Happy New Year

I was not feeling well. Its not that I usually feel well, spirited and in the best of moods. But it was biting cold and I had a slight headache as well. Add to that, my pessimist view of things and the recent bout of depression (again!), and you get a muddled, depressed, frustrated and confused personality called 'ME'.

Being a doctor in one of the rare health institutions in the region that paid well was a positive in my favour (disregarding my pessimist view of things. Now, ladies, I am not the ideal match for you- so please back off!). And to have a rare off day on New Year Eve was something any of my colleagues would have traded for. In fact I did get offers to exchange duties. One guy was so desperate as to offer to do three shifts if only I would give him the off day. I was tempted too, but knowing the guy and his insane ways, I refused to take the bait.

So, I was in my room surfing the net as usual trying to concoct a good story to upload in my blog as well as juggling the various tabs in the browser which showed the recent news, one social networking site, a men's magazine site (with images of beautiful feminine figures) and my favourite literotica site. The mind was blank. No good story would come to my mind. No inspiration either. The news was stale and the other sites were taking far too long to load.

In came Ayush. He is probably one or two years older, almost my height, has a good physique, is admired by the ladies (and is careless about it) and is worldly wise. And he talks a lot. The yarns he weaves, the stories he tells- if I were him, I could have updated my blog regularly with stories, anecdotes and experiences- all featuring myself as the protagonist (even if it were someone else in reality and even if events didn't happen as they were told).

'Huh! Surfing porn again?'. His knowledge of computers and the net is confined to surfing porn and watching titillating videos. 'Give a rest to those poor eyes and that sore hand, not to speak of little Johnny down there. Lets go enjoy ourselves. Its New Year Eve, yaar!'

'Where to?' I ask. You can't say no to this person if he is bent on something (which he usually is, on everything). And anyway, I was getting bored with the inactive state of affairs on my monitor.

'We are planning a party. In JK's room. They have already brought some snacks. We are going to get some booze.'

It was cold but I knew I had no option. You never have one with Ayush. He gets things done his way. 'Lemme get my jacket and cap' I say.

Ten minutes later, I was riding pillion with him on his rusty, rickety but trusted bike, along the winding slopes, trying to shield myself from the onrushing wind. I was shivering despite my layers of protective clothing. Plus I always had this sense of imbalance. If the bike leaned too far while taking a turn, I had this insane fear that I would fall off. But grown-ups don't say out their fears loud and I kept mum. The ordeal was over within a further twenty minutes, thankfully with all the booze stacked neatly in JK's room and the party set to begin.

There were three more people in the room. JK, PP and Sid. Whether it is a trend to sound anglicised or mere ease of communication, many of my acquaintances have their names shortened to the initials of their names or a shortened but anglicised form of their name. Thus Jayanta Kalita became JK, Palash Phukan became PP (we however made it sound Pee-Pee!) and Sidhdharth became 'Sid'.

'Oh! So made it at last! I was wondering whether you had gone to sleep on that 'khatara' of yours'. JK's welcoming notes greeted us.

'Yeah. I did. By the way, why don't you go out in the cold when we run out of booze? I'll time you'. Ayush shot back.

'And how is our peeping tom today?' PP said. He is one of the least read guys in our group. I sometimes wonder if he even knows what peeping tom really means. Or for that matter whether he even touched his  forensic textbooks during the four and a half years long MBBS course. He is the sort who is more into physical sports- groping female body parts in crowded places or parties included.

I ignored his comment and asked 'Everything ready?'

Everything was ready. The table was laid out- its erstwhile occupants (which included two tomes of Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine, some drug literature, some physician's samples and one or two magazines) thrown haphazardly on the bed. Yesterday's newspaper was spread out over the table and a bottle of Vodka and some disposable glasses were laid upon it. Chicken was being cooked in a pressure cooker while some packets containing 'tanduri chicken' were lying open ready to be served. The light was dimmed with the help of a plastic bag covering the naked bulb while the tubelight was turned off. Bottles of water and cold drinks rounded up the culinary requisites.

We took our places around the table. All except Sid. He was busy with his new Nokia N97. Sid is like that only- a show off. And being born with a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't hurt either. He had everything he wanted- a swank new car, the latest gadgets available, a fashionable wardrobe. Only he was a spendthrift inspite of all these riches (or maybe his Dad had taught him something about savings which our dads hadn't taught us).

'Hey Fucker! You need an invitation? With gold embroidered envelope? Do us a favour and shift that lazy ass of yours over here.' Ayush called.

'Oh! You guys started already? I had a bit of a problem with the pdf files in this phone. Was engrossed with it.' That was his explanation as he sauntered over to the table.

'What does pdf mean? Piss d fuck?' PP said. I told you guys. His English is crap even if he tries swearing.

'Lets get it started.' JK, the alcoholic decreed. We all raised our glasses, mumbled 'cheers' and took a sip. In JK's case, it was a swallow in which half the contents disappeared as if it were the genie in the lamp. Glasses were back on the table, chicken legs were searched for and the crunching sound of breaking bones were added to the sounds of the conversation.

The others were already on their second refills (with JK urging us to drink up fast) while I sat nursing my first drink. 'Hey Yuvi! You trying to last long this time? Drink up. We all are drinking Vodka this time.' JK urged making a reference to events of last year.

It so happened that being relatively new to this art of drinking, I had started with potentially 'lesser' drinks like Vodka mixed with cold drinks- Sprite being my favourite. The others were drinking Whisky last year while I had Vodka for myself. Unfortunately, Sprite was unavailable, so Ayush brought two bottles of Mirinda for me. During the course of events, someone (till date I don't know who did it) gobbled up my second bottle of Mirinda and filled it with Whisky. And by the time, I reached for that bottle, I was already drunk to notice the change in taste or the concentration. As a result, I was drinking a pure cocktail of Whisky and Vodka! I was sick the whole night and halfway through the next day.

'Just got a little headache. I'll go slow. You guys carry on.' I said.

Time passed. We got drunk. The conversation flitted fast from topic to topic- touching a whole gamut of subjects ranging from girls, bikes, books (even PP tried to sound literate!), boobs, money, society, life, politics and what not. The bottles started getting empty, the tanduri was long gone, the contents of the pressure cooker almost finished. The guys were getting drunk, and showing it. Speeches were slurred, gaits were unsteady.

Then came JK with his brainwave. You can always rely upon him to come up with it when he has a fair amount of alcohol imbibed inside.

'Lets go out, buy some more booze and tanduri and party outside. We can get the tanduri at that recently opened food outlet nearby.'

'Isn't it a bit cold outside?' I asked, being comparatively sober.

'Oh, stop whining and be a man, Yuvi!' Ayush chided. 'I am going on my bike. Dare to accompany me?' 

He knew well my fear of fast bikes and my unwritten principle of never riding a bike when drunk. But I had to show him.

'Sure.' I said.

So the other three piled up in Sid's car and me and Ayush on his bike and raced off into the night.

After getting the requisites, we went near the lake and sat atop Sid's car bonnet. Some people were sleeping on the footpath in the distance covered in torn blankets and gunny bags. A little boy was hovering nearby. Some dogs were fighting nearby, probably staking out their claim to a prospective meal of leftovers. 'I love dogs. They are so cool.' Sid started. 'I have an Alsatian and a Golden Retriever at home'. He threw a piece  of bone towards the dogs who started their 'two-dogs-and-a-bone-war' without waiting a moment.

Ayush and me were comparatively sober now as a result of our exposure to the chilly wind. Ayush immediately started making amends and launched upon the bottle (the glasses were forgotten in the room) with renewed vigour. The bottles were passed around. JK was almost passed out. He had already puked once and had come back to replenish what he had lost.

