The Maverick Zone

Crossroads

2011-07-13T08:51:00.003+05:30

Radiohead. Pink Floyd. Play a song to make me forget. Play a song to make me cry. Play a song to make me feel good about all that we had. Play a song to make me realise all that I can't have. Play a song to make me feel miserable I can't play the guitar like that and sweep you off your feet. Show me the hills and the mist. Make me feel closer to myself. Make me feel farther from you. Money buys me happiness. Money can't buy me real happiness. I want to join college again. I want to put the clock back ten years. I want to grow younger by six years. I want to sky-dive to feel nothing but gravity. I want to sit by the ocean and hope the sound of the waves can drown my thoughts. The ocean reminds me of you and all the worries of the world written on your face. I don't want to be bound by social rules. I don't want to get married. I want to get married to be normal. I crave to be normal. I crave to be average. I want to be like the others who get to work abroad and learn about life. I don't want to buckle to external pressures. I welcome external pressures because it distracts me from my own confusions. I feel more alive than ever. I would welcome death if it came the next moment. I feel so frustratingly inadequate. I only want you. I desperately want to get back to 2001 and make more friends. I regret nothing yet I want to change my past. You showed me the liberation that Radiohead provides. You are the closest I ever had to a brother. You, not you, you are all I want. You, not you, can destroy all I live for. You, not you, are so snooty and self-centred. I want a purpose. I don't want a purpose to derail my journey. Dearest one, I want to be so near to you, I want you to hug me and tell me everything is fine, I want to see that goofy smile on your angelic face again. I want peace. I find peace in moments. I find turmoil in other moments. Turmoil wrecks peace. I am at a crossroad where all the lights except one are green.

The Stamp Collector

2010-07-22T18:02:00.004+05:30

With just four days to go for my second international trip, I am spending a considerable amount of time feasting on travel blogs, guidebooks and country fact books. Just like my first trip, this one will begin as a business trip and end as a vacation. Another similarity would be that I will be visiting two countries.

What disappoints me about the coming trip is the fact that both Singapore and Cambodia have issued e-visas. I am all too aware of the "environment friendliness" of these, as well as the relative ease of obtaining them whilst sitting in the comfort of my home/ office. Yet, the disappointment stems from the fact that I will not have two more visa "stickers" in my passport. Even on the previous trip, I was disappointed with the lack of any border checkpoint between France and Spain (where my passport could have carried the entry stamp from Spanish authorities) because my passport only shows entry and exit stamps at Charles de Gaulle Airport and nothing for Madrid's Atocha railway station (one of the largest in the world) or its enormous and splendid Barajas airport.

For long, I have envied those seasoned travellers who have three, four or even five additional passports bound together to accommodate all their visas and entry/ exit stamps. It's the only way a dry official document like a passport transforms into a gripping novel, with each visa and each stamp an unforgettable chapter. I have always imagined the pride with which I would present such a massive booklet at the immigration counter at an airport and cast a condescending glance towards the little kid eying me with awe. Most people want to collect postage stamps, but I want to collect visa stamps.

Obviously, my lust for travel is driven by a sincere, deep-rooted passion for exploring new and exotic places, meeting with people of different nationalities, and witnessing and briefly living among new cultures; not just for the almost robotic desire of collecting visa stamps. Nevertheless, the visa stamp from an exotic destination (say, Peru or Ethiopia or Iran or Vanuatu) is a prized possession and a catalyst to trigger all the memories associated with that place. The US visa is a prized possession of a different variety because a number of countries will never refuse you a visa or ask you to come to the consulate for a personal interview, if you have a valid US visa stamped on your passport. A Schengen area visa, especially a multiple-entry one valid for several years, is another valued stamp on your passport because you can visit dozens of countries in Europe with the same visa (of course, someone like me would still be disappointed because there won't be any additional stamps embossed during intra-Schengen area border crossings).

It's no secret that Cambodia is still an exotic destination which does not attract too many tourists. It is virtually unheard of in India. In fact, several people asked me where it was, one person asked me if it was in South America (obviously confusing it with Colombia) and yet another person, when I explained it neighboured Vietnam, asked if it was a province in Japan too (as he thought Vietnam was a province in Japan and that the US had nuked it during the Vietnam War). The best thing about Cambodia is that it features way below its neighbour Thailand in the average western tourist's list of must-see countries in South-east Asia. So when I get there in around ten days' time, I will not only be visiting a country that boasts of splendid ancient temples and natural beauty, but also collecting a rare entry/exit stamp. In fact, it will be my first "exotic" stamp. That's why I am kicked. OK, I admit - it's not the only reason. It IS a beautiful place.

Finally, I have to admit this is the only time I will pity the Americans. Their passport gets them entry into nearly 150 countries without requiring a visa. They will have very few stamps on their passports.

The flight into freedom - Udaan

2010-07-19T23:38:00.002+05:30

It's been a while since I wrote a movie review. In fact, it's been a while since I saw a good movie at the talkies. Multiplex, they call it these days. It was one of those rare weekends when there were several movies releasing in which I had a REAL interest in watching. On top of my list was Udaan. I had seen the promo once on TV (unlike those big banner promos which hit you at all times) and I casually observed that it had been screened at Cannes. Hindi movie at Cannes? Without Aamir Khan involved? With a commercial release in a multiplex? A must watch, I told myself.

A must watch it is. If this were a book, the blurb would have told us that it's the story of a teenager whose mind isn't in academics, who is forced into the hands of a father who hasn't bothered to keep in touch, who is forced by the father into things he doesn't care for, and whose adolescent spirit refuses to die. I can hear the groan in your head, as you think it's one of those pseudo-rebellious, Utopian stories that Bollywood is capable of producing. (Like Rang De Basanti - emotionally charged but really, who does that stuff in real life?). But wait - it received the applause from the stiff suits at Cannes - it's got to be something meaningful.

The plot begins slowly. It moves slowly. It caresses the characters, in a slow, sensual manner. It paints us Rohan, the adolescent and Bhairav, the tyrannical father, in the manner of Van Gogh at the height of his powers. Rohan's been expelled from his boarding school and returns to Bhairav, who hasn't bothered to meet his son in eight years. Immediately, we see that the boy is not welcome at home. Home is in Jamshedpur, India's first industrial township, which provides the ideal cold, machine-like backdrop to the plot. Dad owns a factory and immediately sets about employing his son into the hard labour. The school dropout is forced into attending evening college for engineering. When all he wants to do is to write poems and stories.

The strongest point of the movie is its characterization. Besides the two central characters, there's the loving uncle Jimmy and the wide-eyed stepbrother, the little kid Arjun. No one's character is overcooked. We see Rohan's angst through his eyes and facial expressions, but never through flashbacks, visions and dreams. We see Bhairav's painful past through vague references and an old photo album, but we never get that full story. We see Arjun's fears and vulnerability through his scars, and his maturity through his stoic taciturnity, but never through a tantrum or an outburst. It's subtlety that one would not normally associate with a Bollywood film.

Rohan's story is brilliantly told. He is treated like a big man by his father, when he's just a teenager discovering the world around him. He's not afraid to steal away in his father's car (after stealing some money too) and enjoy a smoke, but you are never invited to make a moral judgement of these actions. He's not afraid to drink and drive, but you are never instigated to imitate him because you empathise with the rebel inside and not the act itself. Instead, your heart is inspired to reach out to him and tell him, "I feel you".

The film rides over so many stereotypes, especially the moral judgements and mundane life choices we make. In the end, it's what makes the story believable. A school dropout who writes beautiful, haunting poetry is not laughing stock - his choices command the viewer's respect and even support. A strict, disciplinarian who wishes his son the best (although his actions never match his wishes) is not a desirable thing - in fact, it solicits our disgust and frustration. Ironically, the one time we really love Bhairav is when he's stone drunk. The other time we reach out to him is when he is confronted with the unpardonable sin of whipping the kid Arjun. The college bullies are not the despicable demons we tend to stereotype them into - their human side is revealed. They live for the moment, having realised that success will never call into their ports and life has passed them by.

The violence is always mental. Bhairav beats Rohan on several occasions but the real violence is in Rohan's steely glare. One punch is all Rohan throws in the entire film, when it wouldn't have been a surprise had he committed patricide. There are no clenched fists, no quivering lips. Bhairav's frustration and temper are closer to the surface, while Rohan's is immensely restrained.

A word about the actors. Ronit Roy has always shown plenty of mettle on the small screen and he fills up every inch of the big screen as Bhairav. Rajat Barmecha is surely Bollywood's young star in a powerhouse performance as Rohan. Unlike some better-known names, he can act. It's a shame the Khans and Akshay Kumar will bag the big bucks and the awards, but in my book, Udaan is the film of the year. Beyond any shadow of doubt.

After all, Cannes said that it had a certain look to it.

The Screen behind the Mirror

2010-06-21T18:58:00.002+05:30

I look at the mirror. It is a lie. It's not I who's looking back at me. There's something missing. There's something that's not right. It's nothing to do with my face. The same two eyes, the same nose, the same lips, everything else is in place too. But it's just not me.

Look, look! I don't see how extraordinary I am. I cannot see how different I am from others around me. I respect women and their decisions; yet the mirror shows me as a man who seemingly is no different from other men who objectify women. I act true to my beliefs, yet the mirror shows me as no different from those whose morals are as transient as a chameleon's colours. I work honestly for a living, yet the mirror only shows that I am not an engineer. I would never beat my wife and constantly suspect, belittle and dominate her, but the mirror only shows a strong arm and frown on my face, just like on any other man. I have infinite compassion in my heart, but the mirror understands not what is meant by that. I want love, attention and affection no less than the next person, but the mirror cannot decipher so complex a code.

The greatest irony is in the truth. The mirror only shows my face, hands, trunk and legs as they are. But then, why do I interpret the mirror differently?

How Mature is my Society Part III

2010-06-20T18:11:00.004+05:30

Urban India never ceases to amaze me. I have said this on two previous occasions on this blog, but I will not tire just yet. My fascination stems from the dichotomies I perceive between how advanced people in India's metropolitan cities today seem in terms of material progress, but how far they lag behind in terms of updating their collective state of morality and their reaction to individual actions.

I met a very interesting person yesterday. She made two very interesting statements. First, that she was open to the idea of having one-night stands with attractive strangers, for mutual pleasure. Second, that if she were to get married someday, she would never grudge her husband for having a one-off sexual escapade with "another woman", so long as he was emotionally committed to her (i.e the wife) . Women who have such thoughts are not non-existent in metropolitan India today, but they constitute one of the most marginalised and misunderstood minorities.

