumbling and diffident manner. But Boy! Is this internship going to be completely different from anything that I have endeavoured before!
But then this is why I joined to do an MBA in the first place!

Today, when I read my post "Chala Murari hero banane", written just before I had joined my b-school, I find a curious sense of optimism that seems to have somehow, just diminished a little. Mind you, it's just a little dip. I do not think I will be posting again till my Internships are over.

How will it all turn out? What experiences will I have? I am damn curious to peek into the future and find out but unfortunately I have no recourse but to allow things to take their own sweet time.

So until next time, Sayonara!

An ode

I came across this beautiful poem by Arthur O'Shaughnessy during my travels on the Internet.

I think I know what it means, but I am not sure. I somehow am entranced by it and a whole world of imagination opens in front of my eyes.

WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

Raw poetry from Trainspotting

Choose Life.

Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television,
choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance.
Choose fixed interest mortage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisurewear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows,
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all,
pishing your last in a miserable home,
nothing more than an embarrassment
to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJzX9i24IKs

Marketing

If there is one subject which is full of self-important jargon it is marketing.

Try some of these on for size.
We should leverage our core competencies to target the value for money segment.
By optimizing the usage of the 4Ps we shall provide a value proposition to all our stakeholders.
We will position our brand to attain relevant synergies with the consumer.

I could go on. One year in MBA has given me this tool with which I can "pfaff" with ease. Pfaff(P silent) - the latest word added to my vocabulary. One which in its simple structure covers the entire course of MBA.

MBA is all Pfaff. What does Pfaff mean? It means making stuff up as you go along, all the while enclosing it in a mist of meaningful sounding jargon to hide the fact that all you are saying is utter bullshit. In a way all MBAs learn to be confidence men or shysters. Some get better at it. Some like me initially rebel against it but later join in the flow.

Because its easier to do so and more practical.

Wretched thoughts

There is a nihilistic urge within me that threatens to immolate me. I feel I could self combust at any instant such is the nature of the urge. It has been caused by my inability in the recent past to have any kind of control or be able to harness my thoughts and my actions.

I despair. I despair at my inability to wake up from my slumber. It is as if a part of me has been blindfolded, ruthlessly cut off from the rest of my being. I find solace in writing this down. Slowly I find my frustration ebbing as if the inner clutter is being swept away. I glance at my hands as they type, tippety-tap, on the keyboard. I wonder how I'd live without them. To be rudderless in an ocean of misery.

But then my mood lifts. It was all due to a game I had begun with someone. Trying to infect that person with my negativism. And it seemed to work. I seemed to have transferred my fury and rage and incoherence and the translucent haze was lifted off my mind. I could see clearly how facetious I had truly been, how all these words and thoughts were an elaborate charade, created by a bored intellect and mistaken for torpor. I could see through the self important claptrap and suddenly I realized. I need to stop typing and start studying.

Oh wretched BDA, you soporific subject taught by that odious demagogue, I take a stab at you again!

A walk amidst the clouds

Living on a hill has its benefits.

I have been in Lavale for four months now and finally did I find some time to visit this space and relive the old routine of typing some shit.

An MBA life is curiously enchanting. You rarely sleep before 2 A.M. You learn to read up for presentations an hour before. In fact guys get to learn a trick that girls have mastered instinctively - Multi tasking.

The campus is in its first year of operation and by now most of the glitches have been sorted out. The air is clean and healthy without a trace of the slightest pollutants, and for someone who hails from the perennially polluted Mumbai, this is a pleasant change. Of course, since this isn't Mumbai, electricity and water shortages are omni-present challenges, but the administration is dealing with it to the best of its limited capabilities.

To tell the truth I haven't found an MBA course to be much helpful so far. It seems to be just repackaging of common concepts and the examinations especially are pretty bullshitty. I expected post-grad exams to do a serious testing of your concepts and check your utilization of those concepts in practical scenarios. But so far all the exams have been similar to our school exams wherein we by-heart a topic and then vomit a short-note on it.

Of course, its not all crap. There are some good things in the course also. But all the good things only come to those who are willing to participate in either the student council activities, the inter b-school management fests or some case-study competitions etc. If you just depend on the school curriculum you are pretty much not gonna learn anything.

And finally, the biggest learning comes through the 2-3 months of your summer internship process. Thats when you get a feel of what is in store for you post degree and how suited you are to it. It is a time to experiment and hence it is extremely vital that you either a) Enter into a good b-school which will attract the best companies across India b) or have good personal contacts to get you into one of those companies.

So far, I have seen things which haven't been upto my expectations, but who knows maybe my expectations were themselves flawed.

As Bryan Adams (or maybe Aerosmith) sang, "life's a journey not a destination."
I have embarked upon an interesting journey. I have consciously chosen to throw away the safety net of my IT job and swim into deep unknown waters, especially with the economy being in such a roughed up state.

Wherever i may reach, it will definitely be far away from my current comfort zone.