I had lost the thread of the conversation as I observed things. As I concentrated on the conversation, I heard Sid say, 'I hate those fucking politicians. Enjoying lives of unparalleled wealth, power and luxury while more than two-thirds of our population remains hungry. People have to sleep on footpaths. Not even a roof to cover their heads.' PP nodded his head in agreement. He doesn't have any ideas of his own. All he is interested is in birds (not the ornithological kind), booze and food. JK was passed out and lying inside the car. Ayush was busy gulping the clear liquid- finishing the last drops and smacking his lips.

'Oh! Shut up Sid! By tomorrow you won't even remember that you spoke these words. Let's get back. What to do with this leftover tanduri?'

'Feed it to the dogs.' Sid said.

'Yuvi, why don't you do the honours while I go and Pee-Pee?' Ayush said.

'Oh fuck off!' PP said.

I collected the leftover chicken in a poly bag while Sid, PP and JK took off in the car. As I was about to throw the bag towards the expectant hordes of dogs, I noticed the little boy.

'What are you doing kid?' I asked.'Why aren't you asleep?'

'Nothing Sir.' He said. 'I wasn't feeling sleepy.'

'What did you have for dinner?' I asked on an impulse.

He didn't answer.

I extended the bag towards him. He took it tentatively. Without saying a word, he turned and ran off towards the bunch of people sleeping on the footpath.The dogs howled in protest.

From a distance, I saw the kid go and shake a bundle on the footpath. The bundle sat up and took notice. She awoke the other bundles and then they started on the contents of the poly bag.

Ayush had started the bike and was blowing its horn.

As I straddled on the bike, I had a last look at the kid and his family and mumbled, 'Happy New Year Kid.'

'What?' Ayush shouted.

'Nothing.'I said. And we took off.

Back to Basics

Earlier this morning, I was sitting on the verandah, enjoying the sun and watching my young cousin studying in the sixth standard do some of her homework. Watching her wasting time (and believing in the principle that others shouldn't play around and waste time no matter how much time you do it yourself), I set her a task.

The task was simple for a student in the sixth grade. I asked her to write the Hindi alphabet- from 'Ka' to 'Gya'- the 'varnmala' as it is called. I was not surprised when she was unable to write it correctly. All the alphabets were there but the order was wrong.

I was not suurprised because the same thing had happened to me, and incidentally in my sixth standard. I had to relearn the 'varnmala' and move on.

 What I mean to convey from these incidents is that as we move on in life, as we go from the basic to the complicated, as we scale heights, we tend to forget. We tend to forget the basics, the depths we encountered and get embroiled in all the complications life has to offer.

I think that it behoves well, therefore, to stop from time to time, look back, relearn and move on.

Spare a thought for the past, learn from it and look to the future.

Happy New Year 2010.

An MCQ called life

Life is like a multiple choice question, the ones we call MCQs.

At various points in time, life gives us choices and we have to choose one among the many. Good, bad, right, wrong is for time, history and the gossipmongers to decide.

I have been coming across these MCQs that life offers many times. And though I said earlier (one line back, in fact!), its for time, history and the gossipmongers to decide, I admit that I may have made a few bad choices. I find a strange similarity between my choices and my habit of bumping into all the potholes on offer while driving (though it may not be a good reflection upon my driving skills) or my habit of picking up the wrong answer out of a total choice of four. Hell, there have been times when driving on a smooth, wide and empty road I manage to have a tete-a-tete with the forlorn, solitary and virgin pothole, unmolested since generations. And did I tell you of the times during my studies when out of five, only one answer was wrong and remainingall correct, and still I managed to pick up the wrong one? Some accuracy, huh! (I know it doesn't reflect too good on my professional skills but what is the probability that someone who likes reading my blog turns up as my patient on the examining table? Thankfully, too low).

So, talking about MCQs, I think that maybe I have made a few mistakes. Thats not the whole truth about the matter though. I have learnt from those mistakes (and perfected ways of repeating them!) And while I repent making those mistakes, age and experience taught me that whatever choice I would have made, I would end up with this very same feeling. Whatever I am, I am, and have to be content with it.

Got to go now. MCQs of the academic type are calling me. I'll go and get myself immersed into that tiny little world of options. Options a); b); c); d) and sometimes e).

The birthday post

I love my birthday. Whole year round, I feel loved by the care and love shown by a select few while on my birthday it feels like the whole world loves me and is desirous to celebrate and enjoy with me.

Happy birthday to me, albeit belated. And thanks fellows for all those wishes. It meant a lot. (At this old age ;))

Growing old

When do you know that you have grown old? Is there a definite time, a particular stage or an age, the crossing of which makes you old? Or is it relative? Here, we make a small study into the matter:

1. Greying of hair and more importantly the beard: The most obvious physical manifestation of ageing and which can be and which is practically dismissed nowadays as being the result of a variety of contributing factors and not merely age.

2. There is a stage in life when you are the youngest one around. The youngest one in the group, often bullied and sometimes loved. Then you are the youngest in your class. You are the youngest to scale many heights at such tender age. Then age begins catching up. You graduate to a 'dada' (elder brother) from 'bhaiti' (younger brother). The status quo remains for sometime after which the number of people you call bhaiti increases exponentially compared to the ones you call dada. Then suddenly you graduate to 'Uncle'. It starts harmlessly enough. Some child sitting on his mother's lap on the adjoining seat in the bus calls you that. And then slowly, it becomes a recurring phenomenon occurring at an alarming rate! And when married people call you by names like 'dada' uncle etc., then it becomes outright scary!

3. My extended family is quite large. The family tree spread over almost seven generations is confined to a small area. This gives rise to certain intricacies. I remember an old man whom I saw and mentally made a note to call grandfather addressing my grandfather as 'grandpa'! That meant he was my elder brother. I was okay with that. But then I realised that he had two sons and even grandchildren! What did that make me? I felt ancient at the tender age of eight.

4. You see a college going student of the female species with attractive features. You follow her movements and are staring in rapt attention when your companion scolds you-"what the hell are you staring at? If you had married at the right time, your daughter would have been this age." Slightly off the mark, but true nevertheless. Sigh!

Growing old has its advantages too, nevertheless. But the memories of times gone by, of youth, of a carefree existence are hard to forget. Thats why we probably don't want to age, don't feel like giving way and that was why probably Bryan Adams sang 'Eighteen till I die'!

Broken Rear View Mirror

I had a fall today
And broke the rear view mirror.

I hadn't realised then
But later I realised
That many things had broken
When that mirror broke.

No bones, thankfully
I assure you.

First to break was my heart
Shedding tears over the mangled 'beast'

The cracked shard with its thousand pieces

Driving through the riff.

Also broke with it
Memories of many a pretty face
Glimpsed though for only a fleeting moment.

It also broke my wallet
And I am already broke!




PS: Post no. 101 :)

November Rain

Its November. And its raining. Plus, Axl Rose is crooning (?) in my ear the famous song from which this post derives its name.

There is nothing to write about. Nothing except the rain. It has been raining (almost) steadily the last two days. All kinds of rain are on offer. 'Cats and Dogs' rain, 'steady downpour', 'in-your-face rain', 'from-the-side rain', 'drizzle', 'guzzle' 'bamboozle'. 'Rain with lightning', 'rain without lightning', 'rain with/without thunder', 'rain from above', 'rain from behind', 'dripping rain', 'gripping rain'...

When it rains, one gets wet. And the roads get muddy. Your bike becomes muddy as do your jeans. Your shoes change colour. Hell, even the face doesn't escape the fine shower of dirt escaping from the rear wheels of a passing truck or bus.

The dust gives way to mud. The steady tap of the raindrops on the helmet is accompanied by the squishing sounds made by the tyres on the mud. And the splash of the puddles. And the frantic manoevering to escape the flying sprays of 'airborne mud'.