Somehow, I feel that Indian society and the unwritten code of morals that weighs heavy on our collective shoulders is obsessed with women and their sexual behaviour. Any woman who has thoughts as my friend does is described as a whore or a woman of loose character and literally becomes an object in the eyes of Indian men. Men harbouring adulterous thoughts and desire to bed several women are forgiven by the same code of morals. Even highly educated men in great jobs are not spared.

Which brings me to the plight of another friend. She had been in a couple of relationships during her college days. Whether she had partaken of the forbidden fruit of sexual pleasure or not is a matter of speculation and no more (without asking privacy-intrusive questions, that is). Based just on the material that she had dated two guys, a family "carefully selected" by her parents to marry her into not only rejected her hand in marriage, but also broadcast their speculation (and there are no points for guessing what they speculated) to the larger community. The friend in question was transformed from a brilliant, ambitious and extremely eligible lawyer into a common street whore sans morals. And this is a family (the boy's, that is) where everyone was a "gold medallist" in all their academic glory.

The point here is not about questioning the morals of society, but delving into why one cannot embrace a common, consistent school of thought. The market-based capitalist economic model adopted and embraced so passionately by the businessmen, software engineers and management graduates (who, incidentally, are the hottest property on the marriage market) in urban India today necessarily demands the freedom of the individual and a respectful acceptance of the competence of every person to make decisions that suit them best. If investing in risky stocks was a decision a female took and gained success by, she must equally have the right to make a sexual choice. If a man and a woman are judged by their boss on the same criteria, then society must judge them against similar moral benchmarks.

I feel somewhat sorry for my friend who had the "deviant" thoughts on her sexual choices. Being a man, my agreement with her views means little because I apparently have the right to think that way. Will I marry a girl who admits to having had sexual relations with other men in the past, but who will assure me of lifelong commitment in an emotional and temporal sense? My simple answer is yes. But will I be marrying a whore? The simpler answer is no.

How Mature is my Society Part II

2010-04-26T16:22:00.002+05:30

Two things make headlines in India - politics and cricket. When the two are combined along with other headline-grabbers in a heady mix of high-profile scandal, corruption, juicy love affairs involving public figures, rigged sports events, fear of imminent political fallout and glitzy, morality-busting late night parties, we get a perfect Indian curry. The controversy surrounding the IPL is stuff which even Jeffrey Archer couldn't dream about and is something which is threatening to turbocharge the Indian media industry out of recession.

What is most fascinating about the whole rigmarole is that the IPL so perfectly captures India today. The economic reality of the IPL was all about tapping the tremendous and virtually limitless potential contained in India's massive urban middle class. Nothing sells in India as well as cricket and Coca-Cola, and Lalit Modi chose to exploit every last drop of blood from the former. He was an entrepreneur and a visionary (although most people would argue that he stole the basic idea from the ICL, let us remind ourselves that several of the most successful commercial ventures in history were not original ideas). He used the BCCI's long arms as a springboard to sell his idea. He pursued his goal with zest and determination. And he achieved staggering results of global proportions - the IPL enjoys unbelievably high TRPs in half a dozen countries, the advertising slots command astronomical prices and still there is no dearth of demand, the ICC has held several debates about carving out a "window" for the IPL in a packed international schedule and most tellingly, the IPL has become (by a rough and highly conservative estimate) the fourth most valuable sports venture in the world. Let us pause for breath and remind ourselves that the IPL is just in its third season and lasts for less than two months every year!

That, in a nutshell, is the economic face of India. We are determined to conquer the world. We stand on the threshold of economic greatness. This is a juggernaut that can conquer everything in its path.

The other reality of the IPL epitomizes who we are as a society and what we cherish as personal or moral values. There are allegations that may never be proved, but the stories are striking. Allegedly, Modi manipulated the rules of the game to suit his best interests. Allegedly, he interfered with the market by rigging auctions and fixing bids. Allegedly, he exposed his crass moral immaturity by unflinchingly branding a lady entrepreneur as a woman of loose character and by exploiting her sex to pronounce moral judgement about her closeness with a political rival. Allegedly, he laid bare his base craving for fair-skinned females by getting foreign models and professional call-girls into drug-filled, testosterone-driven post-match parties. Allegedly, he curried favour with powerful men who belonged to his caste.

How different is it from what we are? I am not referring to our business dealings alone here. How many parents will settle for nothing less than "fair and slim" wives for their sons? How many people would not use their near and distant relatives to get accelerated response from government bodies, right from getting a passport out of turn to getting a house plan approved to ensuring uninterrupted electricity supply for their immediate neighbourhood? How many of us think twice before offering a bribe to anyone and everyone in the hierarchy, whether post office clerk or High Court judge, to get "our" work done? We are still a strongly patriarchal and disgustingly male chauvinist society, as is evident in every stage of a woman's life.

And then there's the king of all hypocrisies - religion: we use the name of God to justify every otherwise-unacceptable deed or thought. I am waiting for someone to claim that their act of wrongdoing in the IPL was motivated by religious beliefs, or for Modi to convert to Buddhism.

The Party Animal

2009-10-08T16:34:00.003+05:30

I once had a long argument with R about what a party is. Everyone seems to have an opinion on parties. "Oh, I love partying". "Man, I attend the coolest parties in town". "Dude, I'm booked on Friday night - there's this party happening with karaoke". Personally, I don't see what the hoopla is all about.

I begin with the worst form of party - the office party. It's supposedly your employer's way of showing that it cares for your work-life balance. Somehow, everyone is presumed to enjoy eating at flashy restaurants, and everyone is presumed to be a hard-drinking party animal. Usually, the boss and the long-serving employees get piss drunk, scream out loud along with the blaring Bollywood music, shake their (substantial) tummies around the table and crack horrible jokes. Then the old-timers gossip the same gossip they gossiped about three years ago. The newbies are scared - what will they reveal to their boss, who will force them to get drunk, how do they react if their boss asks them for a dance. Then there are the ones who hate the whole thing; they will sit quietly at the end of the table and eat finger food all evening. A few critical points to note - attendance is compulsory, especially if you are a newbie; jokes that attack your personal life (especially relationships and sex) are the best and safest jokes; strictly no honest opinions about work and your boss must be expressed.

Then there are the random parties. There's a crowd of a dozen people headbanging away to obscenely loud rock music. Everyone knows a maximum of one other person in that group. Everyone is to be addressed as "dude". Your standing in the eyes of the others is determined by how many parties you have attended in the past week. You find that one other guy who wants a beer as badly as you do and you stick to him throughout the evening, both of you shoulder-barging your way through the crowded floor to the bar. The hot chick in the strapless dress is the target for every man, single or attached, but she is more committed to her drink than anything else. Food is ordered by anyone and everyone, and plates of random stuff are passed around to everyone. Few words are spoken, and sentences always begin with "Err... What did you say your name was, dude?" The exception, of course, is the hot chick - everyone knows her name, her dad's job, her brand of perfume and the date of her next period.

Next in line are the private parties. This usually follows a random party, if you have made the cutoff of 17 parties in the past one week. The guy whispers into your ear or sends you a text message with the invitation. The venue has no furniture - just bean bags and mattresses on the floor. The booze is only beer, vodka and, if you are exceptionally lucky, whisky. Food is pizza or junk ordered from the take-out round the corner. A basketball game runs on mute on the TV - note that cricket and football are for the masses, only the uber-cool American games are allowed. One gang of people is in the balcony, and the air there smells strange. That's pot luck for you. The hot chick is slightly more amenable to a conversation. Just when you think you are approaching jackpot, the hunk in the Benetton pullover whisks her away to one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind them. By the time anyone realises, everyone is drunk and it's 5 AM.

The best is reserved for the last. These are the parties which you go to with your best friends from college, especially those who live in a different city. Everyone knows everyone's best and worst habits. Everyone knows exactly which girls or guys they dated and why the breakup happened. There are nearly no secrets. The objective is to make noise, and plenty of it. The venue is a comfortable middle-class pub where the music is classic rock and not too loud. Discussing work is completely forbidden. Discussing the "good old days" is a necessity. Singing along to the songs is appreciated, but asking an unwilling person for a dance is not. Jokes are outright silly, or dependent on wordplay. Everyone gets drunk, but remains cheerful and an integral part of the party. You leave the party wondering when you will have such a good time again.

What was the point of all that? I guess it just puts things in perspective. Firstly, no booze, no party. Example, your neighbour kid's third birthday celebration. Secondly, it would have been a much better idea to sink into your couch at home and catch the Saturday evening game. No matter what kind of party. Third, college days are the best. Cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap booze, cheap jokes, priceless fun.

Hello! Do you understand me?

2009-07-19T12:13:00.002+05:30

Today began like any other Sunday. The eyes opened at half past nine, but still felt droopy. I dragged myself down for breakfast and turned on the telly. As is my habit, I went to the sports channels first, and saw a ten year old girl attempting to spell "ostentatious" (Yes, that's anoher Indian show copied from a successful American TV series). The aptness of the word for the situation apart, it got me thinking. What is the purpose of having words in the dictionary which only a miniscule fraction of even native English speakers know the existence of?

I remember a panel from the comic "Obelix & Co". The highly educated and talented young economist Caius Preposterus tells the rustic menhir delivery man Obelix "If you can't increase the efficiency of your productivity infrastructure, the market will fall" and receives a glazed-eyed response "UH?" That, in short, is a quick lesson on bad communication. A couple of my friends are absolute masters of the English language, but they find it hard not to use a ten-letter word in every sentence they speak. It's something which I have never understood. It's all fine to wax eloquent and use four words when one would have sufficed, but is it really efficient? Does it achieve the purpose of writing or speaking in the first place?

As a lawyer, I must be the last person on Earth to be taking such objections to such grandiose vocabulary, for my brethren hold the unenviable reputation of always attempting to confuse the rest of the populace through the use of two-hundred word sentences. However, I find no percentage in it. If I can't convince a client to cough up my fees in plain English, I don't see how a note that reads, "This is to hereby notify you that a sum of Rupees Four Lakhs only has remained unpaid as a result of your conscious, deliberate, calculated, premeditated, predesigned, predeceased, purposeful, willful and express acts and omissions which are set out in the Schedule hereunder, and your failure to make good all payments outstanding whatsoever and accruing in whatsoever manner without limitation shall give me no option but to exercise any and all means at my disposal, including but not limited to legal action, to move for the recovery of the aforesaid outstanding payments from you, your legal heirs, permitted assigns, successors, agents and representatives" will do the trick. (PS: That reminds me. There is a word out of place in there somewhere. A chocolate for every person that points it out to me.)

