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.

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.

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.

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.

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 :))

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.

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!

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????.........

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!!!

The Mouse in the Mall

Not having much to do, i have been whiling away my time drinking gallons of coffee at a certain mall (sometimes with a lovely creature by my side). Not being of a talkative bent of mind (tongue?) my gaze always finds a small mouse in the adjoining store nibbling at the eatables in the racks. I feel a strange sense of solidarity with it. After all, aren't we all doing the same- wandering about trying to nibble at things that come within our reach?

Pathologically Speaking

What would you call a man who has five brothers and five sisters???

Ans: FI-BRO-SIS :) 

(An sms I received from a colleague, just thought it cheaper to post here than send it to all :))

Ek Choti Si Love Story

INDIA  LIMA OSCAR VICTOR ECHO  YANKEE OSCAR UNIFORM.

That is 'I Love You' in the phonetic alphabet designed for NATO in the 1950s and this phonetic alphabet is used by almost all armed services.

Well, I sent it once to a girl (more about the girl sometime later). She didn't understand it. Her father did. He was an ex-air force officer. :(

End of story.

What the fuck?

Where are the ***s? Well, what the fuck use are ***s in a post that is itself written about one of the most spoken profanities in the English language? So, breaking from my usual norm and my status as a gentleman blogger (?), I bring you a post on 'Fuck'.

The idea struck me one Sunday(why it didn't strike me on other days is a matter of great speculation :)). Lost and lonely (and angry too. At what, I don't know now) in my own world, I changed my orkut status to 'wtf?'. Within the next hour or so people started asking me 'why the swear words?', 'what's wrong with you?', 'that's so unlike you' and so on. That got me thinking. Why is a word denoting the union of two sexes for the procurement of a new generation (not forgetting for pleasure too ;))demoted to the lower rungs of the English language? Isn't the person writing this and the one reading this a result of this self same verb (that was in the present tense a long time ago)? So, why this apartheid?

Thus armed with my ideas and ideals, I proceeded to Wikipedia for a further research on this topic. While the aforementioned questions were not answered, I came across certain interesting facts, which I'll proceed to present before you.

But before I do so, a disclaimer (or a claimer, whatever!): The material presented below is filched (plagiarised- you thought I would work so hard for a single post? You must have been kidding!)from Wikipedia. You may visit the page for a thorough reading. Also, I refuse to take responsibility for any inaccuracy in the facts provided.

Etymology:

1. Germanic origin? German 'ficken'(to fuck); Dutch 'fokken'(to strike,beget); Norwegian 'fukka'(to copulate); Swedish 'fokka'(to fuck)

2. Latin 'futuere' (to fuck). From it came the French 'foutre', Catalan 'fotre', Italian 'fottere', Romanian 'futere' and Portuguese 'foder' - all meaning 'to fuck'

3. Some suggested acronyms (believed to be false but nonetheless interesting)

They are:

*For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

*Fornication Under Carnal/Cardinal Knowledge

*Fornication Under Consent of King

*For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

*Forced Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

Interesting facts:

1. James Joyce, in his novel "Ulysses" used a sly spelling pun for the word fuck:

"If you see Kay

Tell him he may.

See you in tea,

Tell him from me"

2. The fcuk tagline is a play on the word fuck by clothing retailer 'French Connection'

3. The pronunciation of the word literally means 'jaw' in Arabic!

4. Translated into different languages:

Arabic- Yoaasher

Catalan- Fotre

Dutch- Fokken

German- Ficken

Japanese- Fakku

Korean- Ssibal

Norwegian- Fokk

Swedish- Fakk

So, thats it! I didn't get any answers but got some interesting information which I shared with you. As I look back, it seems to have become quite a long post. And one with a lot of 'fucks' in it. What the fuck???!!! :)