The red coloured mud is the worst. Its too slippery. And the Public Works Department (who never do anything beneficial for the public) use it to cover up the potholes. It is fine during dry days but rain turns it into a slippery mass of accident-causing stretch. My broken left rearview mirror is a souvenir of one such encounter.

And it gets cold when it rains. The paddy gets destroyed too (I'll leave this for knowledgable folks to explain and elaborate). Cases of asthma and COPD predominate in the hospitals. The total number of cases are low (today's count: four). Multicoloured, warm clothes on sight everywhere. Warm, inviting fires by the roadside and at homes.

The warmth of your bed, the inviting sight of the blanket. A book in your hands, music in your ears. Ahhh!

See you later!!!

A creature called Man

I was on my way from Pengaree to Digboi. In a crowded sumo. Hemmed on one side by a fat, smelly bloke and the protection of the flimsy door on the other, I hung on bravely. Thirty minutes, and all will be over, I told myself missing my trusty scooter which was languishing in a garage in Digboi scheduled for some much needed repair.

Some flashy new hindi song was running on the stereo and the driver was probably driving in sync with the music, deliberately (it looked thus to me) picking up potholes and making us bounce around. It was like a mad dance inside a confined space to the tune of a fast number.

All of a sudden the vehicle stopped. "Who in hell wants to take a leak now?" I thought mentally adding up the agony of opening the door, getting out and getting jammed inside again just like cattle been herded unceremoniously inside a pen. Add to that the loss of buttock space that the body had made for itself bringing it to a certain comfort level and the renewed efforts necessary to search for that same level again. But wait! No one has made a move. What happened? I look ahead and see a big, dark form on the road ahead, completely blocking the path. The elephant was playing around with a gunny bag with some rice in it, probably part of its loot from a raid on some neighbouring house in the village. It doesn't pay any attention to us, immersed in its game of 'twirling the gunny bag with the trunk and bringing it down to the ground'. (I hope the longish name befits the stature of an elephant and provides it legitimacy). The passengers were shocked. Many started praying. The person next to me was muttering the 'Hanuman Chalisa'. The other passengers asked for the elephant God's benediction. The driver lit up some incence sticks. The whole vehicle was enveloped in something indescribable- a mixture of religious fervour and of overwhelming fear. I was afraid too, specially considering my window-seat status. I too joined in.

After what seemed an eternity but which was actually a period of time approximately fifteen minutes long, the great beast moved on and disappeared into the bushes. No one knows whether that was the result of our 'religious appeal' or simply his getting bored with 'that silly game with the long name', but our road was clear. The passengers rediscovered their voices, the driver his song and me the bumps of the road.

Hardly two hundred metres down the road, the vehicle screeched to a stop. Caught in the glare of the headlights in the darkening gloom was a deer. It seemed startled and was frozen like that for a few seconds. 'Catch it!' someone shouted. 'Deer meat is really tasty' shouted another. 'I wish we could somehow capture or kill it', yet another voice shouted. Obviously you can't catch a deer sitting inside a Sumo wedged tightly one top of another, nor can you outrun it and neither can you kill it without any means at your disposal. The deer disappeared in the dense vegetation as soon as it had appeared.

Those two small incidents, spread over a distance of two hundred metres and a time of twenty minutes, gave me a remarkable insight into the human psyche. Looking at my co-passenger whose bottom overflowed over more than half of the four seats with the others (including me) wedged into the available space, I could just think about the oft repeated phrase-"Size does matter".


(Based on a true story told by Sharma Uncle)

Greybeard

Standing in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, I was aghast.

They were there, all right. Tiny ones, barely visible but present. Try as I might and will them away, they wouldn't go. Repeatedly, I shut my eyes tightly only to find them there upon re-opening my eyes, glistening slightly as if making some lewd joke at me. The dying rays of the setting sun caught upon them and traveled to my shocked eyes providing a visual stimulus that started many a chemical reactions in my body and which probably terminated on reaching my mind producing a state of shock.

There are many things that may shock people. Bad news, extreme emotions, surprising revelations and the like. Only today did I realize that two tiny strands of glistening grey hair were also capable of providing that same response.

Its difficult to describe what I thought at that instant of time, whether I thought anything or not. On retrospection, I think it was probably the feeling that it was a reminder of sorts that time was running out that caused my startled reaction. Time to achieve something in my career, to pursue my interests, to do something worthwhile. All of it running out with me unable to do anything till now.

I am no stranger to grey hair. My hair started greying when I was in the seventh standard. Its not difficult concealing grey hair. Apply some dye or some colouring agent and voila! You are good as new, or maybe slightly different (if you use a colouring agent). But grey beard? How do you hide it?

I don't like shaving frequently and am no daily shaver by any means. And its difficult colouring your beard when you are going to shave it off in two-three days time exposing the glistening grey underneath. And I don't prefer longish sideburns too otherwise I could have got it dyed.

On the other hand, does it really matter that my beard is growing white? I am still the same person, with the same desires and wishes (the only difference being that they have been scaled down to fit my prospective budget and social standing). Decidedly older (and with grey beard to show for it:)) but in no way different or incapable. And aren't young girls supposed to be more impressed with older and mature looking guys?

Well, its for time to decide and tell (maybe I can also tell it through this blog) whether and in what way this grey beard, of which the two strands are just the sentinels, shall affect me, my thought processes and my life. Hopefully, it'll be for the better.

Amen!


(Inspired by Harishankar Parsai's 'Pehla Safed Baal')

Hot and Cold

Note: A reproduction of a Roald Dahl poem as recited to me and a friend by PP in a seedy bar in Shillong.

A woman who my mother knows
Came in and took off all her clothes.
Said I, not being very old
"By Golly gosh! You must be cold."
"No" she said, "Indeed I'm not,
I'm feeling devilishly hot!"


--Roald Dahl

MOTORCYCLE DIARIES

The journey: From Jagun to Kathalguri, a distance of 63 kms

The Vehicle: ‘The Beast’, a 150 cc black Bajaj Pulsar

The Pilot: Village Daktar Vinay de la Serna

The Co-pilot: His thoughts and his shadow.

The aim: to enlighten the populace about the goings-on within and without a great mind


I commute to work. From Jagun to Kathalguri. A distance of around 63 kms. I like the journey. Not so much for the view it affords as for the time I get for myself, alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that arise following some visual stimulus, transport me to a distant time and memory, thoughts that swirl in my mind leaving me sometimes elated and sometimes depressed. Thoughts…

The key is in the ignition. ‘The Beast’ roars to life. Gears change. I am on my way.

Not so far ahead I see the Sukapha Communion Archway. Memories evoke. Memories of someone dear. A meeting here. Never knowing what would follow. Times spent walking together along the dusty road listening to the non-stop chatter, the playful dance of the eyes, the heavy gesturing with the hands. The road is metalled now and she is far away. If only I could follow this road and not take the turn I have to take…

Schoolchildren. Walking along the road. In blue and white. That was what we wore in our time. Makes me feel old. Maybe I am old. I remember old times. Old friends and classmates. Amar, Kancha, Rajeev, Toto, Mintu, Radhe, Saten, Rakesh, Raju, Rasto, Ranjan, Brikesh, Yang, Aroona, Priyanka, Jitu…Old flames too…I wonder where they are. Both friends and flames.(I am not partial J)

A pretty girl zips past on a scooty. I get distracted. Should have spent more time in the present, I say to myself as I see her disappearing figure in my rearview mirror.

I cross some more familiar landmarks- a bank, a bazaar, a dilapidated cinema hall named after an American General after whom the road I am traveling upon is named. I overtake a few vehicles, let others pass, content at going at my own pace. I reminisce.

