How to be more interesting

So I was perusing through some books in my office library (in the non non-fiction section obviously) when I kinda gazed upon the adjacent shelf where the self-help books were kept.

And then a title caught my eye. The title of this post. How to be more interesting. Feeling that familiar feeling of unbridled mirth welling up in my self, I inched closer to see the author of this ridiculously named book. The name of the author left me in shock - Edward De Bono. The Edward De Bono. The guy who's made his name and untold millions churning out those lateral thinking books!

I would have thought at least De Bono with all his expertise in lateral thinking would have the basic marketing sense that no customer in his right mind would be caught dead reading that book!
I mean suppose you're this under-achiever (i simply abhor the alternative term for under-achiever that starts with L and refuse to use it) who people find boring and find it difficult to string together a conversation without putting the opposite person to sleep! The last thing you would do is to been seen buying the book and be a confirmed bore.

I would like to see how many copies of that book have been sold! I mean was De Bono drunk when he allowed the editor or whoever to name this book. Or is this a fake, not written by De Bono? Is my office library stacking up books of imposter? Whatever may be the case I don't think that I'd have any further faith in De Bono teaching me any strategies on how to think!

Ok, so finally now that you have waded through this utterly boring asinine crap masquerading as a post, let me ask you this.

Do you think I need to read that book?

The outsiders

The ringing of the bell awakes me.

I hear my mom rushing to open it. It is not my father. It is Sushil. I can tell that he has brought bad news. I can tell from the increasingly high pitched responses from my mother.

Sushil rushes into my room. My mother follows him whimpering.

"You have to leave immediately aunty. The mob has entered the locality and are forcibly evicting all non-Maharashtrians. Rumour has it that they are also looting all valuables from peoples houses. Please pack up all that is absolutely necessary and leave now before they arrive."

My mom objects tearfully, "But your uncle hasn't arrived from office yet. And you know the condition of poor Venu."

Yes I have a condition. It is called paraplegia, or in layman terms total paralysis from the waist down. A result of a stupid bike race that I was egged on to participate in by my college seniors 3 years ago. 3 years since I last stood on my own two feet.

"I will tell my brother to inform uncle when he arrives that I have taken you to the station. As for Venu, we will load him and his wheelchair into my Omni. I will come below the building in it in 15 minutes. Please hurry aunty, we have no time to waste."

Sushil left us in total shock. My mom immediately went to the bedroom and started dumping clothes, jewellery and my medicines into the attache.
I wheeled myself to the door, getting ready for the inevitable.

Sushil was lucky. He was a Maharashtrian. We also had considered ourselves to be lucky till about a month ago. We were south-Indians. The violence had begun due to a campaign by a political party to drive away the North Indian migrants to Mumbai. Encouraged by the tepid response of a weak state government, a police force which was sympathetic to the cause of the localites and the increasing disillusionment and growing frustration in the Marathi youth, the party had been forcibly driving out migrants from the north. Those who were on the wrong side of the economic divide.

Spurred on by their success with the North Indians they had now focussed their campaign against the "intruders" from down under. It didn't matter that my father had migrated to Mumbai from Kochi 25 years ago. Or that I had been born and had lived my entire life in Mumbai, and had as equal a right to call Mumbai my home as any other Mumbaikar. It only mattered to the mob that our surname was Reddy and that automatically made us usurpers of jobs meant for localites.

Of course the mob didn't just contain the zealots who wanted us out, it was infiltrated and run by common criminals who found this a perfect oppurtunity to conduct robberies in broad daylight. Which was why my mom fearfully stuffed her mangalsutra and other assorted jewelery into the depth of the bag.

We started to hear shouts coming from below the building. It had started. I called out frantically. "maa!! come on its time to leave."
My poor mom. How my heart went out to her. As I saw her tearful, worried face desperately trying to figure out all that needed to be taken and all that had to be left, I wished I could go to her, hug her and comfort her. But I couldn't. I was as scared as she was, but was helpless to do anything to alleviate our fears.

As I wheeled myself out of the house, I glanced one last time at the only place I had ever known as home. With our heavily beating hearts, teary eyes and hands numb with fear we got into the lift which would take us down to the ground floor.