Our modern corporate world is no better. I received an email recently: "Dear Anirudh, It will be a pleasure to touch base with you in Bangalore, as I will be telecommuting next week. It is so nice to see someone stepping up to the plate at such short notice. I had been out of the loop on developments, but now we can strategize how we can move forward. We need to build synergies and create value items. My plate is empty, so fill me in on any new ideas which you may have. Regards, xxx" I don't know the origins of any of the phrases above, but everyone in the corporate world needs to have an instinctive habit of spewing any old nonsense in order to sound right. Anyone who says, "Let's meet for a coffee and chat when I am in Bangalore" is either unsophisticated or is trying to curry favours with you.

The gist is I like to keep it simple. The erudite in us demands that we use ostentatious (there's that word again) language, but the real requisite is to be lucid. Curses! The habit's catching. I had better end this before I turn magniloquent.

The Thrill of the Chase

2009-06-07T12:53:00.005+05:30

She glanced at her watch for the seventh time in five minutes. As if history lectures weren't boring enough as they were, this professor wanted to conduct "extra" classes on Saturday afternoons to catch up with the syllabus. Extra classes were where your parents thought you were while you dried your eyes on Rohan's shoulder while watching Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar spin the latest tale of woe and love. They were not meant to happen, you know. TRRING! The harbinger of freedom rang loud and long, heralding an evening with Rohan.

She grabbed her bag and ran out of the building. He would have gladly picked her up from college, but she did not trust her classmates to keep mum about him. Instead, she walked for a fair distance and stood in the calming shade of the large Gulmohar. She glanced at her watch again; it was 3.30. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet? Does he remember they were to meet today? She couldn't call him because she had spent the last of her prepaid currency arguing with him the night before. 3.45. She was getting desperate. It was not like him to be late for a date. Had she told him off too harshly? Had he taken her angry words seriously? Will he never love her the same way again? She couldn't even call him to apologise.

4.00. She was nearly in tears. OH! What was that? A flash of red and green streaked past her eyes. When the streak settled she saw the most beautiful bouquet of red roses in front of her. She heard his voice from behind her, "Surprise!" This moment of sudden joy followed half an hour of frustration and anxiety, and it was too much for her. A lone droplet traced a joyous path over her cheek into the side of her mouth. Her arms moved as though on remote control and wrapped themselves around his neck. "Thank you so much!! I was so anxious!" He merely smiled and led her by her hand into his car.

She was late getting home. Her father gave her a look which said, "I don't know you". Her mother asked her a hundred questions. Why are you so late? Why did you have to wait for the direct bus only? Why is your history teacher such a sadist (a point which she gladly agreed with her mom, though)? Don't you know that good girls are back home before dark? She was hungry. But her father stepped in. "No food for you tonight. Somehow, I don't think you like history all that much." Mother looked aghast. How could her daughter sleep without dinner? The atmosphere was thick with tension. Father knew, but didn't say it out aloud.

She quietly went up to her room and picked up a book to read. She had spent her evening watching a movie and then they had driven to the hilltop to watch the sun go down. She quickly closed the book she was reading. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she slept with a smile on her face. Her sacrifice was not in vain. The thrill of the chase was worth it.

Plane Infuriating

2009-04-21T22:13:00.002+05:30

8:10 PM. Thirty-five minutes before the flight takes off, not more than twenty before they finally (like, finally) shut the boarding gate. The roadsign flashes past - "Bangalore Interanational Airport - 13km". More nail chewing. I glance at my watch every 30 seconds. Suddenly, the turn-off leading to the airport is seen. Some sigh of relief.

8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.

8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?

8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!

8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!

9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.

9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.

10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.

10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.

11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.

12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.

Monkey Business

2009-02-17T21:54:00.003+05:30

Every Indian worth his salt knows the Ramayana. Or he knows at least the point that Lord Ram's army consisted of monkeys. Well, yeah, they are mythological creatures; so they are "holy monkeys", but monkeys nevertheless. The less divine monkeys that we are familiar with are known to be nosey characters who love to pluck a shiny object out of your hand, love to screech and make faces at passers-by, and generally make themselves a nuisance. The more advanced form of monkeys (we call them apes, I hear) make ugly faces at you and thump their chests while issuing a bellow.

At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).

And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.

It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.

No Smoking? Really?

2008-11-25T12:54:00.002+05:30

We have a particularly activist, or should I say blindly optimistic, Minister up in Delhi who thinks that by banning smoking in "public places", the average health of Indians is going to improve. Harrumph! In election year, the Ministers reduce taxes, reduce train fares, increase reservation, lay roads, carry out sustained media campaigns of their shining achievements and distribute free liquor to the teeming millions. So where does the smoking ban fit in?

A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.

What do you say, Mr. Minister?

Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...

Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.

It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.

Viva la Mohun Bagan

2008-11-19T10:27:00.002+05:30

I have always wanted to watch a match sitting in the Kop at Anfield (and still want to). To be a part of the chants, the cursing, the passion. The Salt Lake Stdium in Kolkata is no Anfield and Mohun Bagan is no Liverpool FC - not by a country mile. Yet for singing, swearing and fanatic passion, I really don't have to travel all the way to the cold and rainy north-west of England. A giant stadium in the east of India is more than sufficient. This last Sunday, I got to watch my first live match - Mohun Bagan versus JCT Mills, Phagwara in the Indian National Football League - at the gigantic Salt Lake Stadium, and I have not only survived the idiosyncacies of Kolkatan football, but also emerged a huge fan of the same.

I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."

A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.

Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".

As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.

A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.

Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.

Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.

The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.

Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.

After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.

In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...

Champions of Sentiment

2008-10-13T18:17:00.002+05:30

What springs to mind when one mentions the Australian cricket team? If you were thinking about a tough, unrelenting, unemotional, ruthless side that batters, thrashes and utterly dominates the opposition into submission, you wouldn't be in the minority. Their success story for the last decade and more has been awesome and more than the mere number of victories, it is the manner in which they have been achieved that evokes such a fearsome yet dreary picture in our minds.

Scratch the surface, however, and you will find the one team in the world which actually has a tremendous sentiment for tradition and the occasion. India hangs on to its aging stars for a variety of reasons - a particular cricketer's rowdy fan following, the weight of another's statistics, the need to satisfy regional selection demands or simply a matter of not being called the villain who ended the career of so-and-so. Pakistan's cricket is always in shambles. Terrific talents rub shoulders with super-bloated egos, and political upheavals in the cricket board are never too far away. They have been and will always be an enigma.

Even England for that matter has broken the stereotype and divorced history and tradition. The slightest hint that a cricketer looks like international material and he will be off his county's regular roster and put on a central contract, ever ready to turn up in national colours. There are so many guys making their debuts and then disappearing after a handful of games that an England cap seems like no big deal. Twenty20 and its associated "innovations" were invented in England. Heck, that Mecca of cricket, Lord's, has the swankiest bit of modern architecture among cricket grounds.

That brings us to the topic of this post - Australia. Today I was watching the highlights of a rather drab (never mind the media hype about it being an exhilarating match) fifth day, one moment stood out. A leg spinner better known for his astronomical strike rate in the shortest format of the game induced a champion batsman 14 runs short of the world record of Test runs to scoop one to cover. What happened next? The huge bear of a cricketer broke into tears! THAT is what a first Test wicket meant to him. All the hard work of the last few years, all that waiting for the prized call-up to the Australian Test side, all that toil for five days in the cauldron of an Indian stadium - it all came down to this.

Does anyone remember Steve Waugh's last Test innings? Yes, it was That Sydney Test when India scored at will to post over 700. Waugh played the sort of innings he had played all his life - stoic, back-to-the-wall stuff. Does anyone remember what he wore on his head that day? A faded, torn old baggy green - not any old baggy green, but the cap he wore on his debut. Throughout his career, he was a non-nonsense batsman and a ruthless captain who would not be swayed by anything. Yet he wore his sentiment on his sleeve (rather, on his head) when the occasion demanded.

Speaking of Bangalore Tests, does anyone recall Michael Clarke's debut here? When on 97, he sent his helmet back to the dressing room and demanded that his (brand new) baggy green be brought out. He celebrated his special moment by raising aloft both bat and baggy green, just like dozens of great Aussies before him had done.

The Aussies are the ones who revere almost to the point of worship each member of a squad that was labelled as Invincible all of 60 years ago, in spite of later teams being far more "invincible". While Sachin Tendulkar is fanatically possessed in the minds of Indian fans, he has an equally large group of critics who label him as selfish and never having produced the goods when it mattered - and he is India's greatest cricketing icon. But you would never, ever find an Aussie having anything but the greatest reverence to Sir Don Bradman, and speaking ill of the Don is more taboo than the greatest sin.

What the Aussies have is an unadulterated passion for the game. It is true that players like Brett Lee and Michael Clarke are huge commercial brands back in their home country, but to them the game necessarily comes first. Should even their best cricketers, such as Ponting or Lee or Hayden, show even the slightest indication that the ad money means more to them than the baggy green, the board will not flinch in showing them the door. It's Passion or Bust. Each Australain cricketer has to spend years slugging it out in the domestic system and produce consistently brilliant performances to even get a look into the national squad. The ones who are in the national team have to produce that same level of consistency and performances at the world stage, or else there are half a dozen highly deserving guys to take each one's place.

Sadly, even a one-sport country like India cannot produce this level of professionalism. The Aussies show it in every sport, be it cricket, football, rugby, swimming or tennis - and mind you, they are quite successful in all these sports. India throws raw teenagers into the heat of Test cricket, and at the same time gives established domestic performers not more than one game to prove they can hack it at the highest level. Zonal "quotas" still form the basis of selection. Thank God no one has invoked the Constitution to demand a reservation policy for the squad.

The Aussies are not only champions when it comes to respecting and honouring tradition and history, but also champions in building upon that history to make some of their own. Beneath that rough, ruthless exterior of an Aussie cricketer is one hardworking, immensely talented sportsman whose deep regard for sentiment is his strength.

How Green Is My Valley

2008-09-11T10:24:00.002+05:30

Last night, I was travelling home from Hyderabad by train, and as is the case on any moving vehicle, insomnia had struck. Just when I was resigning myself to staring at the ceiling and listening to a dozen different tones of snores, I noticed some fellow-insomniacs in the next coupe having some sort of discussion. I butted in to random conversation, and the gang was thus - Sandeep, a Hyderabadi by origin, affiliations and allegiance but a Bangalorean by residence; Vandana, a techie who worked in Hyderabad in the past and currently works in Bangalore; and Vaishali, a US-returned LLM graduate who stays in Hyderabad but might move to Bangalore to work here.