I reach Lekhapani. I see two somewhat new landmarks that I have already earmarked as possible questions for any quiz I get a chance to conduct. Hope it is soon.

A bump brings me back again. The stretch from Lekhapani to Ledo is under construction, full of potholes, partly gravel, partly mud. Its dusty when dry, muddy when wet. No respite either way. And if you are traveling in the wake of a truck, you don’t need a ‘buri nazar’ to have your ‘muh kaala’. It automatically is.

The stretch is somehow crossed. An inviting stretch of road lies ahead. ‘The Beast’ simply flies. An autorickshaw passes too close by. I swear. As Vinay Pathak says in ‘Dasvidaniya’ ‘Nayi nayi gadi li hai na, gaali bhi apne aap aa jayegi’.

Ledo bazaar. Seems slightly more crowded today. Maybe its bazaar day. All roads lead to the bazaar. As do the people. Thelawallahs, grocers with their wares on bicycles, autorickshaws. Even cattle seem to be headed that way. There seems to be a larger than normal crowd near the peepul tree. A continuous blowing of the horn combined with some skilful navigation gets me past and I take a breath of relief.

I reach a railway crossing. The speedbreaker slows me down. These monstrocities should be named ‘speedbumps’ instead. I remember reading somewhere that speedbreakers must be made according to certain specifications. Whatever they may be, they were certainly not consulted in making these monstrocities upon the road.

Some more familiar landmarks later, I reach Margherita. Named after an Italian princess- Princess Marguerite. Interesting how the name of an Italian princess came upon to be imparted to an Indian town in a British colony thousands of kilometers away. I wonder whether the Princess was even aware of the existence of such a place and what her reaction was to this piece of news.

I pass the market and the bus stands. I cross the Dehing river. Another railway crossing. This time I have to wait for the train to pass. A pretty face in the window. Was she looking at me? Looked like it. I was once on a bus going parallel to a train almost at the same speed and guess what? I was looking into the face of a pretty young thing and she into mine! Sadly, will it as I might, my bus had picked up speed and she was gone!

The barrier has lifted. Vehicles are surging ahead. Trying to get ahead in some rat race. A horn blares behind me. I move. A little distance ahead, I take the turn that will take me to my destination.

I move parallel to the Dehing river for sometime. There is some sort of a ‘ghat’ there. Must spend some time there on a free day.

More speedbreakers. Shyam cinema hall. A poster of a Salman Khan starrer that I missed. I actually am besotted with the lead actress’s twin assets as well as her chubby face ;). Alas! She is not even there in the poster! Sigh!

The landscape has changed. The urbane surroundings have given way to traditional tribal huts on both sides of the road. Vegetation abounds. The shadows are slightly chilly than the sunnier stretches. Winter is coming.

I take a turn and the vista suddenly changes. I am always mesmerized with the beauty of it. The road snaking its way forward, green paddy fields on both sides with a slight tinge of golden on top, the blue of the sky in the distance, interspersed with one or two shady trees is really a sight to behold. I feel like stopping and just sitting there but who can afford to do that?

I reach the memorial to a certain political leader. He was campaigning in the area for an upcoming election, I am told. Following a thunderous response to his election meeting, he was returning via this same road probably dreaming about a post in the cabinet, a ministry of his own when a hail of bullets hit his convoy. He died on the spot and someone else probably lived his dream- cabinet, ministry, flashing cars and all. All he got was some sandalwood that lit his funeral pyre. The futility of life impresses yet again upon me as I zoom past the memorial.

Lush green tea fields on both sides of the road tell me that I am nearing Pengaree. I have to take a right turn ahead and continue a further ten kilometers upon a road under construction to reach my destination.

Pengaree wasn’t the same ten years back. This whole area was a hotbed of militant activities. Following the surrender of a certain ‘battalion’ of the outfit, the activities have decreased, if not ceased altogether. Still, the road isn’t considered too ‘safe’ to travel alone. Only the last day, a car was held up and looted somewhere in the area. I drive past Pengaree. Two youths on a bike overtake me. The guy at the back looks back at me and says something to his friend. He continues looking at me off and on as I follow them. I become suspicious. Dacoits? Maybe. How does one know who is what? Or what one has in his mind? I let them put some distance between us and follow at my steady pace, a tad nervous.

I enter the forest reserve. Once I cross it, I am through. The portion of the road here is metalled too. Makes for a nice ride. Its only that this is an ‘elephant corridor’ and elephants routinely make use of their path during the winter months.

I stop. I have to take a leak. And I want more distance between myself and those two ‘nasty guys’. As the engine is turned off, there is silence all around. I can hear insects creaking, wind rustling in the trees- all those sounds associated with a jungle. It may be an auditory hallucination but I hear something that sounds to me like an elephant trumpeting. My work is done. I don’t waste any further time admiring the scenery. The Beast flies on.

I cross the two guys a little way ahead. Waiting for me? Suspicions rear head again. Still, they can’t catch me now. I am out of their reach. ‘The Beast’ is stronger, the road is good and I am almost home. Sorry, I am almost hospital.

I can see the tin roofed roadside store that is positioned just in front of my hospital. The road is a bit uneven here but it’s not far. The houses of the village loom on both sides of the road, the school is a bit further up the road and I can see patients waiting.

I turn into the hospital compound, find a shady spot for The Beast and enter the hospital.

Two hours later, I am back on The Beast. A new journey beckons. A new adventure. A new train of thoughts. A new experience.

Kathalguri, where art thou?

I have been posted at Kathalguri. As part of the National Rural Health Mission's compulsory one year rural posting, as implemented by the Government of Assam with the rider that if I fail to finish my tenure, I won't be entitled to higher education in the state. I wonder how many other disciplines have such compulsions to fullfil before pursuing higher education.

Coming back to my story, the day I got my appointment letter citing a place called Kathalguri in the district of Tinsukia in Assam, i recalled of hearing of such a place near Duliajan, a place where one of my uncles lived. In addition, I also remembered it being the home of one of my classmates. I plodded on with my sorry life awaiting the day I had to go and join the place.

One evening, a few days after the appointment letter distribution, my uncle from Duliajan called up. That day i came to know that there existed another Kathalguri somewhere in the area. It was still near Duliajan, motorable and with good facilities for communication and transportation. I called up my classmate to confirm and he assured me that there existed one such place near his home and it was a 'good' place. However, the seeds of doubt had been sown. One of my uncles (I have a lot of them) who was with me (rather I was with him- a guest at his place) heard the conversation. Being associated with the security forces, he called up some of his contacts and enquired about the place. No one could give concrete information.

The mind was uneasy. If it is anything that I hate most, it probably is uncertainty and anxiety. The battery of my cellphone dried up, as did my account balance. Numerous calls and two days later, I heard of a third Kathalguri.

The information was correct. Kathalguri, in Tinsukia district. A place 26 kilometres from Digboi, 40 from Margherita. Served by a kachcha road, in the process of being metalled.

I followed the trail. Following a journey of around one hour in a crowded Cruiser, jammed between a vegetable vendor and a lady with a crying child in her lap, bumping around with the bumps of the road and covered in a film of dust, I alighted at a desolate village far from civilization. There were electric lines, but no electricity. Mud-walled huts. No concrete buildings. I went to the State Dispensary. A dilapidated three roomed building. A lady cleaning the premises. I waited. Nearby, there was a big hall, reportedly wrangled out of an Oil giant by the student's union in a state of disuse and decay, the purpose of which was unknown. The Doctor's quarters were dilapidated. 'They are being repaired,' I was told. Repair work seemed to have started with a fresh coat of paint followed my months of masterly inactivity.

