2 hr 11 min 35 sec

I have completed the first half-marathon of my life. Through the blisters on my feet and the extreme pain in the knees while climbing down stairs and the walk of a geriatric; the unchanging, invariate and triumphant news is that I prevailed and completed the Seattle half-marathon in the aforementioned time.

Some highlights of the race:
1. Made infinitely worse the by the one thing you definitely don't want to see the morning of a marathon, especially when it happens once a year in Seattle: snow!!
2. Made fractionally easier and more irritating by the rain that the snow trascended into and which remained from the start of the race to the end. Made tougher by the fact that there are uphills and more uphills in the course making it tough tough tough. A stretch of flat land was like an oasis in a desert.
3. Made interesting by the 7000 people who ran and warmed up the place by their competitiveness and enthusiasm. At no stage of the race was I running alone. There was a crowd to wade through and I was grateful for that.
4. Made uplifiting by people who came out on the streets to cheer the runners through the cold. The best exhorting statement came from the lady who said:"This run is your bitch" :-)
5. Made possible by the mad rush I had in the last three miles, which were run on pure adrenalin and reserves of energy I did not know existed. In the last mile, I gave it everything I had and overtook 30-40 people. Discovered that pain has its own beauty and is as pure as love can be. Through the excruciating pain came the urge to overcome it and get to the finish line as soon as I could.
6. Made quirkier by thoughts like: this is easy; there are only 5 miles to go; what about a full marathon?
7. Made beautiful by running by the waterfront and through different vistas from which the beauty of Seattle was revealed. Passed by the house of Cobain and wondered why he would need to kill himself when he could be running up and down the stretch all the time.
8. Made raising my arms at the finishing line a very deserving and satisfying action. Then the arms fell down to the ground and so did I.

There I have it: my first prize in athletics in my life, a medal for completing the race, the tag of being a half-marathoner.

Rounding Up The Usual Suspects

I was late on posting my review of Casino Royale. There was so much to say about the Bond movie and my experiences as a Bond fan while growing up, but I just lost the enthusiasm to go ahead with that after reading a few other blog posts on the same. Clearly, being first to market has its advantage. Nonetheless, here are some things that come to my mind right now which I haven't read about recently in other blogs, so here goes:

1. Dhoom again?
I saw the D2 movie first day first show today (ya, baby - Thursday 3 pm show). I actually thought it was decent. Hrithik stole the thunder, and made Abhishek look inept in the looks, dance and fights department. The women in the movie were a study in contrast too, with Aishwarya 'like' (you'll get this joke when you see the move) getting to the nerves. At least, Bipasha mainly concentrated on looking good, and did well at that. The story had not much to offer and one could see traces of Ocean's twelve and Bourne identity. The music was a step down from the original Dhoom. I actually thought that the background music too could have been used better. The action was neat in parts, and Hrithik's get ups were pretty cool. Aah, and one more point: the last bastion of Indian conversatism in movies fell. Aishwarya kissed!! After going on in interviews and articles about how Indians don't kiss and she won't kiss, she went ahead anyway (for those willing to debate, the kiss in kyon ho gaya na was a camera trick). Is this the setup for the Hollywood career? In any case, she couldn't pull off all the skimpy clothes in her quota. Desi clothes for her please.

2. Guru no more?
Dil Se was the seminal work of Rehman. I didn't think highly of the music of Roja (again, debaters welcome) and the music of Bombay was also not the making of Rehman (kuchi kuchi rakkama brought it down). Dil Se was pathbreaking, in the sounds and the compositions and the moods. And a big big factor were the lyrics, by Gulzar. After Saathiya being another fine hit, I was waiting to see how they'd team up here. Results are mixed and I am suffering for my own high expectations. The one song that stays in the head though is Ai Hairat-e-aashiqui. The album, as one reviewer mentioned, is typical Rehman. Jaage Hain reminds me of the same music arrangement as So gaye hain from Zubeida. There are numerous such similarities that can be pointed out. Yet, good music overall. Just not what I was looking for. On a side note, what is Gulzar upto? I still can't get over his trite lyrics: "mom maani nahin, dad naraaz tha" from Jaan-e-man. I was dying to get hold of the new Jaggu-Gulzar album online and when I did, I really wasn't impacted as much. Is it just too much to ask for repeat successes?