When the doors of the lift opened below we saw a sea of faces malevolently staring at us, furious with hate. They had hockey sticks and lathis in their hands. There were men and women and boys and girls. My mom immediately tried to close the door of the lift again. But she was too slow and rough arms pulled her out of the lift. The attache was dragged away from her. She pleaded with them to let go of it. But they started raining blows on her head.

Unable to bear this sight I wheeled myself into the middle of the mob shouting out loud. "Soda tila (let her go)!!!" I caught hold of the hand of the man who had begun to punch her. He turned towards me and shouted out, "Kaay re madrasi kutrya!!! (You Madrasi dog!) "

I punched him hard in the groin and saw him fal down doubled in pain. Immediately I felt someone tilt my wheelchair from the side and I fell down to the ground. I felt someone kicking me on the groin, on my head. I saw a hockey stick being raised, ready to come down in full force. I closed my eyes, anticipating the sharp pain that would follow. But the blow never came even though I was still being kicked on my head. I opened my eyes slightly just in time to see someone holding the hockey wielding arm before I passed out.

When I came to again I felt someone dragging me into a vehicle. I could make out that it was Sushil. I could hear my mom's crying nearby. I realized that I was in Sushils Omni with my head on my moms lap. Her beautiful face had been bruised and blood was oozing from a split lip. She thanked God that I had come to consciousness. The attache case of course was gone.

Sushil turned around from the driver's seat. "Dude, I thank heavens that I came when I did. Those bastards would have killed you if me and my dad hadn't convinced them to let you'll go. What yaar Wino! Did you think you were Rambo or something trying to hit back at the goondas!"

'Venu the Wino!' Sushil had been calling me that ever since me and him had tasted that first glass of beer in Majestic Bar and I had gotten drunk after just that one glass. It made me want to smile, but even thinking about smiling made me cry.
I was glad that my mom was safe, notwithstanding my pathetic attempt to save her.

We reached Dadar Terminus where Sushil and his dad helped carried me into the station. The station was jam packed with people, families shivering in the cold, worried about their loved ones. There were a group of lathi-wielding men who were forcibly bundling people onto the trains. The police was nowhere to be seen.

I sensed Sushil talking to me. "Don't worry Wino, It's only a matter of a few days, maybe a week or two. I'm sure things will calm down. It's just that there's so much anger around nowadays."

I nodded to him. I know that Sunil and his dad had gone through great personal risk to to help us out. I instead asked, "Any word from my dad yet?"

"No yaar, As always at a time of crisis all mobile networks are jammed. I have instructed my bro to intercept him before he returns to the colony and bring him here. I'll go find something for you two to eat."

I nodded to him as he left us. I closed my eyes, emptying my mind of all thoughts.
Of course we would survive this. We were not being killed, just driven out of our homes. Sometimes that can be as devastating.

An hour later my father did arrive, and three hours later we were on a train to Kochi, to our ancestral home. As I saw the train leaving Dadar station, I found myself wondering about not just my beautiful city of Mumbai, but of my country in general. As a nation, we were breaking up, getting divided into individual little fiefdoms each antagonistic with the other. The outsiders. Get rid of them! Everyone had forgotten about the basic right of a citizen of every country to freely roam about and settle in all parts within it.

It wasn't just in Maharashtra. MP was evicting its Marathi population, West Bengal its Bihari immigrants, Karnataka its Tamil speaking population. Before the British coalesced together an empire called India, the subcontinent was divided into different kingdoms, each of which was at war with each other. 60 years after independance it seems we were condemned to repeat history.

It didn't matter anymore that I am an Indian.

Mera Bharat Mahaan!!

Who is the man behind Hariteman ... And I don't mean Khalap

Who is Hariteman? Where does he come from? Why does his face always have a frown, as if he suspects someone is going to releasSSse a particularly noxious batch of wind on him?

It all began on a cold wintry day 6 years ago, in the winter of 2001, when there was a college called as SFIT, a subject called as BEE, and a new professor called as Harite.

He had been in the industry for more than 10 years honing his skills and perfecting his sour-puss expression. But the industry had disillusioned him. The people who entered into the industry after completing their engineering were extremely pathetic when it came to practical knowledge and more often than not floundered miserably initially and the companies had to spend a bomb on training these retards.

But Harite knew that it wasn't really the fault of the students. It was the fault of that evil sinister entity better known to the general public as Mumbai University, which had designed engineering courses to teach students everything but how to actually engineer stuff.

Harite was an idealist, a pragmatist and a masochist.