I felt hot. I looked for the fan switch. The switch, the wirings, the bulb and the fan were all gone. 'Taken by thieves long ago', I was enlightened. There was a bucket of water, for hand washing purposes, I presumed. I peered inside. The sight of a dead cockroach floating on the surface greeted me. It felt great.

The Medical officer came. We got introduced. A senior citizen whiling his time and serving the people, he used to commute from Margherita. He made me feel comfortable, signed on the papers I brought. I needed one more extra copy of my joining report. I asked the chowkidar to get me one. All the office files were searched for a blank sheet of paper. None was found. I sent him with a ten rupee note to buy some for me. He drew a blank. i gave up.

Patients came. Two or three. cough, fever and bodyache. Some villagers to meet the new doctor. Sir, it is good you are here. I smiled, mumbled some polite words. Good, for whom? Me? These villagers? In a shabby state dispensary short of staff, equipment and the basic necessary things.

It was 12 noon. The MO looked up at the patient's register, then at his watch and said to me,"Time to go. Are you coming?" I got up and followed him to his car.

I had another look around, smiled and mumbled to myself, "Welcome to Kathalguri!"

How to write a Dan Brown Novel

Ingredients:

1. Robert Langdon-1
2. Assassin -1
3. Secret group or organisation- 1 (references to others based on taste)
4. Word origins and etymologies- numerous
5. Conspiracy theories- as many as the readers can tolerate
6. Controversial suggestions guaranteed to draw attention -1

Recipe:

Take Robert Langdon as the main protagonist. Decide upon a certain controversy/conspiracy theory to form the base. Embroil Langdon in the problem somehow. Have the theory linked to a powerful and secret organization. An assassin to serve as the villain. Sprinkle liberally with monologues, word origins, etymologies and brilliant stuff. Connect all the above in a lucid narration. Your product is ready to be served.

Statutory warning: Sample at your own risk. The latest one is 699 bucks and which i found to be frankly boring.

roadside trivia

Written on a signboard on a certain highway in Assam:
ACCIDENT!
PORN AREA.
DRIVE SLOW.

...

Meri aarzoo kamini,
Mere khwab bhi kaminey,
Ek dil se dosti thi, yeh huzoor bhi kaminey,
Kya kare zindagi isko hum jo mile,
Iski jaan kha gaye, raat din ke gile…

Kabhi zindagi se maanga, pinjre mein chaand la do,
Kabhi laalten deke, kaha aasmaa pe taango
Jeene ke sab kareene the hamesha se kaminey...

Meri daastaan kamini, mere raasten kaminey,
Ek dil se dosti thi, yeh huzoor bhi kaminey…

Jiska bhi chehra cheela, andar se aur nikla,
Masoom sa kabootar naacha to more nikla,
Kabhi hum kaminey nikle, kabhi doosre kaminey...

Meri dosti kamini, mere yaar bhi kaminey,
Ek dil se dosti thi, yeh huzoor bhi kaminey…

Kaminey.

[Gulzar]

Another Story

She was about fifteen years old. Nothing special about her. Ordinary. With ordinary dreams and desires, ordinary longings and loathings, an ordinary lifestyle, an ordinary family and a desire to lead an ordinary life. 

He was about twenty-three, a bungling idiot, a narcissict, who, by some twist of fate had become a doctor. How- he himself wondered about that. So, here he was, almost four months into his compulsory rotatory internship (aptly named because it included a great deal of rotations and revolutions in the wards) going for his first day in the medicine ward. It was, incidentally, Doctor's Day.

She was there since three -four days. It all started with a low grade fever with bodyache that progressed to a high fever with vomitting and a persistent headache that felt like her head was going to blow. She was treated at the local physician's. However, she got worse. Started drifting in and out of consciousness. That was when, by consultation with the knowledgeble ones in the village, she was brought to the medical college.

He reached the ward a little late, a process which he progressively upgraded to 'a bit late', 'quite late', 'late late' and 'didn't come at all'. But that is about the future. He went and searched for the registrar and presented his joining letter which she traded with a sermon on punctuality. Sermon over, they went for rounds.

She never saw him. No one knows what was the last thing she saw. But it is certain she never saw him.

He saw her immediately on entering the cubicle. An unconscious girl, with unseeing eyes, writhing in agony, choking in her own secretions. He and one of his senior colleagues brought the suction machine and suctioned off the secretions from the throat. Her breathing eased. They gave her some injections and some fluids. They continued their rounds.

She was in her own world, moving in and out of consciousness, trying to gather her thoughts before she lost them again and again. Somewhere far, she heard her mother calling out to her. She couldn't see her. She tried to speak but words refused to form and be heard. She slipped into unconsciousness again.

He was bored. Same routine everywhere. Following a hot shot who thinks himself to be nothing short of a king discoursing on an obscure disease with an even obscure name. Same everywhere. Rounds over, they all went to the Doctor's room where a lunch was arranged on the occasion of Doctor's Day. Glutton that he was, he feasted to his heart's content.

She was practically living on the injections and fluids that were being pumped into her. She remembered food, a distant aroma wafting from somewhere. She tried to locate the source of the aroma but failed. She slipped back into the fog.

He went for evening rounds at around five. There were three other interns with him- two girls and one boy. And since it was thought unsuitable for girls to be working nights, it was upto the boys to be doing alternate nights. It fell on the other guy to do the first night's work, so he felt spared for the day. Only he hadn't taken into consideration the acting skills of his female counterparts. They were excused feigning some obscure female illness which the female registrar was prompt in acknowledging. So, he was stuck till ten, all alone pondering about all the situations he could get himself into without even trying.

She felt it. She had been feeling many things, touches and movements -whether she was supposed to feel so was another matter. But it was different. She felt a fear within. She tried to scream. She couldn't. She gasped for breath. Air refused to come inside. She slipped back.

He was called to attend to the girl. She was again choking. Another episode of suctioning. She seemed able to breathe. Her pulse. Feeble. Blood pressure. Falling. 

Oxygen. Decadron. Dopamine.

Cellphone. A call to the senior colleague. A shake of the head to the patient's family indicating a bad prognosis. The wait.

She felt a bit better. But it was getting dark. Night was creeping. She was feeling so sleepy. If only she could sleep.

He was there constantly. Checking for the slipping signs that still bound her to life. Her limbs were cold. Blood pressure not recordable. He could feel her pulse though. Or was it his own pulse? His heart beating fast at the thought of losing his first patient? 

She was feeling too sleepy now. She was yearning for it. Sleep, blissful sleep. Ony if she weren't feeling this cold. 

He saw the senior come. A few quick checks. One or two last step measures, done for the sake of routine rather than with any hope. The declaration. The paperwork. The crying relatives. The sadness in his heart, her image imprinted upon his memory.

She went away.

He looked at his watch, saw his replacement at the door. Time to go, he thought.

He went away.

DRINKS

This one is courtesy AJB- one of my dear friends and seniors.

This relates to DRINKS and the various stages associated with it:

D: Diplomatic

R: Romantic

I: Intelligent

N: Nostalgic

K: King

S: Sleep.

No explanations needed, I guess! Cheers!

A Story

Once upon a time, in a land not far away, there was a mighty king. Son of one of the greatest ascetics of his time and a mother who claimed lineage from the mighty demons, he usurped the throne from his step-brother and threw him out of the kingdom and became king himself. He was known to be a wise ruler, learned in the arts not only of war but also religion and politics.

No one knows his name.

As it happens to all, his might and power went to his head. More so after getting a boon that no God or demon could kill him.

Thus it so happened that he decided to go and confront Lord Shiva. He went to Mount Kailasa and lifted the mountain on his back. This angered Lord Shiva and he pressed down upon the mountain with his little finger pinning the mighty king between the mountain and the earth. The king roared in pain and anguish, a roar so loud it shook the very earth and the skies. He was ultimately released when he pleased Lord Shiva by repenting and by composing Shiva Tandava Stotra in his honour. But that episode gave him the name by which we know him today- Ravana- he of the dreadful roar.