Among other mundane topics, a hotly debated subject in the wee hours of the night on a speeding train was the relative merits of the two Cyber Cities of India - Bangalore and Hyderabad. My traumatic experience in Hyderabad for the last month and a half made me a staunch Hyderabad-basher, while the rest took turns at having pot shots at me and Bangalore in general. Poor Vandana seemed to have encountered the worst that Bangalore has to offer - the rudest auto-wallahs, the most nonchalant maid-servants, the greediest repairmen and the seediest pubs. Sandeep seemed to have experienced the worst traffic in Bangalore ever - the Domlur flyover during heavy rains.

The whole discussion made me reflect till long after the conversation - what is the Bangalore that I love so much? What are the undying symbols of the charm which I associate with my hometown? I think back (very) fondly to my high school days - when playgrounds were meant for us to play in, when we could ride our bicycles down BTM Main Road and JP Nagar Ring Road without the slightest cause for concern, when huge trees lined both sides of pretty much every main road in the city and when we could sit inside an auto and then instruct the driver to take us to our destination. All this has most certainly changed. The IT revolution has brought with it unprecedented growth, but it has also brought along pollution, traffic chaos, spiralling prices, an alarming crime rate and worst of all, a dehumanising effect on people.

Yet, I stood steadfastly by my city and to my utmost surprise, I could still bring out points which no other city can match. Take for example a Sunday morning involving an early jog in Cubbon Park followed by a soothing drive to Gandhi Bazaar and a sumptuous breakfast of Masala Dosa and Coffee at Vidyarthi Bhavan. Jayanagar has undergone a facelift like none other, but still one would find nostalgic old men and women reminiscing about the good old days at Thaatran Katte. Bull Temple Park is still Bull Temple Park - serene, invigorating, relaxing. Veena Stores in Malleshwaram still serves some of the most lip-smacking South Indian snacks anywhere. Rangashankara still costs only fifty rupees. It is still possible to get into a bus passing through Chamarajpet or Basavanagudi, and find polite conductors and patient drivers who wait for the old man to get in and have a seat before moving ahead.

It may be impossible to wish for the "old" Bangalore - life moved at a slow pace, people enjoyed their Idli and Coffee, street corners were meant for catching up with friends and gossipping about the neighbour's daughter, owning a Bajaj Chetak or a Premier Padmini was a status symbol and movie tickets costed twenty bucks. Even the Gods would frown upon any disturbance to this idyll paradise as a warm day unerringly meant a super-cool evening shower.

It's time to take a deep sigh, close my eyes and wish in vain. But not all hope is lost, for no other city in India or anywhere else in the world has a soul more pure than my Bangalore. The climate, the culture, the people - nothing else comes close...

How Mature is My Society?

2008-08-30T10:49:00.000+05:30

Scene 1: A local city bus is waiting to leave in a rather dirty bus stand, in any city or small town in India. As the driver revs up the engine, people rush to get in. In the midst of the melee, an old lady with stained teeth and wrinkled face puts her head through the window and spits a huge glob of chewed paan on to the pavement.

Scene 2: Krishna and Sita are travelling in an auto. They will be married in a few days' time and are obviously in love with each other. Krishna moves closer to Sita and puts his arm around her shoulder and nothing more. The auto-wallah peeks into the mirror and widens his lips in a lusty leer.

Scene 3: Rohan and Ketaki have been classmates and best friends for ten years. One day, they realise they are in love and go on to date each other for two years. Then Rohan goes to Ketaki's house and asks for her hand in marriage. They flatly refuse because he is not from her caste. Rohan turns to Ketaki, but she wrinkles her nose and says she cannot go against her father.

India finds itself at a crossroads. The urban centres have witnessed phenomenal economic growth for the last decade. Disposable incomes among urban youth are at an all-time high, property prices continue to skyrocket and many "international brands" are available off the counter in swanky, futuristic malls. However, the big question remains - how mature is the Indian society? Have we as a society kept pace with the economic growth? Has exposure to the more liberal, capitalistic western world put an end to dogmas, supertistions and rigidity of thought?

My answer in all frankness is a resounding no. Any of the three scenes described above are extremely commonplace and could have happened to any of us or to people known to us. The key to the maturity of a society lies in the maturity of the individuals who constitute the society. If we are immature enough to believe that the footpath does not "belong" to us and hence we have a right to spit on it, then we can never expect our society to be mature enough to respect public property and preserve cleanliness of public spaces.

I'm not for a minute arguing that public spaces in the western world are sparkling clean. I have seen obscene graffiti on subway walls in Paris and lewd scrawls on the seats of the Madrid metro. Yet you will not find a Parisian dumping a cigarette butt anywhere except in the dustbins placed on the footpath. When a pedestrian approaches an intersection and looks like he is about to cross the street, cars come to a halt to let him cross, even though they may miss the green signal. Respect for the law follows respect for the integrity of public spaces. Sadly, while Indians jealously guard their personal property, they treat public property with utter disdain, to the point of being hell-bent on destroying the same.

As regards the second incident, there are two kinds of people in India, neither of whom are exactly pleasant company. When a couple very obviously in love publicly expresses their affection for each other in even the most innocuous manner (such as holding hands or putting an arm around the shoulder), there are those who lech at the couple, their eyes betraying all the voyeuristic thoughts that run in their heads (like the auto-wallah in the example); and then there are those who turn up their noses and have nothing but contempt for the couple. Most of us want to live in a world of denial where we want to believe that physical urges between a man and a woman are unnatural and must be restricted to the absolute privacy of the marital bed. This self-denial is so strong in many of us that we detest anything remotely romantic. I agree it is very hard to get over the "one partner for life" mindset, but true maturity lies in mixing experimentation with stability.

The third scenario is something all of us feel strongly about, but when we find ourselves neck-deep in the situation, a vast majority of us takes the path of least resistance and sticks to unsubstantiated, unsupported, unproven and vague "values". Hypocracy is the first symptom of immaturity, and that's what most of us are - hypocrites. I'm quite sure Ketaki's parents must have known Rohan for many years, entertained him at home for lunch or dinner, met his parents at social functions on numerous occasions and yes, known that their daughter was in love with him. Yet when the time came to make a commitment, the old immaturities struck and they took refuge in that rogue's paradise - moral values. There is nothing as immoral as morality, for it is what leads us down the path of hypocarcy and hence, immaturity.

The answer to the big question isn't difficult, but changing the scenario will take many more decades of economic progress and mental maturing to achieve. I do not blame the generation gap, because many people from my generation are just blind adherants to their parents' views and practices. I am not advocating an open rebellion or a total rejection of their experiences and judgement, but what I do advocate is a more open-minded, consistent and unbiased evaluation of every situation. Learning to respect others and their views may be a very good starting point. India is on an unswerving, unrelenting path towards a fully capitalisitic society, but unless we internalise the concepts of individual and social liberty that go hand-in-glove with market capitalism, we may be a society lagging behind the economy and the world.

Living on borrowed time

2006-08-30T16:02:00.000+05:30

He felt a dull, throbbing pain, but he did not know which part of him was paining. All he knew was that the pain was sometimes unbearable and caused him to faint, while at most other times it was bearable but ever-present. His life revolved around his Master. His Master fed him three times a day with the choicest of dishes, his Master bought for him the best clothes and his Master had given him a luxurious bed to sleep in. But his Master never allowed him to go out of the house. For a few hours everyday, he was allowed to open only those windows which his Master allowed him to open and from there, he could catch glimpses of the World. Everyday, he cleaned the house, he cooked for his Master and he did everything that his Master asked him to do. But every time he did something for his Master that he didn’t want to do, the pain increased. One day, he overcooked a dish. So his Master brought out a whip and mercilessly thrashed him with it. That day, his pain was unbearable. He wanted to cut off those parts of him that were aching, but again he was unable to say for sure which parts of him were experiencing the pain. He wanted to run away from the house, but he knew that he would have to eat dry bread everyday, wear rags and sleep on the pavements if he ran away. What part of the World he could see through the windows of the house he liked. He thought that the World was not a very harsh place to be in, but he also knew that there was much in the World which he hadn’t seen and which could be very harsh indeed to him. Another fear which plagued him was that the pain would only increase if he ran away. Another Master may whip him even more and for lesser mistakes.

One day, while he was sitting beside the window, a person in the World told him that there was a cure for his pain. The cure was to learn to bear the pain and get used to it. That night, he felt great pain. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the pain. He told himself that patience and tolerance would drive away or at least mask the pain. He couldn’t sleep all night long because he was unable to wish away the pain.

The next morning, he had made up his mind. He would run away from the house. His Master could easily find ten others like him, who would not feel pain even when they were whipped. So, that afternoon, he quietly slipped a note under his Master’s door and made off from the house. His first reaction upon reaching the road outside the house was one of unconfined joy. He leapt into the air and danced down the road. His curious eyes drank in every sight which they had missed for all these years. There were many things in the World which ought to have intrigued him, but he did not see them that afternoon. He only saw the road and the open fields, where he could dance and sing all day long. His pain seemed to have vanished.

But what he neither saw nor felt was the note which his Master had stuck on his back that declared him to be a fool and an ingrate. There would be no Master in the World who would feed him, clothe him or give him a place to stay. He had discovered the joy of freedom, but unknown to him, he had taken upon himself the burden of failure.

On Auction: My Conscience

2006-08-14T13:14:00.000+05:30

Mercenary - n One who serves or works merely for monetary gain; a hireling. adj having or marked by an eager and often selfish desire especially for material possessions (Merriam-Webster Dictionary Online, 2006)

My sole desire in life is to make money. Give me money, and I will do anything you ask me to do. Your smallest wish is my command, provided the price is right. I have a conscience, for which you can pay a rent and bend according to tour will. The current lessee of my conscience is one of the top law firms in my country. I guess bidders for my conscience will be hard pressed to match the rent I am now getting, but that makes it all the more interesting and rewarding for me.

In the legal field, I can offer you the best services that money can buy. Ethics and morals are highly dependant on what the lessee of my conscience wants done. I have no problems in drafting a document that will make a few thousand poor villagers homeless. I have no qualms about strategising how a large American or European or Australian company can squeeze the life out of hard-working illiterate farmers by forcing new agricultural methods upon them. I see no personal issues in ensuring that a large multinational company will slime an Indian entrepreneur and take away from him his life's hard work in the form of his company. I will see to it that the behemoth overseas conglomerate smoothly chucks out marginal farmers and indigenous tribes from a remote area in my country so that they can set up infrastructure projects that serve an unknown purpose for an unseen public. I will ensure that the rich will get richer and the poor poorer because that is what is expected of me from this capitalistic economy.