3. Prote-ass?
We got a drubbing in the first ODI. All out for 91. It really shouldn't have come as a surprise. The problem isn't that we are a good team. I think we are off on our selection lately. It happened in champions trophy and it has happened again. No surprise that barring Tendulkar and to an extent Dravid, no one really settled in. Tendulkar has now been warned. At the fag end of their careers, the Lara vs. Tendulkar battle is in full flow. Lara has thrown the gauntlet, and Tendulkar has to respond. Ponting will in due time overtake them both. It does look very possible the way he is batting right now. But Ponting is just a great batsman, not a genius. Plus, he doesn't have to face the Australian attack :-) I am looking forward to some significant contributions from Tendulkar for the rest of this trip, and of course the world cup.

4. No inheritance lost?
I got a chance to read the Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai. I booked it in the library the day the news of her Booker victory came out, and so didn't have to wait too long to get it. I liked the book. At least more than I did reading Arundhati Roy's work. I like her sense of prose, and the insights that pop out of her writing on an average once every chapter. On the flipside, can't Indian authors provide anything other than immigrant stories? How about a story set in Texas with cowboys and no trace of Asians?

5. Maha-thorn?
Some of you may have read a blog post long ago about running a 5 mile race. I had hinted at the possibility of madness taking over and considering running a half-marathon. 13.1 miles of it. Well, I am happy to tell you that I have gone insane, at least in that matter. I am gunning for this run this weekend. Been training for it for a month or more, and while not complete in my preparations, am willing to bet limb and well, more limbs for it. Look at the bright side. They give you a medal for just finishing the race :-) Look at the flip side. That's the distance from Andheri to Churchgate if I were to run on the railway tracks. Wish me luck.

The Protagonist

The city is me, he thought, and nodded as if affirming that thought. Vibrant yet composed, changing yet constant, and occasionally man enough to live upto the accusations that fly its way. There’s also something about that glass of smoothie he just drank. Something about looking askance and slurping the last two sips, even though there would be a noise that could not be kept down. There’s something about the smile at that little triumph, an act so public, a thought so private. As the face contorts with wrinkles, the smile still remains. The same smile, he reminisced, that came to him when finishing up the cream on the biscuit and throwing the rest away. And never getting caught. Triumph. He jogged through the rain with that little smile of his. Next to him on the bus, someone was carrying ‘The brief history of time’. What about the protracted histories of mankind, he thought? The million universes that exist simultaneously within each second? Like a star born, to die. What about them? What about the little triumphs, and the smiles and the strange sensations that would fill up those universes? What about the music we create and the songs we write, all contributing to the symphony that would never be heard? Every man is a universe by himself. Every man's life is a full length stage production, with all the drama and the music and the tragedy that Shakespeare could never imagine. This is a blockbuster that unfurls every second. And you are a part of it. You are a part of my drama, pretending not to follow the plot at times. But there you are, reading a book next to me, staring out the window, cajoling your kid, eyeing the pretty girl next to you. Your life is a subplot of mine. Look, we even have theories like six degrees of separation to give you hints that in fact, we are connected. So, thank you for playing your part, even though I can’t tell you in as many words and you will never understand if I did. The smile plastered to his face, the superstar got up and exited the bus to a downpour. Life is one long ‘take’, he thought, till the director gives the command to ‘cut’ the scene. In that moment that he saw the whole universe revolve around him, he spread his arms and let the drops envelope him, sheathing him in reflections and refractions. A spotlight, if there was one. Then, with a mix of humility and pride, he bowed.

Air-born?

The voices sound altered
Like in the commercials
A bit too happy, a bit too loud
Resonating to a constant hum

A child wails in his mother’s arm
Solitaire being played on a work laptop
Plastic smiles on the face of the hostess
A Sudoku puzzle someone abandoned midway

The microcosm travels with its inmates
On two wings and jet fuel
Six hundred and thirty eight
Frequent flier miles away

Same-pose-ium?

So, its not utterly accurate. But I saw the Umrao Jaan photo (latter) and somehow it reminded me of the Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam poster (former). Photos courtesy the two sites who have their names spread all over them. Thought I should blog the useless noting of coincidence. More useful would be a blog that has all my favorite Aishwarya Rai posters. At least she can't giggle incessantly in photographs :-)

The music for the movie is out and the movie is a week away from release. I like the music. Its not bad, but Anu Malik has let himself down. Most compositions are inspired by songs I have heard before and Alka is not Asha. Anu Malik had a great chance to outdo his work in Refugee, but he has missed the bus. Yet, it remains one of the better music scores of a year filled with dissapointing music overall.