Nepuism 11

Be creative. Don't use condom.

Ravana

A bleeding heart, a suppressed soul

Silent tears, gaping wounds

A mountain on my back, earth beneath

I cry out with my ten heads

Ravana I have become.

Many Roles

Shakespeare was probably right, for once.

"All the world's a stage and we are just actors" rings true in my ears. 

Aren't we all exactly that? Trying to portray a different image to others than what we actually are? I try and ask a patient to give up smoking and drinking when I myself can guzzle four large pegs without even batting an eyelid, and not even doing the customary swaying bit. I talk and speak to people as if nothing has happened when in reality, things will never be the same again. I lie to people whom I never thought was possible to lie. Hell, sometimes I get so much 'into character' that I manage to even fool myself.

I wonder where the 'Director' leads the play, where my part is truncated, or where I emerge victorious with the spoils, only to go down again... I just wonder...

"All the world's a stage and we are just actors".

Overheard in OT

Hold the tissues as if you are holding your girlfriend.

The Ordeal

The bang of a blast, the ricochet of a bullet,

A ride too fast, a disease of the heart

A blade pressing on the wrist, being mauled by a beast

Falling from a cliff, a claim of the deep

An accident on the road, being devoured by the Fire God

A noose around the neck, stoppage of the breath.

Surviving in this world is an accomplishment

Make the most of it while you can.

Death is the ultimate truth

And no one gives a damn when you are gone.

(PS: This is no poem :))

Nepuism 10

Soon is an expression of time. Time is relative. Need I say more?

coming soon

AD-MAD

Whats in a name?

Nothing. As Shakespeare Uncle will (or did) probably say. Quite a lot. As me and others may say. 

But its not to discuss this very important question that I am writing here. If my memory serves me right, nomenclature woes have been discussed in detail earlier. Its just that spending the night at the hospital Doctor's Room with nothing else to do (at the present moment), I just remembered something about some patients and people I met here. In part, this post is inspired from another post titled 'Some names'.

1. The day 'New Era' was born, an earthquake rocked her village. 

2. 'Antim' was the first patient in OPD today.

3. 'Curious' was supremely uninterested in the goings-on around him.

4. 'Healthy' suffers from recurrent abscesses in the gluteal region.

5. 'Drink' fell down and came with a bleeding wound. Appropriately, he was drunk.

6. 'Blushing' is always angry.

7. 'Beautiful' is the worst case of acne I ever saw.

8. 'Be Careful' wasn't careful enough and was hurt in an accident.

:)

Tobacco Tales

I have never liked tobacco in any form. Be it khaini, saada, beedi or cigarette. Maybe the hatred took root during my childhood. My dad used to (still does, for that matter) chew tobacco (saada). It involved careful preparation. Stripping the tobacco leaf, tearing it to small pieces, putting it in the palm of the left hand, adding lime to it and rubbing it with the thumb of the right hand. Things used to be fine till that stage. The next step involved the blowing away of the minuscule pieces, usually by clapping the hands. While it had the desired effect for the preparation being made, small particles used to float in the air taking their time to settle down. Eventually, some would find their way to my nostrils and tickle the sensitive nerve endings on the upper part of the nose resulting in some violent sneezing fits. Till this day, when I see a person preparing tobacco in this manner, I take off as fast as possible from the vicinity.

But its not my hatred of tobacco that I was going to talk about. It is something else, something all of you have probably noticed and marveled at at certain points of time.

It is my ardent belief that if all men were tobacco chewers (of the leaf variety, not the fancy preparations), a great feeling of unity and harmony could be easily achieved. Tobacco usage and sharing extends beyond race, religion, caste and tribe. Ever seen a person preparing tobacco in a crowded train compartment? He pulls out the pouch from his pocket with great difficulty, extracts the stuff and starts preparing. As soon as the stuff reaches the edible (chewable?) stage, scores of palms stretch outwards - known and unknown. He never hesitates. There is always enough and for everyone! And then a camarederie forms between those people who shared the tobacco from the same palm as that of two children who fed from the same breast (what an analogy!!!), a camarederie that is broken only by the ending of the journey. 

Incredible, isn't it? Incredible that a bunch of people who care so much for race, religion, culture and all that stuff and who share the same air, the same water, the same misfortunes, the same enjoyments of day to day life but fail to recognize others come together with that pinch of stuff called tobacco. Boundaries are broken, feuds forgotten and good will established. Would that all the people of our country were tobacco chewers, we may have had a better state of affairs than what  presently exists.

Statutory warning: Consumption of tobacco in any form is injurious to health. This post doesn't advocate tobacco chewing even if it be for the express purpose of achieving national integration.

Orkutism

I started by putting this up as Nepuism but I thought :'Why not give the due to whoever came up with it?'

This is what my today's fortune reads like in Orkut- the social networking site:

The guy who reads your fortune is on holiday. We don't know what to say… Go and visit someone's profile.

For the first time, i think they were truthful.

Virtual Rendezvous

The following text is "For Your Eyes Only'. This is Vinay writing at 'Vinay's Weblog'. 'Eureka'!!! 'Craps, Lies and Bullshit' has given way to 'Virtual Rendezvous'.

Over the last few months, this blog has been a way of speaking out for me, interacting with known and unknown friends, pulling legs and having a good time basically and getting to read some great stuff in between. 

So, when I came across a sub-section in my brother's blog titled 'Virtual Rendezvous', the name rankled in my brain. What an appropriate title! And then, keeping with the age old tradition of plagiarising stuff 'for the greater good' in this blog, I did what I had to do.  And the result is before you.

After all, whats in a name??? :)

The Adventures of S

Before we proceed, a small clarification: The S in this post doesn't bear any resemblance with the Ess in PP's blog. Any similarity, coincidence between ess and S can't exist because they are two different persons. And yes, the event(s) narrated below is/are true.

I chose the name S because of the following reasons:

1. His name starts with an S.

2. I loved  PP's story and am plagiarizing a small bit from his post (otherwise majaa nahi aata yaar!)

3. He is a year junior to me and a pain in the S. ;)

Well, the story starts one fine January day as I was walking back to my hostel room after another day of fooling around in the OPD trying to do as less work as possible and shifting the greater bulk to other's broad shoulders and skilled hands. I was dead tired (shirking work is really tiresome, if you don't believe me try it yourself) and my lumbering steps brought me towards the hospital exit. Thats where I saw S- all decked up in a glowing white apron and a black mustache, all set to take upon the hordes of patients that descend upon NEIGRIHMS every day. I waved a hand to him and his friend (that was A- his adventures may follow- specially his rendition of the song- 'Humko sirf tumse pyaar hai'- but thats for another time). Well, I turned to say a few words to a colleague who was passing by when I heard a big bang (that sets me thinking how big the 'Big Bang' really was if this was so big) and turned to see S stuck to the closed glass door of the exit (there are two of them), his nose pressed to one side and he about to fall down. Thankfully, he recovered enough to stand till we reached him and made him sit down and examine his wound and give him some water. I examined the glass later and found a spot there where his forehead had struck. That spot is still there and I can show you if you ever come visiting.

The story doesn't end here.

Another day. The very next day, to be exact.

I returned from the hospital (a bit earlier than the scheduled time) following my usual act, to find the usual gang sitting near the hostel entrance. They were laughing and joking. S was there too. On getting close, I noticed a plaster stuck upon his forehead on exactly the same spot where he got hit the other day. Taking an affront to my surgical capabilities (as I had pronounced him OK after the incident) I asked him whether I missed something and the bleeding occurred. He didn't answer, just gave a sheepish grin. It was Black (yes, the same old Black) who answered: 'Abbey! He again went and hit another glass door'. I laughed my way to my room. Even Duryodhan did that mistake only once!