In case you have any impractical and hypocritical suggestions like the betterment of society and lending a helping hand, you have come to the wrong person. My society consists of just one person - myself, and the only person in this world who needs all the monetary inputs is me. Charity is for the disillusioned and the weak. A conscience that cannot be leased out for money belongs to a person who is certified insane, or at best to a person who possesses a Master's Degree in Wallowing in Dirt, Garbage and Other Such Disgusting Places.

In case you want anything done and the law stands in your way, come to me. Pay the right amount and consider your work done. This is life, this is reality. Accept it soon because otherwise it will descend on you like a ton of bricks.

Last moments with friends...

2006-06-16T00:24:00.000+05:30

Date: 2nd June 2006
Time: 19.15 hours
Weather: Pouring cats and dogs
Location: Room 204, Cauvery Hostel, National Law School
Anubhav, Tanmay, Harsha and I are chatting nonsense as usual. Anubhav is trying to sell his posters to juniors and make a quick buck. Arka walks in and makes a cutomary silly comment, this time relating to Anubhav's shark-like business acumen. I also learn that he will be around till the 7th. Then he walks out of the door. Anubhav follows him after a few minutes....

Date: 2nd June 2006
Time: 20.00 hours
Weather: Slight drizzle
Location: Nagarbhavi Circle, Bangalore. About half a kilometre from Law School.
I get off from Harsha's bike, heaving my bag across in the process. I turn to face him and extend my hand towards him. His hand grips mine as he says, "Bye da. It's been great having you as a roommate. All the best." I murmur similar words in reply. Then he says, "Quick! Give me a hug!" I comply. Then he takes a quick look over his shoulder, says "Bye" again and without a backward glance heads back the way we had just come. I walk slowly, lost deep in thought, towards the waiting autos....

Date: 3rd June 2006
Time: 19.25 hours
Weather: Overcast with a hint of rain
Location: My favourite couch in front of the TV at home
Dnyanesh messages me, "Dude where exactly is Ragoo's?" I reply and tell him the location of the restaurant in question. He replies, "Thanks. I am taking some juniors for a treat there. Thanks for introducing me to such a nice place to eat." The next morming, I try to call him but the recorded voice informs me that his number has been "temporarily" disconnected....

Date: 4th June 2006
Time: 13.00 hours
Weather: Fine and sunny
Anoop calls me and says, "Hey Swami, I'm off da. Best of luck and keep in touch"....

Date: 7th June 2006
Time: 13.30 hours
Weather: Baking hot
Tanmay messages, "Hey I'm on my way to the railway station." I immediately pick up my phone and call him. Both of us are obviously lost for words. We say, "So..." at least a dozen times apiece during the ten minute call. His train's at 2.30. He's on his way to the station. Yes, he's packed everything. Big luggage he's sent to Anubhav's dad's house in Delhi. I know all this already but it gives me airtime with Tanmay. At last, I say the final goodbye....

So Long, Farewell, Adieu.....

2006-05-24T09:10:00.000+05:30

As I write this, it is slowly but surely sinking in that I have just one week of student life left. Like many things in life, this is an inevitability; but again like many things in life, it is not the happiest inevitability. I know it is coming one day, but I don't want that day to dawn. I also have not realised the passage of time until this morning, when two incidents occured which dropped on me with the force of a falling meteor.

Ajay casually asked me on our way to college, "When are your final presentations in corporate finance?" and when I replied, "Next Wednesday", he said, "Oh! I was hoping we could travel back together next week. But I have exams starting from Thursday, so I can't go home on Wednesday." I remained silent for a minute, because my mind suddenly raced over the four years of travelling we have done together. In four years we have discussed, argued, agreed upon, disagreed upon and debated just about everything under the sun from "hot" girls passing by on the road, to the possibility of life outside of the Earth, to every conceivable subject in law. Both of us have bunked innumerable classes just to return together when one of us was leaving early for some reason. I suddenly realised that one of my fondest memories of law school life - travelling with Ajay - was coming to an end. Monday morning will perhaps be our last ride together.

Then when I entered the Acad Block to attend class, "Yum" Bharat called to inform that class had been cancelled. Then when I called Tanmay, he said that there would be no more classes. The words "No More Classes" hit me like something fired out of a shotgun at point blank range. Five years of rushing to catch the bell, five years of managing attendance to just about reach the required 75%, five years of innovative bunking techniques, five years of SMS-ing in class, five years of chit-passing, five years of sleeping in class, five years of Snake and Bounce and F1 high scores, five years of heated (and largely irrelevant and nonsensical) arguments - they had all come down to this. No formal farewell, no official last class, no sentiment, no clamouring for a "free" hour, no vote of thanks to the teacher - nothing to indicate that our collective student lives are over. There is a time and place for everything, and this is the time and place for sentiment; but sadly, it hasn't been given an opportunity to present itself in the open.

It is true that I have spent most of my fifth year at home. It is true that I have antagonised approximately ten times more people than I have befriended in college. It is true that I have been one of the least enthusiastic persons in class as far as participation in "class" activities go. It is true that I am the butt of jokes for my utterly irrational, maverick and impulsive decisions regarding everything. Yet something binds me to this place, to my classmates, to my hostel mates, to my teachers, to the institution in general. I will miss organising and conducting the late night "crash courses" before any exam, I will miss my quisling-like activities during moot court selections, I will miss the "philosophical" discussions with people like Dnyanesh, I will miss making all those crazy and ill-timed points in class, I will miss the adrenaline flows during the final 24 hours before project submission, I will miss "flirting" with anyone female in college - hell, I will miss everything I ever did as a routine here.

Before my tear glands overflow, I want to look back upon what I have achieved here. On the positive side, I have achieved a moderate CGPA which ultimately got me a highly coveted job, reasonable success in moot court competitions which took me to one of the most prestigious national-level events, a subservience to the system which kept me in the good books of the faculty, a strong will power which helped me resist temptations, a wonderful world-view and maturity which has given me the strength and ability to live life, a strong moral base which is based on reason and tolerance, and finally, great friends who will be by my side through life. On the negative side, I have learnt how to "manage" the system which has reduced the value of hard work and perseverence in my eyes, I have acquired an arrogance and swagger for merely being a part of an "elite" institution as compared to others in more "mundane" colleges, I have made many enemies because of my wavering nature and selfishness, and as a result, I have become an introvert and a loner which makes me a very poor team player.

Now I have to put an end to this. Perhaps, years later, when the sentiment has died, I may find the patience to write some memoirs of my life in law school.

So long, farewell, adieu to you, my dear National Law School. It hasn't been an education, it has been an experience....

Mumbo-Jumbo Mania

2006-05-12T13:28:00.000+05:30

A pair of eyes gleamed at me through the incense smoke. After a gap of a second or so, a fine set of white teeth sparkled through the greyness. Then a disembodied voice said, "I am sorry. You are going through a bad phase now. Your planets have gone and misaligned themselves, bad boys that they are..." If I was looking for sympathy in that voice, my search would be in vain, for the voice hinted of untold pleasures and unmistakable glee. I let out my breath through pursed lips, disrupting the smoke's lazy ascent to the ceiling. Suddenly I noticed that beads of sweat were now collecting themselves into a mighty stream and had overcome the barrier of my eyebrows and were hovering on the tips of my eyelashes. I fished out the handkerchief and thwarted the attempts of the salty river to blind me.

My relief was palpable. Planetary misalignment was a mere trifle. Planets are obedient characters. A prayer or so would move mighty Jupiter back into his path and a few more prayers or a lamp or so would make the dangerous Saturn shed the extra ring or so. I had feared that something more sinister than planetary whims were at play behind my misfortunes, such as mortal human beings a hundred thousand millionth the size of these planets casting a spell on me. Spells are dreaded in this part of the world. A single spell would stop the favourable planet dead in his tracks and send Mr. Good Fortune packing. But planets... Bah! They are just pawns in the celestial game of chess that astrologers play.

Having made the statement of the day, the astrologer looked to me for deliverance. I spoke the words he was waiting to hear, "What is to be done?" The glint in his eye was replaced by a professional matter-of-fact look. He outlined his plans. A visit to an unheard-of temple in a nondescript village in the remotest part of the State, where he would invoke the Lord Saturn, followed by a feast to the villagers and generous offerings of food, clothing and other goodies such as jewellery to the priest (who would be one other than the present speaker, the astrologer). The plan seemed foolproof. I could get away with an expenditure of a few thousands of rupees. What's years of good fortune compared to a little loose change like this? I approved of the plan. Only the awareness of his position as a respectable astrologer prevented the man from jumping to the ceiling faster than the rising smoke and shouting, "Whoopee!"

Three weeks later, I had a nasty fight with my girlfriend and we broke up. Then the examination department of my college told me that I was dangerously close to falling short of attendance. The few Universities which I hoped would offer a seat to a moron like myself responded by invoking some technicalities and thus denied me admission. To add to the growing list, my boss called me up and said a monosyllabalic "No" to my request for a pay hike so that my joining the company would become meaningful. So that evening I stormed into the astrologer's house and confronted him with the situation. He gave me the look of a man who was expecting it all to happen.

Then the incense got the better of me. My reverance for the planets and the spells and all associated stuff returned with a bang. I waited until he rolled his dice and did some random mathematical calculations on the floor using a piece of chalk. In the meanwhile I weondered if I could also communicate with the planets by using the above-described methods, and whether couching these actions in scientific terms would win me one of the most famous patents in history. While I mused thus, the man finished his interplanetary voyage and prepared to speak. I was reminded of what some Shakespearan character told another about the Oracle and his listeners - that the listeners wait so anxiously for words of wisdom to flow from the mouth of the Oracle, but when the words do flow, the listeners feel like fools for having waited. I could now empathise with these ancient listeners and mulled over the fact that the practice of astrology hadn't changed over the millennia, the world over.

The man did speak eventually. The disembodied voice said, "You will have a bad time till the 26th of May. After that, you will have a good time. In the meanwhile, there is something you can do (with my help, of course)...." Shakespeare was so right. We listeners end up as fools. The Bard should take the place of these Oracles or astrologers or whatnot with his sharp prophetic insights. However, since Shakespeare died a few centuries ago, fools like me have to make do with the available stock of astrologers. This time I was having none of it. The incense began to choke me and the vermillion smeared on his forehead began to look more like part of a clown's ensemble. Without the atmosphere, the astrologer was nothing. From the Master of Planets, he had now dwindled to the position of a Nobody. I stormed up from my seated position. Fearing the worst, he let loose the secret of my misfortunes, "Your great-great-great grandfather was cursed by his second wife on her deathbed. The curse has to be broken...."