The Truth Is Out There

Shipped it! Internet Explorer 7 is out the door, and I am mighty thrilled. Worked on the product since its inception to delivery and its been a fun and challenging ride. If you are a Microsoft-basher, or inclined to go for other products simply because they are non-Microsoft, this blog ain't the place today. Today's the day to bask and relax for me.

You can download it from http://www.microsoft.com/windows/ie/default.mspx The site does a good job of explaining the new goodness we have brought to the browser, but I'd be happy to answer any questions you may have.

Maybe you can install IE 7 and use it to subscribe to the RSS feed of this blog. :-) Note that I don't generally talk about my work, and this is an exception. I considered it reason enough. The next such post that comes out will happen when Vista ships. I felt it necessary to post this because it is easy to lose sight of the impact that your work can have. Without a browser, you'd be surfing your hard drive :-) In case of the product I work on, that'd be most people on the planet who surf the internet.

Go IE!

Ekta Kapoor For President

I have been on the wagon as far as Indian channels is concerned for the past few months. My parents came to visit me and gave the perfect excuse to get Zee TV and Sony TV back on my viewing radar (no Star TV here). From the brilliant news that Zee TV produces (every news item starts and ends with, ‘wahaan ka mahaul kaisa hai?’) to the ads of Ajmeri Baba and Peer Syed Sahib that promise to end my life’s problems in 72 hours, or my money back, these channels bring a different world to my living room. Don’t get me wrong. I am more desi than pardesi. I read at least four Indian newspapers every day, I watch practically all the movies that are released, I hear more music than most people would spend time on, but television has always been out of scope. Every visit to India though is punctuated with a day or two spent in watching everything that my Mom watches (I have seen Indian men scurry out of the room when Kyonki … starts). I believe Ekta Kapoor must be one of the most influential people of our generation. Flash-forwards, flash-backwards, her serials are larger than movies. Almost like an entire nation is hypnotized.

The serials are absolutely brilliant and very enjoyable if you watch it with the right frame of mind. Sample this. In ‘Kasamh Se’ (no, I didn’t misspell it), the heroine Baani (Ekta Kapoor’s favorite 18 year old Prachi Desai) has just seen her husband, whom she calls Mr. Walia for the entire length of the serial that I have followed, possibly shoot someone. The person with the revolver in his hand has his back to her and when he turns around and turns out to be Mr. Walia, the camera comes crashing down. Not only crashing down, it does about 15 different movements, ranging from left-right, right-left to south-west->south-east. Every jerk is emphasized by an absolutely blank look from Baani (no, she isn’t acting, that is exactly how she looks in every scene) and a whooshy music score. After about a minute of all the camera movements, the dialog starts. There’s disbelief, sindoor and bewafaai thrown in the picture. Mr. Walia tries hard to convince her he is innocent, but she refuses to believe him. And then, the twist. Mr. Walia tells his wife, ”Hilna Mat”. Turns out she has strategically placed herself over a time bomb. If she moves, the bomb explodes now, else it will explode in six minutes anyway. The bland faced heroine balks, then quizzes her husband about a secret, something that happened six years ago, that he never confessed. She says that while she is on her way up, at least she should go with that knowledge. Noble. Nobler Mr. Walia instead pushes her off in one swift motion steps on the plate-bomb, thus maintaining the pre-condition that the bad lighting on the set has to be focused on someone, also ensuring that the bomb does not explode. At least not for the next four minutes. I am on the edge of my sofa now. What next? Mr. Walia, who thinks that acting means blinking in slow motion, then starts a monologue. “I want to tell you what happened six years ago. I want to get it off my chest while I have …. (then stares down) three minutes left”. By now, I am ready to throw the pillow on the TV. What happened next made me throw myself at the TV. A song started. A full fledged song. From Kalyug “Jiya dhadak dhadak jaye”. For God’s sake Mr. Walia, you have only .. (I looked at MY watch) three minutes left before today’s episode ends. But the song continues. The wind keeps blowing, the camera moves in slow motion focusing on the two actors. Sanguine, relaxed, they have obviously forgotten that they have limited time, a six-year old secret to share and a bomb to diffuse. And then, the song ends. Mr. Walia looks like he is going to talk. My salvation is near. He will tell his secret and my life can go on. And he starts:”Bani”. And the credits roll. Someone died that evening. It was probably me.