That still doesn't end the story. There is more.

Taking cognition of the above mentioned damage to property being done by the dangerous Dr S, the hospital authorities decided, in a momentous meeting, to remove all glass doors, wherever possible and to replace the glass doors with BLACK wooden doors wherever they were needed.

That was the impact that S made in his first two days at the hospital. 

Stay tuned. Whenever he has another adventure, which may be quite soon, considering his expertise in this matter, I'll bring it to you.

The Right Balance

Every morning in Shillong, as I wake up and make my drowsy way towards the bathroom, a new adventure awaits me.

I was never a person who used to take bath in the mornings. That sort of was a taboo with me, more so in the winter months. To expose oneself to the biting chill and brave the cold wasn't my idea of a perfect start to the day. So, I generally put off my showers till the latter part of the day or early evenings. Now, with the provision of hot and cold water at one's disposal, taking a shower is no big deal, whatever time of the day or night it may be. So, considering my working hours, I made a habit of taking a shower in the morning hours.

My adventure starts with the turning of two knobs. Water rushes out of the shower and am left waiting with an outstretched arm gauzing the temperature of the falling water, waiting for it to reach the perfect temperature. By the time, the arm decides that the water is warm enough, the leg decides that it is too hot to tolerate. More turning of the knobs occur. The other arm stretches out, getting drenched and getting acclimatised to the chilling water turning hot. When it decides things to be in order, the face complains it is getting scorched. More knob twisting. The trunk now finds the water cold and protests with much gusto. Another twist here and another there and the trunk ceases its protest march. The hair protests in a unique way by coming out in clumps leaving me poorer by a dozen. By the time, I finish the shower, the unique and pleasing temperature is reached but not a single part was to avail its use as they were already done!

Life is like that only. Full of twisting and turning of knobs. And full of people who don't like the water at the temperature at which they get it. Full of complaints. Full of advice and suggestions. It is upto us to do the twisting and turning so that everyone is satisfied (hopefully!)

So, the next time I go to the bathroom, I see another new adventure looming large and I square myself and face it head on! Hope everyone does so.

Quizzically Speaking

Quiz buffs like me dont generally consider shows like 'Who wants to be a millionaire' and KBC as proper quizzes, but something is definitely better than nothing. What with a brilliant movie called Slumdog Millionaire being made based upon Q and A (literally!) and the questions being the part that pushed the story forward, and the movie ending up with awards galore, I am feeling quite generous today. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I present before you instances of quizzing in movies (mostly Hindi). Please do add to the list if such instances are in your minds.

1. Most quizzes are one to one. Here are some classic instances:

a) Q: Mere paas gaadi hai, bangla hai.... blah blah blah. Tumhare paas kya hai?

     A: Mere paas maaa hai.

b) Q: Fir kab miloge?

     A: Jab tum kahoge

     Q: Kaha?

     A: Wahi, jaha koi aata jaata nahi

     Q: Aadhi raat ko?

     A: Aadhi raat ko.    

  (all of it in a song)

c) Q: Pyaar hua iqraar hua, pyaar se fir kyun darta hai dil?

     A: Kehta hai dil, rasta mushkil, maloom nahi kaha manjil!

2. Some quizzes are in monologues. The same person asks the questions and then answers it himself. Sample this:

Q: Kyun chalti hai pawan? Kyun jhoome hai gagan?....????

A: Na tum jaano na hum

3. Some questions are really unanswerable. Mostly asked by the bad-at heart mothers-in-laws, buajis and all:

a) Q: Kiske saath muh kaala kar ke aayi hai?

    A: Main, woh, sob sob...

b) Q: Mere bete ko to kha gayi, ab aur kya satyanaash karegi?

    A: Gehri khamoshi and anguish in the eyes. Ah!

4. Supernatural quizzes. With God. 

Q: Bhagwaan, mere saath aisa kyun? Kyun? Kyun?

A: Bells ring, wind blows and miracles happen.

5. How can one forget the punchline- rather punch question that our brethren - the men in white-the doctors make?

Q: Hum ya to maa ko bacha sakenge ya bachche ko. Aap kise jinda rakhna chahte hain?

A: Most often it is the bachcha.

6. Even our Mr Perfectionist Aamir Khan once featured in a certain quiz show in a certain movie. I forgot the name (probably Afsana pyaar ka). He was representing his college at Delhi. We don't know whether he won or lost but he sure got some quality time to spend with the girl, saving her from the baddies and getting hitched. That keeps us quizzards' hopes alive. :)  

The question:

Q: Duniya ka sabse bada aashiq kaun hai?

a) Majnoo

b) Romeo

c) Raanjha

A: Main!!! 

Thanx Bollywood for keeping the tradition alive!!!

This one is courtesy PP. And the most famous one at that. Wonder how I missed it?

Q: Kitne aadmi the?

A: S...s...sardar do.

In God We Trust

Well, I don't. Being the opportunist that I am. I tend to use that supreme entity for my interests and inclinations. Passing an examination, getting out of tight situations and all such occasions invoked mighty prayers from the heart and the soul. At others, it was the same old nonchalance.

It was yesterday. A tired, lonely and overworked junior resident of the Department of Surgery was sleepily explaining to some relatives of a patient about the need for an operation and the formalities required. Suddenly, the daughter of the patient said: 'We trust you. We have given our father into your hands. In God we trust. For us, after Him, you are next'.

That was embarassing. I mumbled some nonsense about God and Doctors but that was inconsequential. Throughout the surgery, I was feeling sort of responsible for the old man and to his family. The surgery was uneventful (if you consider my sore neck and back as uneventful while assisting a surgeon two feet shorter than me!).

That incident proved something to me. That a feeling of trust and confidence, even if outwardly conveyed, binds you to what you are doing or trying. Maybe it also affects the outcome, but that is a different matter. Plus, it inculcates an added belief and purpose in you that you would not have thought existed.

I still am an opportunist. But I learnt something that day. I hope I'll remember it for the rest of my days and may everyone else be benefited by it...

Amen!

The Keyboard is mightier than the Sword

I was sick of psycho. And his bragging. He is a tad better looking than me. I admit that. And a bit more extrovert. And quite old too. But that didn't and doesn't give him a right to abuse me every single time he gets a chance (and that is quite often, i assure you :) ).

So, I was pleasantly (and unpleasantly too, to some extent) surprised when a single comment that originated from my rusty old keyboard resulted in the deletion of an entire post on his blog. I can understand the desire to be perfect in all respects and be admired and respected but there is much greater joy and pleasure in being imperfect and being loved and respected (and to admit one's mistakes too!). Thats why some guys tell me that they love me better than him! (They are scared of his brawny self and told me that in strictest confidence while he was in the loo, but I got good ears and wasn't drunk at that time). 

I rest my case!!!

No hard feelings mate!!! Nokia 1100 was and is Made for India! :)

Vinay Daktar???

 I recently watched a movie titled 'Billu Barber'. Or was it 'Billu'? Because I don't remember the words 'barber' in the title. Or its use in the whole movie a single time. And that was not due to the fact that a beautiful creature was sitting next to me ;).

Well, its becoming a trend nowadays. Words denoting professions are termed derogatory. Barbers don't want others to call them so (Hairstylists is the preferred word) and so do cobblers. Thats why the words 'hajaam', 'barber' and 'mochi' were muted out in the movies 'Billu' and 'Aaja Nach Le' respectively. I feel pity for the producers and the scriptwriters. If it is not allowed for a person to be related to his profession, what is the alternative? I personally asked a cobbler who visited our hostel once whether he considered the term 'mochi' derogatory or whether there was a better term for it. He replied ' Saab, agar mochi ko mochi nahi pukaroge toh kya pukaroge?' I was satisfied (with my shining shoes) and he too (with the money he made)! Then, who wasn't? The politicians, the leaders and the so called public spokespersons.