I sat back on the mat. The incense began to intoxicate me again. The vermillion on his forehead looked more intimidating than ever before. I spoke to his now-smiling countenance, "What can be done now?".....

Life's Calling, but can I respond?

2006-04-23T18:37:00.000+05:30

I ask you, what are we doing in this world? Framing it slightly differently, what ought to be done in life? I have spent the greater part of two weeks contemplating this question and I have arrived at no reasonable answer. The following would describe the life of about ninety percent of urban Indian males I have come across - join school, maintain good to excellent grades right through school, join a college, finish graduation, take a job, get steady in a job, get married, have kids, buy a car or two, build a house, take care of aged parents, set the "life cycle" in motion for kids, retire, get taken care of by kids in your old age, then finally die. All without time to breathe in between. Minor variants in the life cycle include a trip to the US for completing an MS and going to the same country on a "project" to be completed for one's employer. Further, and rarer, variants include an inter-caste marriage and a tiff with aged (read as conservative) parents leading to an existence away from the latter for the most part of life. Nevertheless, the point I wish to stress upon here is that there is no change in the pattern of life for most people around. We are all slaves of a system that is unseen but whose tentacles can be felt by all of us, a system that is accepted without as much as a raised eyebrow. Even my classmates at the otherwise unconventional-thinking National Law School are as much in the clutches of this system as anyone else around. Decisions are made for us even before we are born, our life stories written out before we can take our first step in this world.

Some people (like Ajay for one) are well aware of the system and its oppressive regime. They introduce minor variants of their own into their lives, such as an apparent "don't care" attitude. However much they like to call themselves "rebels", I'm afraid they fall well short of that. Awareness of the system and going against the system (which is a rebel's occupation) are two different things. Smoking, drinking, doping - these seem to be the symbols of rebellion against the system for such people. Unfortunately, they have got it all wrong. The high that a dose of alcohol or a shot of grass gives is the quickest way to surrender to the might of the system. To strengthen my argument, I will use the anecdotal argument. I once asked Ajay if he can think of a while after college without a job. His eyes opened wide and he said to me, "You must be crazy. My parents would never allow such a thing to happen." Where is the rebel? A meek surrender to the greater power of the system. Mind you, Ajay is but one example of all those wannabe rebels who end up cowering before life as ordained by custom.

In such a system, what is the status of change? Not a very respectable one, I'm afraid. My recent wanderings through the Hospitality Club (http://www.hospitalityclub.org) have got me a new friend. She's from another continent, on the other side of the planet. During a chat with her, I told her about the life of an average Indian. Her response - wild guffawing - summed up what such a life is: A Big Joke. She asked me two questions, "What do you want to do?" and "Why are you afraid of doing what you want?" The first was an easy one, but the second has had me stumped. She was extremely amused when I said that I couldn't do what I wanted, and even more amused when I didn't have a better reason than, "Everyone else does this, so I have to do it too". I began to see her point. She's taking a break from her studies to go teach English in another country, and then will be taking another break to volunteer for the Olympic Games. If I so much as suggested this at home, I would be quartered by the wildest horses available. She made a simple suggestion - don't break studies, but don't take a job for a year after studies, use that time to volunteer in different countries. I discussed this with Anubhav in college. His response was typical - "Boss, you are mad!! Get a hold of your life, take a job, settle down and then think of all this tomfoolery".

The maverick that I am, I wanted some mental gratification. I Googled "volunteer" and this took me to exotic locales (virtually, at least) and showed me what Life could be. Given a choice, I would occupy myself doing voluntary work for the rest of my life. It's the best way to see the world, meet new people, discover new cultures and importantly, where my work directly and tangibly would help other people and the planet at large. My lower jaw dropped and touched the table top as I navigated through the pages of the volunteer-work search engine. This was life in all its glory in front of me. This is what would amount to disobeying the orders of the system. I repeat myself here - this is what I would love to do for the rest of my life.

But as I type this, I have in the back of my mind a fear that I will not make it to HLL...

Lessons learnt

2006-04-01T16:43:00.000+05:30

At the risk of bringing private life into the public sphere again, I want to lay down in bullet points the lessons life has taught me over the past two years or so...

Honesty is the best policy.
Man proposes, God disposes.
Everyone has a private space around them which is just that - private.
One unspoken word succesfully conveyed says more than a hundred spoken words can.
Above all, true love conquers all....

I'm afraid this is all I can lay down on my blog... Interested parties may drop me an email. I will not respond if you sound too nosy or if you are just being inquisitive or you are looking for a scrap of juicy gossip.

Discovery of the Day

2006-03-02T12:03:00.000+05:30

Amidst the high-security Infosys campus (the cops who had come to check the security system here after the IISc blast satisfied themselves that even a fly couldn't get in unauthorised), I discovered a cockroach in the stationery cabinet...

Carpe Canem or Was It Cave Diem?

2006-02-19T18:36:00.000+05:30

Non sequiturs
Ad nauseam
I suffer through
In toto.
(I once wrote down
An author's name
As Auturo Ignoto.)

Per se, ad hoc,
The status quo...
You simply cannot
Beat 'em.
For saying much with
Pithy punch, e.g. ad
Infinitum.

But heu mihi
Ipso facto
Mirabile oh
Dictu...
Methinks the tongue unlatinized
And clear is what I'll
Stick to.

(Credit to Sister Rose Alice, S.S.J., Columbia University, 1969)

A phenomenally funny poem demonstrating the uselessness (or usefulness) of Latin in everyday English. Interestingly, "the tongue unlatinized" is impossible, givenn the vast array of Latin words still in vogue today... Auditor, bonus, dictator, sponsor, victor, et cetra....

Random Post of the Day I

2006-01-30T15:33:00.000+05:30

Why does one FALL in love? If love is so wonderful then why doesn't one RISE in love or SOAR in love?

Sin City

2005-12-15T10:10:00.000+05:30

I very rarely write a post within an hour of an event happening (one may argue that I rarely write a post in the first place), but this is something that I have to write about right here, right now. In another fortnight, the year 2006 will dawn upon us. There's nothing intrinsically special about the year itself (it's not even a leap year), but the way in which the students of the National Law School will herald its coming is noteworthy.

As final year students, we bear the costs of the college party, in keeping with tradition. About half an hour ago, the Event Management Gurus of the class (Nitin, Grrrish, Tuffloo) outlined the plan for the New Year "Party". The first phrase which struck me on hearing the same was the title of this post, "Sin City". Why? Read on....

Venue: Some Random Farmhouse about 50-60 km outside Bangalore police limits
Description of venue: In Nitin's words, "Lots of side attractions". In plain English, the place has dance floors at three levels (which makes it convenient for some tipsy person to dance off the floor to join the others at the lower levels, or at least endeavour to), a swimming pool (where some unfortunate drunks will no doubt end up, much to their shock and chargin) and uninterrupted power supply (so much for rural power cuts). The crowning achievement of this place is that it's surrounded by 150 (one hundred and fifty) acres of woodland, with no lighting. Another side attraction is that there are 20 tents available for those who want greater privacy than the darkness could provide.

Look, I mean, without any need for diplomatic language, this "party" sounds like one of those nights of which events could send the newpapers crazy with a million MMS scandals rolled into one night. Get what I mean? No? Then let me put it in plainer English. The cover of the trees and the darkness, combined with the mellowing effects of a quart or so of vodka, would without a shadow of doubt get the testesterone and whatever-it-is-called-for-the-girls-hormone raging through the bloodstreams of erstwhile respectable students of an elite university...

I am a liberal person by philosophy in most matters, but this is something which would shock the collective conscience of liberal minded persons in society. A boozy, smoky, dopey new year blitz (which we have had all these years) is bad enough, but if you give amorous couples ("real" couples as well as one-night-only couples) this much room, we may need a maternity ward on campus, I say!!! Further, it will be impossible to cut out the dope, which has been somewhat possible with a smaller venue over the years.

Apart from the moral issues, there are also issues of safety. Being outside police limits saves the cost of obtaining permits, paying bribes, etc, but let's face it - the police are quite effective as keepers of the peace. They will be around within shouting distance (let's not delve into the reasons why police constables hang around within shouting distance of new year parties) if any trouble arises at a more "normal" party. In fact, there have been incidents where random goonda-looking people have attempted to gatecrash our parties (once the incomparable Vinay Sitapati showed some true Dutch courage in the face of a drunk rowdy), but the cops have been of help in such situations. Fifty kilometres outside police limits is fifty kilometres away from help in an emergency. Even in case of any other emergency (ask Saluja - he found himself in the ICU after some overenthusiastic consumption of the bubbly), this place is out in the boondocks. It may be argued that someone will drive over to Bangalore to fetch help in case of trouble, but the simple counter to it is that how many drivers will be found in a sober enough state to first drive back to Bangalore and secondly to bring back help?

Whatever may be the point of all this raving by me, I have also paid up for it. I am jointly and severally responsible for anything that happens therein. So all I can say now is, "Happy fucking fellas..."

The Footpath Jam

2005-11-30T14:47:00.000+05:30

Bangalore is remarkable for its constant evolution (read as devolution) and its innovative spirit in finding new problems to dog its citizens. Like any big metropolis in the world, it has its massive monstrosities called malls, its over-hyped and overpriced "hep" shopping areas, its decadent night life and its milling millions, but there aer some things which are unique to Namma Bengaluru.

A classic example was on display on (where else?) BTM main road. A recent survey had shown that although techies (software professionals and other high-tech engineers) form only a tenth of Bangalore's workforce, they contribute to more than three-quarters of its vehicles. And since BTM main road is one of two roads that lead to Electronic City (I seriously envy Rome, as it is never short of roads leading to it, meaning there are no traffic jams), there are about a lakh or so vehicles in a feverish rush to the hallowed acres of Electronic City within the span of an hour. In such a situation, every inch of road gained is a victory for any motorist over his rivals. As is the case in any battle, there are those that are cleverer than the others, and there are those that are more resourceful than the others. Therefore, it didn't take much time for a clever techie (what an oxymoron!!) to come to the conclusion that since there are more vehicles than pedestrians on the road, the former must have preferential rights over the footpath too. So he heaved his two-wheeler onto the footpath, a move which earned him the respect and admiration of his fellow motorists and the curses of the pedestrians, and rode away at the speed of 20 kilometres an hour, at least ten times faster than his rivals on the road. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The other motorists were not far behind in emulating the pioneer, and that day, those who went to office by car had a tough time explaining why they were held up by the traffic while others (read as the followers of our pioneer's example) made it in time.