Postscript: I never found out the secret or how Mr. Walia escaped the bomb. I led my hollow existence, away from the vagaries and struggles of their lives. But I have caught up a few episodes later. I would like to reassure everyone that they are safe and sound, and apparently divorcing each other. Kasamh Se, no life without desi TV. I can barely thank Ekta Kapoor for the great television she brings into our lives. Come to think of it, I don’t even see her flagship serials on Star TV. Ekta ji, well done. Just make sure Mr. Walia spills the beans sometime. Even if the serial jumps thirty years.

Rain In Spain

Who said Zeus is dead?
Watch him, wave his hand
Over the planet and command
Sun, clouds, showers, snow

And speak with foreboding
The west shall drench, the east shall freeze
And the south, I bless you with sunshine

Who said Zeus is dead?
He who knows the weather a week in advance
And prophesizes in front of a green screen
Adjusting his tie and beaming his smile

A New Normal

I exit out the door
and look up, you know, like Sachin
when he enters the ground
at the heavens, examining, absorbing
sunlight, or the beaming halogens

Anyway, I look up and find
very few beams of sunshine
Gray, dark, low-hanging clouds
splatter my spectacles with shards of water

I quicken my step
to my destination, across the campus
constructing my frown
and folding my hands

Ten steps into the walk,
the frown dissolves into a smile
as hints of my favorite season
show up all around me
from a distant land

Another ten steps and a new instinct:
I tug at my jacket
and almost pull the zip up
but resist (freeze unless you absolutely can't take it)

The weather though has made its point
Winter is upon us.
Let the sunshine within prevail.

Bombay Dreams

I finally saw the Broadway musical on a non-broadway street in Seattle (the company is touring the city for 20 odd days). I found the show fairly enjoyable, once you are prepared to overlook the terrible clichés. What's the deal with untouchables in slums and kissing in Hindi movies and the other pre-historic notions that are sprayed across the production with gay abandon? Aah, but we are catering to a Western audience. Silly of me. A little criticism of India and Mumbai and the workings of the Indian film industry is ok, but the insinuations are pointless at times. The best part and the saving grace was the music. It was fun to hear all the known compositions being done in a live format. The percussionists especially were excellent. Overall, worth a watch for the fancy and the energy and the music and choreography, but I hope they follow it up with a more realistic depiction of India.

P.S> Been trying to upload a poster of Bombay Dreams, but it keeps bailing on me. Shall try again later. Till then, here's the link

Homo Erectus

Those tender limbs: All grace, no stability
Seven hundred and thirty days into his life
Crawling on all fours was his only independence

Held each step by his parents
The center of all attraction
Needing a good center of gravity

And then it happened one day
He got up and didn’t fall down

Standing on his own feet
For a period greater than two seconds,
He announced

His foray into human society
His first nod towards success
His first step towards failure
Himself

Slower than his steps
Slower than his bemusement
Came shock, to his parents
Then realization

Overwhelmed, excited, perplexed
They watched the kid with his outstretched arms
Waiting to be lifted, to be celebrated

They scuttled, as if escaping bombs
One for the camera, one for the video recorder
Leaving behind

A pair of outstretched arms
And a little boy collapsing on the ground
Down on all fours

P.S> I saw this happen in real life. The only twist here is my interpretation. Just read it, don’t read too much into it.

Legocy

I'd reckon most kids in middle class background who have had a relative/neighbour/acquaintance visit 'phoren' sometime around the time I was a kid has a 20% chance of having played with Lego sets. I remember my first (and only) Lego set. Our neighboring uncle had visited Australia and had brought back a Lego set for me. This one involved an American astronaut and a moon rover. Marveling at the preciseness and alienness of the small structures, I spent hours creating and recreating them (my other favorite was playing with ‘Hot Wheels’ cars). Eons have passed since. Playing with Lego seems like a thing of the past, and the only set of Hot Wheels are on my 2003 Passat. Just when I had forgotten the phenomenon, a colleague at work popped up one day with a constructed Lego set. A full blown adult with a full blown Lego set. And here’s the bright part: he designed it himself. You can take basic lego parts and construct your design online or buy someone else’s design. Apparently, Lego has moved forward while I have gone nowhere in that world. One look at the Lego site told me how out of touch I was. Gone are the US astronauts. Now you have everything from Batman to Harry Potter to Star Wars. I think that’s smart progress. In the age of the Nintendo DS and other handheld games, you have to work extra hard to maintain your clientele. Anyone else with a Lego story to share or am I the only one here?