Well, I am scared now. I was planning a movie based on my life. Based on my story. With action, drama, emotion and everything the audience would wish for. Tentatively titled 'Vinay Daktar'. Now I am worried. What if the movie doesn't see through? What if someone objects to the use of the term 'daktar'? What if it is thought derogatory? What if they prefer the term 'lifesavers' better? Or maybe 'associated businessmen'? Seems a risky proposition. Any tentative producers out there????.........

A Bagful of Ideas!!!

With nothing much to do and free time at my disposal I went for a walk around the NEIGRIHMS campus (thats where I work, for those who don't know). A strong wind was about making it pleasant what with my layers of clothing and all. My carefully combed hair, in the hope of making me look slightly more handsome (I can visualize a certain 'Black' smirk and reaching for the comments link) was askew before I could sing the first lines of 'Jai Ho!'. I tried smoothing it a few times but soon realised the futility of my actions. So, I let it be thinking that whatever the wind did to my hair actually made me look better! And just when I thought the present look was good enough, the wind decided otherwise.

It has been the same with my mental state. My mind is full of a whirlwind of ideas that come and go, touch the subconscious and disappear, never to return. One or two, I have noted in my cellphone but the majority are lost. As one idea for a blog post materializes, it is quickly replaced by another- better or worse, I don't know. Thats the reason for my not posting- not a dearth of ideas rather an excess of them. 

Still, I'll try and hope to bore you to death. But some people die hard, don't they??? ;)

The Gentleman Within

Don't know why I am writing this post. Self publicity and self praise is always bad. I know that. Still, I am committing this mistake.

If I am not mistaken, I have been a gentleman all my life. Not impeccably dressed, mind you, but I never did find fault with the way I behaved, if I may say so myself. I was courteous to elders, relatives and acquaintances, tried to impart good advice to my juniors (both within and outside the family), and respected those who had to be respected. I had and have my own views and I do stick by them and I have no regrets too.

So, where did it all go wrong? Why? How? Just one day back, I had two of my brothers (non-familial, but emotionally the same, i assure you) saying thanks to me for being there, for guiding them, for winning 30 grand in a quiz show and trying to cheer me up by saying how much they loved me (better than a certain black person, who was luckily in the loo at the time :)). At that same instant, I had also the image of a little one cuddled snugly in my arms, smiling beautifully at the camera as if that moment was poised for etenity. Of course, it wasn't. For the same person was destroying my life with as much gusto as was possible...

Where did it all go wrong??? I had a talk with the elders of the family. Of course, being the well-bred and well-mannered kid that I am, I couldn't talk back. But that couln't hold back the tears at the end of the conversation. The anguish that was felt and the heartbreak that occurred.

Being a gentleman hurts, I assure you. You don't get to use all those choicest abuses that leap to your tongue everytime someone abuses you or your loved one. You can't beat up all those show-offs bothering everyone else on the street. You can't get drunk and go home (in case you got a home to go back to!!!). You can't do anything else the world does... Nothing, absolutely nothing...

And you smart and think, curse yourself and cry for being what the world thinks you are but which you can never be with all the hurt and the anguish within- a true gentleman.

Some lines

Just browsing through orkut and the thoughts collected in this pensieve of mine, i came across certain questions:

1. Why  'men are from mars and women from venus' when both are born, live and die on earth? 

2. Why are women referred to as the fairer sex? Does it mean that if a white male marries a black female, she will be referred to as belonging to the darker sex? Conversely, are males referred to as the darker sex?

3. Why do marriage counsellors use either vague or very sophisticated terms while discoursing on the subject? Do they think the females to be dumb and the males dumber still due to the female effect?

4. Why do ads show hundreds of beautiful, sexy and scantily clad women almost molesting a male who is using an AXE deo? Is it the axe effect? 

5. Why do the male and female protagonists almost always fall in love by the end of a Bollywood flick?

The list goes on and on... But a member of the fairer sex from Venus seems to be calling me. So...

(Inspired in part by the song 'socha hai' and the post 'socha hai'. The words however, are original) :)

SMS files

People can be really dumb sometimes.

I received the following message one day : "Hum tum ek kamre me band ho aur chabi kho jaaye, to tum kya karoge"?

I obviously replied: " Chabi dhoondoonga". :)

Taare Aasmaan Pe

My life is like that of Ishaan Awasthi. I have problems understanding things in life, have problems facing life itself and have problems in dealing with life. I have been taught that three times nine is twenty-seven but in real life three times nine is actually three! Yeah. And if you don't believe it, you are either naive or belong to the category that makes three times nine three.

I am dyslexic. Not to actual alphabets but to the alphabets that comprise the language called life. And sadly, there is no cure, no sympathy for this disease. And no Amir Khan posing as Ram Shankar Nikumbh either (quite an atypical name, don't you think? And we get plastered on even with fancy names. Life!!!)

For me, the stars are unreachable. Let alone being on the ground. Even looking at them hurts the eyes. But the real hurt is to the soul. Bruised, battered and defeated.

And anyway, don't the stars look good where they are? Unreachable, cool and inviting? It takes fire within to be a star. Sadly, the fire seems missing...

Mithu's Story

Mithu isn't the protagonist here. Nor is he a parrot. 

As you all know, almost all the material that appears here is the output of other minds and the only mind that I apply is to put it here. So, continuing with the trend, I present before you (as the second narrator, the first being my friend Mithu) Mithu's story.

Everyone gets bored with the same mundane existence. Daily routine, daily chores, same surroundings, same workplace. You, me, everyone. Even Gods.It so happened that after crores and crores of years of regulating the Earth, its inhabitants and its problems and being bored with heaven and the nymphs, the adventurous lot of the Gods decided on a picnic. They decided to come down to Earth and picnic and have a nice time. So,they came down and had a nice time feasting on the rare delicacies made by the chefs of heaven. When they had their fill of feasting and revelry, they decided to return. All the food they had brought was finished, only one item remained. And since the Gods were too full, they decided to leave it behind.

Time passed. One day some men came upon that heavenly product by accident. They tasted it and were hooked. The Gods soon realized their mistake. The addiction had traveled faster than the transmission of HIV-AIDS. They had a tough time controlling the whole populace from being addicted. So, they came upon a plan. They created a class of people dedicated to consume the product who would try and consume it all before the self-replicating product could reach alarming proportions. Thus were born the class of people we know as Alcoholics.

So, the next time you come upon an alcoholic, spare a kind word, smile or gesture for that keeper of society, who drinks all its poison to keep it safe and acknowledge the great service that he is providing to humanity.

Cheers!!!

Nepuisms-9

If you know a person for a long time, you end up hating him.

Why do people fall in love?

Socha hai??? :)

Here are the real reasons:

1. An overdose of Bollywood

2. Sympathy for the telecom providers. You go looking for the cheapest plan and still end up paying three times what your original bill came.

3. They are too sad and don't want to remain so.

4. They are too happy and don't want to remain so (yeah!!!) :)

5. They get another avenue for spending. Flowers, chocolates, gifts and what not??? (As an aside, i sometimes wonder at the ability of skinny girls to hog bars and bars of chocolates while they are anorexic to our staple foods!!!)

6. Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge was released with the tagline 'Come fall in love'.

7. Last, but not the least and certainly the best. They can't rise in love. :) So, no option.

Nepuism-8

Even craps, lies and bullshit need a gprs connection!!!