He believed that he would change the system, he would educate the youngsters of today and make them the engineers of tomorrow, the real ones that India Inc so desperately desired. His intentions were noble, his teaching methods were honed to perfection.

But as history has duly recorded, his choice was f***ed up!

He chose to start with SFIT.

Some people have sworn under oath that the very first day that Harite entered FE-EXTC to teach BEE (Basics in Electrical and Electronics) in winter 2001, he had a smile on his face. The very same people have also sworn under oath (and under their breath) that he never smiled again in his life after that.

Soon all his illusions about the potential in the youth of today were blown away.
He soon saw them in their true colours. Noisy, chattering, obnoxious monkeys wearing colourful clothes and torn jeans and dancing with gay abandon in the corridors.

The students never left him in peace - in the parking lots where they surrounded him like a bunch of beggars begging for marks which they never deserved, which they couldn't even begin to deserve. Even in his sleep he could hear their chants "Gimme the Marks! Gimme the Marks!" rising into a crescendo eventually drowning out all sound from his brain.
He found them invading every inch of his life be it in the staff toilet where they weren't supposed to drink or the nearby Majestic Bar where they weren't supposed to piss. Or vice versa.

Every time he valiantly tried to chastise them, to show them the error of their ways, they simply jeered at him, booed him behind his back. His expression grew grimmer, his physique grew slimmer, his bald pate started to shimmer. He tried to torture them, bribe them, seduce them but ultimately failed to help them evolve from their primitive ape-like state.

Eventually he realized the hopelessness of his cause, renounced engineering and SFIT and Mumbai University and returned back to the warm, comfortable bosom of the industry where he spent the rest of his days happily listening to the rhythmic sounds of humming machinery.

But little did Harite know, how big an impact, how big an imprint he had left in the mind of a young impressionable monkey known as Santosh Bhat. Little did he know that he had been elevated to the status of a super-human in the weird little tales penned down by this grotesque chimpanzee.

Little did he know about Hariteman (and his pansy sidekick)

I am Legend (Yeah rite! Santosh!)

Coupla' weeks ago I happened to catch the Will Smith starrer I am Legend, a tale about apparently the last man on the earth, after the rest of humanity was wiped out by a virus which turned survivors into carnivorous vampire-zombie hybrids (or vombies). I found the movie to be a hugely wasted opportunity which squandered its interesting ideas for some unconvincing action scenes with hokey CGI-rendered creatures.


But the basic premise did revisit me back to the days when I was a kid and used to fantasise about being the last human alive. Imagine! A world all to myself! The adventures I would have!

Now that I have grown up I realize how foolish those kiddie notions of mine were! Every adult male in every specie knows that his primary function in this world is to procreate and further his race. So being the last man (or woman) alive would completely negate this primary function and thus make the purpose of his existence void.

So that means that a Last Woman on the Earth would be needed as well. This would solve the immediate problem of procreation (a very important solution none the less) but still would be of no use in furthering the race, because inbreeding and its associated genetic damage would ensure that not many further generations would be spawned.

This is the major reason why I do not believe in the Adam and Eve concept because that would make us all genetically mutated freaks related to each other.

A possible (and extremely pleasurable) solution could be that I would still be the last man on earth but the women on earth would still be represented in a sizable number. But even this argument provides many problems.
A. The inbreeding issue would still remain.
B. One man among many women will give rise to jealousies, hatred and would eventually lead to my death in case a tug - of - war like situation developed for possession of me.

So eventually this would necessitate the presence of another male and thus the entire fantasy of being the last man alive would come crashing down.
Maybe last man alive per country would not be such a bad idea!

p.s. On a serious note, leaving aside the sexist undertones of this post where I wish for a situation of many woman to few men, there lies a serious danger of the reverse case occurring, especially in a country which is so happy with aborting female fetuses and infanticide. I hope people realize, that without a balanced sex ratio, the country will witness more cases of desperate acts by a sexually frustrated male population. No one bloody well ever thinks of the bigger picture. Its time they started to do so!

This is Social Reformer Santosh signing out!

The beginning

The streetlight had dimmed. The clock struck ten.