P.S> The music of ‘Don’ is out. Anyone familiar with old movie will appreciate the subtleties including the use of the theme music in the title song. Heard it a couple of times. Hasn’t caught on fully yet, but I am sure it will. D2 music should be coming out soon too, followed by Salaam-e-ishq and Umrao Jaan and Guru among others. Can’t remember any recent year with so many big budget movies cramped together.

While the world churned

Well, it actually turned too, but the dynamism of this planet is enthralling. Here’s a summary of what’s happening around the world recently that immediately comes to my pop-culturish, politically churlish and sportingly bent mind.

1. No Paris for Parsis
Actually, no Paris for any Indians living in India. Paris Hilton’s debut album was to be promoted with a video for the song ‘Stars are blind’. But it has been banned in India for being too racy. India, rejoice. You have been saved. There is no escaping Paris ‘That's hot’ Hilton here, but this is a blessing in disguise. You don’t have to hear Paris sing. Your tragedy is to keep watching Rakhi Sawant. By the way, I have seen the banned video and Rakhi Sawant might just beat Paris Hilton hands down in raciness. Perhaps, someone on the censor board dislikes Paris Hilton for all the right reasons too.

2. Pluto planet na rahaa
Pluto has been demoted. From the big boys club to the dwarfs ensemble. The emasculated little fellow is now going to be called a dwarf planet. There are several thrills people are getting out of this. One friend referred to the event with the exclamation: “Now there is no planet left discovered by an American”. Imagine what this changes: navagrahas are ashtagrahas now. The ninth rock from the sun has rocked the third rock from the sun

3. North by North-West
Brown is the color of paranoia, especially if it happens to be on your skin. Perhaps the terrorists have already won. One plane diversion a week is a victory for the schism driving scum. A Northwest flight to Mumbai was diverted back to Amsterdam on suspicious behavior by some passengers. The passengers were Indians and were treated very badly. The Dutch government has issued an apology. Not a good time to be a brown man. Pertinent question raised by someone in an article I read someplace: “What if the twelve people were Europeans?”. Really, what if?

4. Are we there yet?
The South African cricket team ran home. There’s no other way to describe it. Perhaps the previous point and this one is tied in. What is it about teams like NZ, Aus, England and SA and their willingness to take the first flight home even when a firecracker is burst? This particular exit pissed me off no end. LTTE has not targeted foreigners, the SA team was given presidential level of security, the other two teams were willing to stay back. I am sorry, but they are wrong. The game has been skewed for the past century, with the sub-contintental teams and management has always suffered from an inferiority complex. They are ever willing to listen to their colonial masters, bend over backwards, allowed to be treated as some sort of undecipherable threat that they will always be vary about. This has to change. We control the game today. I may dislike Dalmiya for a lot of reasons, but I like the fact that he has brought about the balance of power. Penalize SA, don’t bring them to the subcontinent henceforth. Let them learn a lesson on being a decent cricketing citizen. For they are not.

5. Hair-rising issue
While I am sufficiently upset, let me go all the way. This post is turning out to be a comment on the clash of civilizations. This example perhaps the most fitting. Darrell ‘no-ball’ Hair, the man who declared that the Pakistanis had tampered the ball without providing adequate proof, the man who deliberately handled the situation harshly even though he could have done otherwise, has finally told ICC: give me $500k and I shall leave. Brilliant. This episode was a classic case of rant no. 4 showing up in a repressed sub-continental team. When the two W’s invented the reverse swing in the early 90’s, they were labeled cheats. The fact that they were from a sub-contintental team and the accusations came from the fair-skinned masters gave it legitimacy. A decade down the line, nothing has changed. Maybe the Pakistanis did actually tamper the ball. But they have been labeled guilty even without a trial. In the minds of people. Inzi over-reacted, yes. But what caused the over-reaction? The pent up feeling of being run down and being targeted because of past history. Perhaps both Inzi and Hair will be punished. Perhaps Hair did what he had to do. But my sympathies cannot lie with him. There’s too much history to reckon with. Mike Denness anyone?