Fast forward to the next morning. The Pioneer and his followers took their usual route up the footpath. The driver of a sand-laden lorry had a flash of inspiration. (The next time scientists record a gorilla or a chimpanzee getting a brainwave, I must make it a point to inform them that the aforesaid driver had achieved the same result in out-of-laboratory conditions.) He thought, "Arrey! When these puny motorbikes can go so fast on the footpath, what is there to prevent my huge lorry from doing the same? Who do these dwarfs think they are? I'll show them...." That was the end of that. What a sight it was for jobless onlookers like me!! There was this huge, heavily laden lorry trying to waltz onto the footpath. An elephant might have given us a breathtaking ballet performance, but this lorry was definitely out of its depths here. The end result? The Pioneer and his merry band of followers were stopped in their tracks. The pedestrians, usually the coolest ones in a traffic jam because of their supreme mobility, were stuck too. The white and khaki figure of the traffic constable arrived on the scene, and apart from giving a lesson on swear words in Kannada, he could do nothing else.

The Day of the Eternal Human Jam had dawned....

An Unsolved Mystery

2005-11-30T14:17:00.000+05:30

Much to the chargin of a large percentage of the people I know, it has never failed to mystify me as to how computer engineering or software engineering or whatever else it's called can ever be a career. I mean, come on man, HOW can one spend one's whole life in front of a computer and typing in nonsense to make a machine do something for you? If English is considered as a complex language with innumerable oddities, then I wonder what we can call even the simplest computer programming "language".... I am more shocked when I come to realise that I too had fallen into this mental madness and misconception that computer engieering is the greatest career in the world, a sure-shot way to enter George W. Bush territory. I used to believe that I would one day enter an ivy-league college and key in a program that would revolutionise the software industry... The infinitely useful gift of hindsight has helped one word to come to my lips - outrageous!! Two weeks of a non-engineering course put my mind back on track, returned me to this Earth, restored sanity in my thinking.

The bottomline is this - software engineers are slaves - slaves of the machine they spend three-quarters of their life with, and slaves of the mammoth companies which have made their fortunes on these poor engineers' plights. While it may be true that they have indirectly made everybody's lives better, they are also indirectly responsible for a large number of worries that we have today. Where would viruses, spam and hackers be if not for the advances made in the industry? O privacy, where art thou? However, I seem to be digressing here. I cannot understand how one can isolate oneself from all human interaction and yet be alive enough to carry on with life. A computer is an excellent means of communication and a toy par excellence, but is it the centre of life, the centre of existence? I have to take a leaf out of a book on jurisprudence and draw the classic difference between what ought to be and what is. In this case, hundreds of thousands of thousands of people (and many of my friends) ought not to be doing what they are doing.

Looking at it as a lawyer, I find the software engineers downright daft and as ignorant of their rights as the flood-hit, drought-hit, starvation-hit tribals from interior Orissa. The argument advanced by the engineers and the aforementioned tribals are shockingly similar - as long as we have enough to live, who gives a damn about rights? When one spends four years (and a little more, because of the stint at the ivy league Univ) in strenuous academix pursuit, does one divorce oneself from all common sense entirely? As a defence, software engineers may say that they are as much GIGO ("garbage in, garbage out") as their pet machines; hence the lack of common sense, but as a counter, I say that you don't send the computers to college, do you? These poor souls are the victims of the latest form of slavery. I have received information from reliable sources that there exists not one trade union in the entire software industry, that not a single software "professional" knows the meaning of collective bargaining. The Government websites glorify the fact that the IT industry has been spared from the ambit of a large number of labour laws. Capitalism may be the emerging world order, but we must remember that those bearing the brunt of capitalistic colonialism are also human beings having equal rights to those on the cushy end of the stick. According to me, the fault is not entirely that of capitalism, nor can it be blamed on an overenthusiastic and greedy Government. The engineers themselves have a large role to play. Can I hear someone saying, "Software professionals and zombies of the world unite!"?......

Irregularities

2005-10-17T11:31:00.000+05:30

I must be the most irregular blogger in the world. It's been many months since my last post. Well, actually, I must be the second most irregular blogger. Krithika (http://krits.blogspot.com) hasn't updated hers for over a year I see...
What's been happening? The world's elite cricketers suddenly go off form collectively. The much-hyped World XI takes a hiding from a born-again Aussie side playing without some big names. Why on earth was an in-form VVS Laxman not played against his bunny boys? Why was Inzamam, who in the middle of a season can be described as half-awake, played in a World XI after an injury layoff and a long vacation? The selectors could easily have played Chris Gayle for an ineffective and disinterested Jacques Kallis. It's well known now that Mark Boucher is not in the same league as even Kumar Sangakkara (who, incidentally, is in swashbuckling form), let alone Adam Gilchrist. And the selectors must be given a dunce cap each for choosing Greame Smith as captain. He's unimaginative at best and clueless on other occasions. If they decided to play Inzy, they ought to have given him the captaincy too, or at least given it to someone with a cricketing brain, like Rahul Dravid. In the end, the World XI looked like a Real Madrid side - all stars, no action. I personally am of the opinion that there are two lessons to be learned from this debacle - one that a side full of big names almost never delivers, and two that such an obvious marketing stunt must never again be given an official status for the good of the game. Cricket, unlike football, is still a game between nations and without a national identity to play for, most cricketers would find it hard to concentrate on the game and not on the publicity. Readers are advised to look up CLR James' excellent book "Beyond a Boundary" to fully understand the relationship between national pride and cricket.
A second internship at Infosys gave me a few more insights into the functioning of the well-oiled machinery of India's best known IT company. An older post might have suggested a City (it's actually called the Infosys City) full of nerdy zombies, but I have discovered that there IS some life here. Perhaps the main reason for this change in attitude may be that I was inducted into an online quiz community for Infoscions (their website says that this is a mix of Infosys and Scion, a word associated with a monarch or patriarch). Nevertheless, I walked into Building 18 one evening and discovered dozens of erstwhile zombies enjoying a game of pool or table tennis or pumping iron in the state-of-the-art gymnasium or chilling out with a swim at the pool which is fit for a luxury resort or five star hotel. I also accompanied Lahar to a coffe shop on campus after dark, and found several people there sipping a cuppa and having a chat about everything under the sun. On another occasion, I was travelling to office by the company bus and a sudden braking by the driver (to avoid a bovine jaywalker) resulted in a dozing lady slamming her cheekbone into the bar in front. Several seemingly unconcerned fellow-passengers rushed to her aid. It was just a light blow, but the incident served the purpose of demonstrating the large hearts present under the nerdy exterior. Well, so much for Infosys life...
The National Law School of India University has a brand new website. The new site even features a pic of me (blush, blush...), albeit in a crowd and taken without my knowledge. But what I found intriguing was the presence of 'invisible' pages. The home page shows a link to 'check results' (http://www.nls.ac.in/academic_programmes_undergraduate_trimester_results.html), but the target page says "the results of the last trimester will be made available shortly". However, on entering this URL (http://www.nls.ac.in/results/index.html), the promised results are already available!!! So much for censorship (if that's the right word)... The next twist in the tale came when i used the search tool on the home page and looked up the term 'results'. What happens? The first link shown above never features in the search results, but the second link does!!! In a game, this might have been called a 'cheat code'...

Work hard, not hardly work

2005-06-22T14:43:00.001+05:30

I seem to be the only person slogging away these hols. Please note - I'm not complaining. I just find it amusing and ironic that I seem to be doing nothing during my internships when others are sweating it out, and working my ass off when others are cooling their heels. Tanmay reports that not even the Amarchand people (who went to Mumbai, Delhi, etc with knees shaking at the prospect of 16-hour work days) are working at their internships. I came to Infosys hoping for a 9-to-5, Monday-to-Friday work period and a relatively chilled out atmosphere. Instead, I seem to be the one doing the 14-hours-a-day shift. Well, I do have the weekends off; so to that extent my pre-internship assessment was right. But, as I said earlier, I am not cribbing. I am welcoming the hard work. I have been resting on my butt for the best part of four years in law school, and it was high time I got serious about something. The work is not very intellectually demanding - just digging out loopholes in contracts, or bailing Infy out of a thorny litigation, or saving Infy a few bucks by drafting sue-proof policies, or anything to the effect of putting Infy on the right side of the Law. But it demands painstaking attention to detail. I guess that's what we lawyers are paid for - to cover our own tracks perfectly while sniffing out mistakes made by the 'other party'. If variety is the spice of life, then life at Infy legal is quite bland. Still, there's a new challenge every time I look at a new contract or code or policy.

An update (or correction) to my earlier post: I discovered over the past few days that zombies too have a life. Infoscions put in a lot of effort to convince me that they were zombies, but that effort seems to have waned now. The intra-company, inter-development centre cul-fest Dhun is round the corner, and I actually saw some hustle and bustle (away from the computer screens, that is), and surprise surprise - some active campaigning and slogan shouting by members of some DCs. "Expect the unexpected" said one banner. How apt!!! I honestly never expected the oft-caricatured nerdy techies to show so much energy away from their keyboards. Also a reply to "Someone" who posted a comment on my earlier post - techies are not slimy, cunning creatures because the only thing they interact with, namely a computer, is not worth the effort...

Work hard, not hardly work

2005-06-22T14:43:00.000+05:30

Caffeine-aholic

2005-06-16T14:54:00.000+05:30

I am becoming a caffeine-aholic, or whatever the word may be for a person addicted to coffee. I just discovered that Infosys has got coffee vending machines at 10 metre(or so) intervals which churn out thick, creamy, free coffee at the press of a button. Well, to be honest, the machines have always been there and I knew of their existence from day one, but I discovered where they keep the cups only yesterday.... End result: I love the stuff and can't stop drinking it...

Infy City

2005-06-14T11:14:00.000+05:30

Welcome to Zombie City...errr...Infosys City. The headquarters of India's fourth richest company. Where I'm exercising my legal brains for the whole of June.
Well, here I am, doing an internship, sitting at a desk, between assignments, wondering what to do... Why not write something on my much-neglected blog?
This place IS Zombie City. On the company buses, not a word is exchanged, no one even LOOKS at another person, everyone's busy staring at the back of the seat in front of them or listening to the radio (on their mobiles) and staring at the back of the seat in front of them... On campus, people walk around without uttering a word even though they may be walking in groups... At their desks, people stare at their computer screens and don't even say 'hello' to their cubicle-mates when they come in..... In their cabins, the directors and the vice-presidents stare into their computer screens and occasionally stretch their neck muscles to break the monotony.... Everyone seems to be too busy even to speak.....
Exceptions: 1. Lunch time - people speak to the person serving lunch so that he serves lunch, and occasionally with someone in order for them to move out of the way, and even more occasionally with someone from their department/cubicle to ask whether they turned their comps off before leaving the desk.... 2. Meetings - the vice-president or director has had enough with the computer screen, so he calls over some of his subordinates to 'discuss' matters, the latter reluctantly break off the magnetic bond between the computer screen and their eyes and enter the sanctum of the superior's office and prepare to get blasted, most probably for not staring at the computer screen long enough.... 3. Brainstorming - An ad hoc congregation of like-minded zombies to thrash out 'issues' for an hour to finally discover their like-mindedness....