Yadav yawned. Today business in the evening had been really poor for Yadav Bhelpuri, Panipuri wala. Normally these were the peak hours. But today the Indo - Pak 20/20 cricket match was going on and everyone was safely ensconced in their living rooms glued to their television screens. It was time to pack up. No one would come tonight, Yadav thought with sadness and disappointment.
If business was going to continue in this fashion, he would not make enough money to return to his home town in Samastipur, Bihar any time soon. It had been ages since he had met his parents, his ailing father and his over worked mother.
He remembered what Gajanand had said about a spate of robberies in this area recently. It was apparently a gang who had begun their operations there and didn't hesitate to murder their victim when he/she tried to resist.
He shivered slightly and started to pack up his thela.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him and immediately felt the touch of cold steel against his neck. A rough, unnaturally gruff voice spoke out, "Chal saale jitna bhi maal hai nikal. Nahi toh idhar hi ghused dunga!" Yadav started whimpering, begging for mercy when he saw someone come in front of him and punched him in the stomach. Yadav doubled over and fell to the ground in pain. He cried, "Aaj dhanda bilkul nahi hua hai. Paise nahi hai mere paas. chhod do mujhe!"
Enraged at him, his attackers started kicking him. Yadav tried to defend himself but found himself being lifted up and pinned from the back by one while the other brandished his long knife. His attacker raised his hand and struck at Yadav in a stabbing motion.

Yadav closed his eyes shut anticipating the tremendous pain that would surely follow. But all he heard was a stunned gasp from the guy behind him. He felt himself being released. He opened his eyes. He would never forget the sight that lay before him. The attacker with the knife was lying on the ground knocked out cold.

Standing over his comatose body was a really chubby, short man in a long dark cape, dark blue three-fourths and wearing a black mask on his face with bat-like ears. The attacker behind Yadav, gave out a loud shout of anger and rushed at this costumed creature. But before he could reach him, someone came flying out of the darkness and kicked his legs from under him. The dacoit fell over . He tried to get up again but a kick from this new comer knocked him out cold too.

Yadav stared at this new guy. He was thin in stature, deceptively thin, considering how nimbly and swiftly he had taken out the attacker. He too was wearing a cape and a mask over him, but was wearing pink shorts inside out.

Yadav gasped out loud "Kaun hai aap?"

The thin masked guy replied, "Hum kaun hai is se tumhe koi matlab nahi. Bas itna jaan lo ki ab yeh log tumhe ya kisee aur ko pareshan nahi karenge."

The fat masked guy "Haan aur yeh bhi jaan lo ki hum tumhare sev puri ke bade fan hai!"

He tossed a card to Yadav and just as that, both of them vanished.

In the dim streetlight Yadav saw the following words monogrammed on it:

BatBubba & Abnerobin
Mallu Brothers from different mothers.

First Be something and then Blog

Pehle kuch bano Santosh.

Duniya mein tumhe kitne log jaante hai???

Paach sau? Hazaar?? Bus itne hi??

Tum yahan kya likhte ho, kaun padhta hai aur kisse pharak padhta hai???

Kise bewakoof bana rahe ho yaar? Sirf apne aap ko??

Jaao Aamir Khan ke blog ko padho. Sirf 10 posts aur 10 hazaar comments.

Tumhare blog se tum kya ukhaad rahe ho?? Sirf ek mazaak bana ke rakha hai.

Apne aap ka!!

Chalo ab log out karo! PC switch off karo!
Kitaab kholo. CAT ke liye padho. Pareeksha mein acche number laao.

GD/PI mein excel karo.

MBA karo. Top honours ke saath graduate karo!!

Successful bano! CEO bano!!! Kuch toh bano pehle!!!

Phir blog karo!!!!

Aur phir dekho ... phir dekho ki kitne comments milte hai.

Chal shuru hoja.

Abhi se.

Hair today gone tomorrow ... concluding part

Read below post before reading this one.

The First of November.

This was the day when I was going to begin my battle against the wanton destruction of my follicles. The plan was that I would meet up with my benevolent benefactor after work and he would lead me towards this miracle man, this doctor who gave people like me hope.

The day had started out well but by evening time the sky had grown dark. Huge rain clouds were gathering and the early droplets started pelting my head when I got down from the office bus. As I met the benevolent benefactor I could sense the change in his mood. He was worried, tensed about something. For some reason, the thought of visiting this doctor had robbed him of, temporarily at least, the desire for conversation. After a few futile attempts I stopped making further attempts at chit-chat and gazed out pensively from the rickshaw which was taking us to our destination.