Ok, agitated rant over. Taking deep breaths. Ok, here’s a moderate level rant to finish it off.

6. Yun hota to kya hota
Naseerudin Shah is a fine actor. Given. What he has is an attitude problem where he keeps blasting Bollywood produce. All the time. He still acts in it, but keeps calling it crap. What next? He gets a chance to prove that he can make the ‘non-trash’ by directing a movie himself. So he makes Yun Hota to Kya Hota. A movie technique about strangers in a common situation: tried before. The treatment is fair, and I wouldn’t call this movie crap, I like it in parts. But then I am just a poor Bollywood movie fanatic. My tolerance is much higher than Mr. Shah. Back to the movie: this is a plot that he has mangled so badly that the script writer has an open letter on his website to Naseer asking him to take his name off because the script is no longer his. Read here. Sorry Naseer bhai, walk the line, or keep your comments in check. You did act in movies like Daava and Takkar.

Finally. Done. Zen-like work shall follow.

Aahista Aahista

Yesterday, I heard one of my all time favorite ghazals after a while. This is a ghazal sung by Jagjit Singh and written by Ameer Minai. Jagjit Singh sang this in his album called ‘Unforgettables’, which he released with Chitra Singh in the year 1975. This was the first album that broke away from the traditional mould and used modern instruments in conjunction with traditional instruments, something that would become part of Jagjit’s style over the years. In my opinion, this is the among the best ghazal albums that Jagjit has come up with (others like A Sound Affair and Milestone would also qualify). Jagjit elevates the lyrics to a different level by his rendition. You can find it here. The rhythm of the song, the slight hint of echo in the recording and the simplicity of the lyrics adds to its brilliance. Enough said, here are the lyrics

Sarakti jaaye hain rukh se naqaab aahista aahista
Nikalta aa raha hai aaftaab aahista aahista
[rukh=face, naqaab=veil, aaftaab=sun]

Jawaan hone lage jab woh to humse kar liya parda
Hayaa yaklakht aaee aur shabaab aahista aahista
[hayaa=shyness, yaklakht = suddenly, shabaab=youth]

Shab-e-furqat ka jaaga hoon faristhon ab to sone do
Kabhi fursat mein kar lena hisaab aahista aahista
[furqat=separation]

Woh bedardi se sar kaate 'ameer' aur main kahoon unse
Huzoor aahista aahista janaab aahista aahista

Distress of Prices

I live in far far away land. Tucked in the northwest corner of the United States of America, I cling onto my "roots" (refer SD's treatise on postmodernism for details) in the most obvious ways. I play cricket with other Indians, watch Hindi movies, the occasional TV serials, ponder on my five-year plan(for that, refer to my theorem). At the end of the day, the biggest and brightest and most earnest connection is food. My wife is an excellent cook and does wonders in the kitchen conjuring delicious Indian dishes along with other cuisines. The raw material is duly supplied by the Indian grocery store. Its probably ironic that working for a company that is often accused of monopoly, I feel a similar passion towards the Indian store. As Gabbar would ask: "kitne aadmi the?" to which hi dutiful sidekick would have to reply "dus hazaar". "Aur Indian stores kitni?". "Sardar, ek". "Bahut na insaafi hai".

Gabbar's empathy is to be expected. Contending with their huge profit margins, buying ketchups and later realizing that their expiry date is October 2003, never finding the same product twice, buying vegetables staler than the jokes on Mind of Mencia, Gabbar knows a thing or two about tyranny when he sees it. The last straw hit me in the face very recently. There is a shortage of daal in this country owing to the banning of the exports of daal by the Indian government. Fair enough, if the justification is to curtail inflation in India. Far-fetched, but the concern of Indians should be considered before those of NRIs. I am ok with that. What I am not ok with is two aunties in the said Indian store ganging up to inquire whether I read news about India and know about the daal shortage. On the first day of the rationing that they passed onto the consumers, they put up some pink colored posters with instructions printed in font size 10 and put them up next to the daal counter on the store. The limit, it seems is four pounds per family. I didn't read it. It wasn't readable, it didn't catch my attention. Darn it, they should have something more prominent if they want customers to pay heed. Ever seen how many such posters they stick in Indian stores? Then the aunties chastise me for bringing more than four pounds. I inquired about the limit and was asked about my knowledge of current affairs in India. Respectfully restraining myself from uttering a dozen or so retorts in my mind, I dragged myself out of the store.