Get the general idea?

It's quite a contrast with college, where everyone knows everyone else and people drop whatver they are doing to grab a juicy conversation and bitch about fellow college-mates.... As my boss said (!!!!) to me one day, "Welcome to the corporate world...."

The Mav's back

2005-05-01T11:34:00.000+05:30

I'm back... After a full 5 months of hibernation.
So what's happened all this while? Quite a lot, in fact.
1. The Indian cricket team seems to have returned to normal. Some evil spirit had got hold of them in 2004, when they rubbed shoulders on equal terms with the Aussies Down Under, defeated Pakistan in Pakistan and so on. Now all spirits have been exorcised and the good habit of losing matches has returned. Anyone noticed how the "feel good factor" seems to have disappeared along with the brief period under the sun for the Indian cricket team? On a more positive note, it is heartnening to hear that someone like Greg Chappel (who was somehow slimed out last time round) or Dav Whatmore is in the reckoning for the job of Coach. The team needs some motivational magic from someone, and who better than the two mentioned above!!
2. My grades have taken a nosedive. Has it got to do something with the fact that I have finished over 50 novels sitting in class for the last five months? Or with the fact that the longest time I have spent over a project over the last six months is six hours, over my tax-2 project, compared to an average of fifteen hours' (typing time alone) for my projects in the second year? Or with the fact that I have come to rely upon 'crash courses' delivered by well-prepared students on the morning of the exam in order to pass the course? Well, I guess it's a combination of all of these. I seem to have stretched the meaning of 'chillin out' too far.... It's time to pull up my socks...
3. Liverpool F.C. have surprised me to no small extent. As far as I know, they have surprised the only two die-hard Reds fans I know (Vish and Jags) too. I'm sure Rafa and Gerrard and Co. are also equally surprised. European glory days are here again... Ironically, they may not be around to defend the title next year (provided they win it this year, that is). As I write this, there's a tricky second leg of the Champ's League semis to play. It may be at Anfield, but Liv have no attack worth the name to push the Pensioners to the brink. Let us hope that the miracle continues....
Lots more to write, but everything seems to have slipped my mind now. Will update this site as soon as I remember.

An Inkling

2005-01-01T15:58:00.000+05:30

The recent devastating Tsunami that sunk tens of thousands of people is but an inkling of what is in store for us. These most unfortunate people have met an end that is ultimately in store for all of us, nay for all living creatures on this planet - death by deluge or "pralaya". Many people may scoff at the entire concept of "pralaya", but I believe it is God's way of wiping the slate clean to begin afresh on a brand new day. Apart from this theorising, I have quite a bit to say of the Tsunami and its wake of destruction.
1. Once again, the media is having a field day. A disaster is the surest-shot way that news channels gain viewers and newspapers gain readers. Something of this scale gives them their bonus. The Gujarat carnage and the war in Iraq are two of the more recent events that also resulted in a 'field day' for the media. Another aspect of this is the nearness of the disaster to everyone in the world, which can be attributed to the media, again. The gut-wrenching scenes at the disaster sites were transmitted live across the globe, and the television took every viewer into the heart of the action. We all felt as though we were there in Nagapattinam or Cuddalore or Galle or wherever else dead bodies were floating around amidst ruins of houses and wrecked cars. The surprising thing is the relish with which the general public laps up this news. The sight of a carcass of a woman bloated with water and half-eaten by fishes is as lip-smacking as the sight of the most delicious gourmet dishes. A friend of mine looked positively disappointed when I told him that the preliminary estimates of the death toll was 'just' 1500, but he was beaming the next morning when the paper put the estimate at over 10000, and he said, "Hey Anirudh, look - over 10000 people have died" with the same enthusiasm with which he might have said, "Hey Anirudh, look - Sachin just overtook Lara's record." And then there's talk of 'reducing the population'. Quite thoughless, I must say...
2. Anyone knows what's happened to the numerous indigenous tribes who inhabited the Andaman and Nicobar Islands? They were the last remaining 'truly indigenous' tribes of India, and all they had for protection from nature's wrath were the dense jungles around them and their own primitive huts. It's highly improbable that any significant number of them survived. Even if they had survived the Tsunami itself, they will find it near impossible to survive the week or so after the Wave. The Government (in fact, the colonial Government) had labelled most of these tribes as 'dangerous', and no attempt had been made to take civilisation to them. Therefore, now there is no way of reaching these people, nor of knowing what has happened to them, nor of sending help across to them. Only God (and what 'hideous' tribal God that may be!!!!) can protect them now. Citizens of the same India, eh? We'll soon see.....
3. Apart from the media, another group of people who immensely profit from disasters are the 'relief' groups. And profit is the right word, too. With no disrespect meant for any group honestly engaged in rescue and relief work, I must say that a disaster means money for many. The Government proudly announces monetary packages for the families of the deceased, missing and injured. How much actually reaches these stricken families? Other organisations raise phenomenal sums of money, apparently to buy food, clothing and medicines for the victims. Does it reach them? I don't think so. The suffering and agony has to sort itself out, and the victims have to arrange their own affairs if they have any wish to survive. So much for pseudos and their work....
I seem to have made it a habit of writing long blogs. I will put a stop to the current one, although there's lot more to say. Perhaps I may find the energy to write up a sequel to this. As of now, I must return to the TV - they are showing particuarly mouth-watering scenes of mass cremations and relatives beating their chests and wailing...

The Beauty of Law School

2004-12-25T10:29:00.000+05:30

Like a thoroughbred NLS-ite, let me begin with a disclaimer.
Disclaimer: The following are mere expressions of the author's opinion. They may or may not represent the facts in an entirely objective perspective. In any case, the author is not responsible for any nervous shock, heart attacks or any other adverse reactions on the mind or body of the reader that may be caused upon reading the following.

With that out of the way, let me lay out the gist of the blog. I seek to identify some unique characteristics of lawschoolites which set them apart from the rest and make them the best in the country.....

1. A strict observance of deadlines: This is perhaps the single biggest factor responsible for the success of NLS. We are adept at doing anything at (precisely) the deadline. Be it arriving in class on time for the second call of attendance, arriving at the exam hall just when the second bell rings, finishing an answer paper exactly when the teacher walks up to the desk and gives a glare at you, submitting projects at 5 pm on the last-last day, studying for exams exactly 12 hours before the exam is to be held (and making outstanding use of the 12 hours), arriving at the railway station just when the signal turns green, arriving at meetings just when the convenor is about to begin... Well the list is endless. I'm sure you must have had an idea of what I'm trying to say... You haven't? Oh then you are obviously not from NLS.....

2. Efficiency, not quality: Ever noticed how many people have articles published in the average journals and good national journals, but how few (less than that even) have something published in international journals? I take it as a symptom of another characteristic of law school - an ethic of efficiency, not of out-and-out quality. Yes, efficiency is not possible without a minimum level of quality - but we have learnt over the years that the bare minimum level of quality which is necessary to maximise efficiency is what it takes to be succesful in life as a lawyer. That's why we shine in law firms and corporate houses and even in the courts. I personally pride myself at working myself to the exact extent required, but obviously I have not perfected the system. My good friend Ajay points out a few people who have - and guess what - they are all G5....

3. Make best use of class hours: A lawschoolite soon learns that class hours are invaluable to life in law school. That is the only time when we are faced by inefficiency in the place - in the form of teachers. But who cares? Its time to recharge one's batteries. Yaaawn..... Its the best place in the world to take a nap. NLS is perhaps the only college in the world which gives people marks to come and sleep in the designated place known as 'classroom'. Make use of others' inefficiency by maximising your own - sleep through class and be fresh for a late night. It's only the highly insecure or highly jealous teachers who insist on us staying awake. It's only the rarer-than-platinum teachers like Pillai who arrest sleep from our souls and rivet our attentions to the topic being discussed. Yeah, man - class hours ought to be made best use of.

3a. Make best use of class hours II: A derivative of the above. If the teacher is one who gets panicky if you sleep through his/her class, then just give your attendance and walk out of class. This can be achieved in two ways: either sneak out when the teacher's back is turned or brazenly walk out in front of him/her. The risk is obvious in the second method, but it gives a moral satisfaction of having stormed out of a particularly useless monologue. What do we do after walking out? If one lives in Himalaya hostel or is a girl, then we simply walk back to the hostel room and sleep off the hour tucked underneath our comfortable sheets. If not, then we walk to the common room and make optimum use of the sofa...

4. Unwind as often as possible: This is absolutely necessary when all our efforts are directed at efficiency. In fact, its a key ingredient of our efficiency process. Chill out if there's no work to be done or the deadline is a week or so away. Its my favourite mantra - chill. It really helps. It gives enormous scope to explore the world, to read books, to watch cricket, to play computer games - in short, to live life.

At the end of a rather long blog, I must say that there are two kinds of deviants from the above system. The first are those who have misunderstood the system and underestimated the level of quality required for maximum efficiency. They soon slip into junior years, and invariably into the sinister world of drink and drugs (sad, but true... the two D vices are the banes of a section of law school). The other category is at the opposite end of the spectrum. They disregard the existence of the efficiency system. They work their u-know-what off day in and day out, obtain a 6+ CGPA, don't know the spelling of "chill out" and believe that work is the only worthwhile occupation of a human being. They end up enjoying stunning academic success, but at the end of the day, they get the same pay packets as the rest of us, maybe only slightly better.... So who wins?

As for me, I am a mere journeyman. The law school equivalent of Geoff Boycott's "dibbly dobbly bowlers" - neither the shining star of academics, nor the lowly dopey. I manage. That's what is important....

Brand New Day

2004-12-25T10:16:00.000+05:30

Hey all,
Surprised to find only one blog? Well, I've decided to start afresh. There have been some mistakes made along the road. Commentators on my blog (known as the "wellwishers", ironically) have become too malicious and comments have begun to leave more than a bad taste in the mouth. I have learnt my lesson the hard way. Let me also learn from the good bloggers like Vish and Praddy to keep personal life out of something like this. Well, that's that then. It's a brand new day, and a brand new blog....