The clouds had completely enveloped the evening sky in a deathly embrace and bright, livid flashes of lightning scarred the dark sky. It was as if the Gods had gathered to witness this epic battle against hair-loss that was about to begin. And were clicking snaps to commemorate the occasion.

When we arrived at our destination, the building that loomed before us further heightened my sense of apprehension. It was the infamous Laxmi Chhaya Apartments of which, just a few months ago, a wing had collapsed and killed at least 30 people. The clinic was apparently located in one of the undamaged wings.

When we entered the receptionist handed us a token. It said #13 on mine. Funny number to get, I mused. Especially since I could see just 3 other patients in the clinic. We sat down to await our turn. Since the benevolent benefactor still didn't display an inclination to converse, I whiled away the time checking out the other patients. Two of them were aunties and the third a hot chick, sitting next to the receptionist's desk.

I wondered what she was doing over here. She certainly wouldn't have come for the same reason as I did. Could she? I tried to ascertain it. She had long luxuriant hair of which a single strand was tentatively hanging in front of her lips, and ever so often she would blow it to the side. But the strand of hair had the same idea that I did and it would swing back to the front of her lips.

Of course, the close attention that I was paying to this drama unfolding in front of me did not go unnoticed from the eyes of one of the more sterner looking aunties and she immediately called the girl towards her. Her mother I realized to my discomfort. The look in the mother's eyes said it plainly. Don't you dare stare at my daughter you balding buffoon! Or I'll make sure that you won't be left with any hair for the good doctor to save!! I'm sure this was what she was thinking.

Taking heed, I immediately started staring at an extremely interesting speck of dirt on the marble-tiled floor. "#7", sang out the receptionist. We all looked around. After 5 seconds, she sang out again, "#8!". She looked at me. I was sure that my expression must have carried the message to her. "How can #7 and #8 be expected to exist when I the fourth here am no 13!!!"

The call for #9 came soon enough.

Half an hour passed by and finally my turn arrived. I followed the benevolent benefactor into the doctor's chamber. Immediately all his previous truculence left him and the benevolent benefactor and the doctor started conversing in their native Gujarati. Two minutes passed before they noticed the embarrassed odd man out over there and the benevolent benefactor explained, "Doctor! He is here for the same reason as I am."

"Ohhh ... Whale whale whale!" the doctor started. "Late us see weight we cane do!"

He told me to pull back the hair from the front of my scalp and made a sympathetic clicking sound, which made my stomach sink.

"Whale Whale ... So Mr. Butt! Err you mayreed?"

"Excuse me? I'm sorry doctor but I didn't get your question."

"He is asking if you are married?", explained the benevolent benefactor helpfully.

"Oh .. er.. No", I stuttered.

"Do you wees to gate mayried, no?" said the doctor again, smiling genially.

"Er yeah sure", I stuttered again. I wondered where this line of questioning was going. Was he a doctor cum matchmaker? Or did he just find me to be the perfect groom for his daughter?

"Whale if date ease yore wees then we bater do something about yore hare foal quickly."


I gulped. I had always known that it was bad but I never knew that the situation had become so serious. My marriage and the continuation of my line was all dependent on the outcome of this battle. This battle to which I had arrived after it was almost all over.

But Herr Doktor smiled genially again and wrote me a long list of medicines on a sheet of paper. I glanced down at it but I could make no sense out of the illegible scrawl on it. All doctors should compulsorily be made to attend a cursive writing course in school again, I swear! I hoped that atleast my chemist would be able to understand it and would give me the right medicines, instead of wrongly giving me a laxative or something.

He continued, "These 3 ease after brakefust, These 3 ease after lunch, These 2 after evening snakes and last 3 ease after deaner."

He continued smiling and patted my shoulder, "Don't worry!"

And the session was over. And I was soon light by 500 bucks.

Yeah right! Not to worry! After you made me realize that my future marriage was at stake over here.

The tale of how I bid adieu to the benevolent benefactor, stumbled to the nearest chemists shop, acquired the latest medicines and finally made my way home, I myself remember hazily.

I have started the medicines in full earnest. Daily I ingest about half a dozen tablets and capsules. Whether I do win the battle and manage to spawn a new generation ... of hair, only time will eventually tell. I just hope that finally I am well equipped with ammo.

This is Santosh Bhat, making his last report from the battle, taking yore leave... err...taking your leave!