The incident still riles me up. If I need elderly chastising, there are legitimate reasons and people I can turn to. I feel like I am in line to get food in jail and the guy serving it is laughing the evil laugh. We are all prisoners here, of the Indian store's devise. Trapped, in prices, in monopoly, in substandard quality, in aunty-ly instincts, there is no escape. 'Jaayen to jaayen kahan?' 

Another one passes by

This is an easy post. Completed two years of this blog. This is for the faithfuls: the handful few who read and comment on the blog, and the others who read and tell me they follow my writings and the anonymous whose existence will be a mystery to me till they reveal themselves. Thank you. The words will keep coming and I will keep posting till you are around. When that stops, there's always the old diary one is meant to write in. Till the next post, so long and thanks for bearing the kitsch.

Runners Inc.

The three of them rushed towards me
A hurling mass of metal and body
I slowed down and watched in amazement
Mother, pram, dog
Burning up the sidewalk
In an undecipherable order
A mind-boggling conundrum
Who's running whom?

*******************************************************

There he sees it
Right past the bend
Just across the hill
Water, precious water

The limbs get strength
And the will awakens
As he rushes towards it
The mid-point of his marathon

*******************************************************

Sweat trickles to his shoulder
A smile breaks on his face
He watches people run past him
And wonders, why do they bother?
Then bites into his hamburger

*******************************************************

One small step for man
Doesn't count for much on the pedometer

For Whom The Ringer Tolls

"I hate Ashish", she said, extracting another cringing expression from her mother. “All of 21 and no control over her tongue”, add her father with a cluck at the end for added measure. Mr. Prashant Dandekar had an amazing ability to comment on everything without contributing anything. He also managed to do that with the least amount of perturbation. His glasses perched low on his nose, his eyes fixed on the editorial of the Times of India, his universe seemingly perfect. His contribution to his life’s and wife’s troubles were wry comments, and if luck assisted, dry wit. Karuna Dandekar had no shortage of wit. Life’s hardships had set her up for failure and she responded to failure with alarmingly smart cynicism. She always likened her marriage to a blockbuster Hindi movie: it could be bad and still have a silver jubilee. In the middle of all this was their lone star (or black hole, as she called herself), their only child, Anoushka. Fire and water, wind and stillness, all rolled into one. Her smile could turn into a frown momentarily, a happy laughter followed by uncontrollable rage, Anoushka was a very volatile person emotionally. In the midst of the million emotions she felt, love came and overwhelmingly swept her off her feet one day. Actually, it was the torrential downpour that reigned on Bombay that forced Anoushka to be stranded on the road when all moving transport had come to a halt. With her cell phone batteries dead, her knight in shining armor came with his own shining blade, the new silver colored sleek Razr phone. She got through to her worried parents and spent the evening in the foyer of an apartment complex waiting for the waters to subside and chatting to no end with Ashish. Oh yes, the same Ashish she has declared she hates at the start of this story. Who is Ashish, you ask? He is our guy next door, if you had a two storeyed bungalow in JVPD Scheme with three cars, three servants and three dogs next door. Born, literally with a silver spoon, Ashish never had to struggle and was not apologetic about it. Like many rich kids who need a degree for degree’s sake and end up doing a B.A. or a B.Com, Ashish chose to do an engineering degree. Stuck in a storm with his Santro half submerged, Ashish noticed the a frowning yet beautiful face of a girl all but ready to break something in frustration soaking in the rain on that troubled day. The gizmo-freak walked up to her and offered her the new phone he had acquired, fresh of the market; grey market that is. As he watched her punch her home number into the phone and speak with her parents, he was filled with the overwhelming feeling that fills all hearts young and tender when spring goes away and rains bring forth droplets of hope and joy and promise: anger. A car went by and splashed a bucketful of water on all three of them, Ashish, Anoushka and the Razr phone. After muttering the requisite curses and finding their way to an apartment complex where they stepped in the foyer of an apartment wing, they exchanged introductions. Anoushka was too carried away in love to bother hiding it. Her eyes, her hands, her heart all betrayed her as she reached for the one that had taken over her entire self. They say love happens in an instance, and Anoushka barely needed a nanosecond to be convinced. Her life had changed in that moment forever. She looked at Ashish and spelt her heart’s wishes to him without hesitation, a trademark Anoushka moment where instinct led the way. Ashish smiled first, and in moments the smile had grown to a wide laughter that spilt over the narrow confines of their shelter. Undecipherable in the laughter were a nod and a muffled ‘Yes’ from the man who never thought life would surprise him thus.

"I hate Ashish", she said, as her mother took her cringing expression towards the door. The door bell had rung twice and Karuna Dandekar took towards it, a helpless mother on a rescue mission. Ashish was waiting on the other side, pacing two steps to his side, restless in anticipation. He had thought long and hard about it, and had decided that he would not pawn his life this way. He valued his independence above all else. A relationship would cost him dear. He would lose his friends, family, everyone he ever knew. Never again would he speak with them. Never again would he sit in an airport and play games and stare at the good looking women passing by. Never again would he be able to wake up on time. Never again would he be able to stand among his friends as equal. No, this had to be ended. This was it. Karuna Dandekar opened the door and asked Ashish in. It was a moment seeped in tension. Everyone knew why Ashish had come. Everyone knew what was going to happen, yet, the pretense of civility was maintained. It was maintained by all but Anoushka, who was too heart-broken to bother with niceties. Her world had come crashing down in one week flat. The classic rich versus poor gap had come in between. She thought this happened only in movies, yet there she was, sitting in Prashant Dandekar’s house, retired school teacher, wondering why such trivialities should affect the grand scheme of things. She walked up slowly to Ashish, tears and temper in check. She had determined that if she had to do it, she’d do it with dignity. She wouldn’t give anyone the opportunity of feeling pity for her. “Ashish, I know why you have come. I know the time is up. I know we agreed to try this for a week and then decide what the future looks like. I cannot complain about the happiness I have got. It has far exceeded anything I had expected. But I guess expecting this to last was unreasonable. I know I can’t keep what my heart wants forever and I can’t keep anything that doesn’t belong to me. You are free to go, and we shall never talk again”. Ashish looked in her eyes, steeled his heart and slid his hands in his pockets. In a brief moment when he reached for Anoushka’s hand, he remembered the moment she had put her heart’s wish to him. In that brief moment, his heart melted, his resolve wilted and he decided to relent. The passion in her eyes did the trick. He didn’t want to break Anoushka’s heart, didn’t want to separate her from the one thing she clearly valued above everything else. A few words later, he turned around and walked out of the apartment, staring at Anoushka’s decrepit T610 mobile phone. Behind the doors, Anoushka was crying tears of joy. She held the one true love of her life in her hand, never to be parted again. Hers to keep, forever: her Razr phone.

P.S.> I keep hearing a lot about kids in India getting new phones every year or so. This story was inspired by that need. I have had two cell phones in my six year stay in this country. I must be unfashionable.
P.P.S> As you might have guessed, I own a decrepit T610 phone. If Razr isn’t exactly state of the art anymore, my apologies. My knowledge about cell phones is minimal. If it dials a number and lets me speak, it is generally good enough for me

Blood

Blood suffers as only blood can
Flowing through clogged arteries
Surfacing on a cut
To be washed away

Blood travels as only blood can
From your head to toe
Coursing, cursing, living
Ultimate, dried away

Blood splatters as only blood can
From struggling smiling bodies
In the air of terror
On mangled train doors

Blood rises as only blood can
In a city that can never sleep again
In a common man's breast
In protest to utter: Enough

Life's a stretch

Feeling stretched?

This one's for the environmentalists out here. Photograph taken in 'Hip-hop Hollywood', as the kind billboard behind reminds me. How do you take a bad idea and extend it to make it 'badder'. Badder rhymes with Hummer, doesn't it? Wonder what rhymes with stretch hummer!

P.S> Substantial posts coming up. Blame the absence from the blog on visiting parents. Seeing this country and myself anew through their eyes is a learning experience. For once, I am being a good student.