Went for an early morning - it was cold and foggy - bird watching trip to Lodhi gardens. And I mean bird watching in the most innocent sense - looking for members of the phylum Aves. The bird count was quite sad but the human count was terribly high. The place was packed with enthu ungles and anties taking their morning constitutional.
On my way out, I passed this mama wearing the de rigeur long shorts, collared tee, and socks upto his knees. The mama was briskly walking down the path when I heard him go "shuklam baradharam vishnu sashivarnam sathurbujam".
Talk about multi tasking! (For the non-Iyengars, this is the thousand names of Vishnu that the mama was reciting.)
Wednesday 19 November, 2008
Monday 17 November, 2008
Men and their...
I think I'm jinxed. Or Delhi is just crawling with men who either wander naked or....I was on my way to office, and there right outside Batra, this mama was busy. Doing what? Scratching. The where I leave to your imagination. Let me just say his hand was not visible.
There could be other explanations for his behaviour...but...
And oh yeah, our original naked guy makes a cameo appearance on the Chronicles. My aunt was driving by his usual hang out when he walked out into the middle of the road. And this cow which was passing the time of day, took a look at him and went mad, running helter skelter.
There could be other explanations for his behaviour...but...
And oh yeah, our original naked guy makes a cameo appearance on the Chronicles. My aunt was driving by his usual hang out when he walked out into the middle of the road. And this cow which was passing the time of day, took a look at him and went mad, running helter skelter.
Tuesday 4 November, 2008
Invasion addendum...
And yes, I always found the Bongs in monkey caps. Thanks Dr. R for the reminder!! In fact there was this old man who was wearing just a cotton kurta and dhoti, and slip ons and to literally top it off - a MONKEY CAP!
Monday 3 November, 2008
Hitting the road...
The UP state transport drivers love that song Hit the road Jack. In fact they think it's written for them, their style of driving - hit the road, oh yeah! And hit every pothole on the way. Which considering that UP road = pothole....
After some 7 - 8 hours of non stop bus travel off the mountains, we reached Rishikesh at 6 in the evening and found a bus about to leave for Delhi. And though we knew that it would be a hair raising journey (the bus was in worse shape than any Pallavan bus I've seen) but we got in nevertheless. At this point we didn't care as long as we got back to Delhi. It was as sane as a UP state transport bus could be, till we hit Roorkee. Somewhere along the road, the driver and conductor switched places...and the fun began.
The conductor (now the driver) kept stalling and moving forward in fits. At one point he found that the dhaba he wanted to go to for dinner was on the wrong side of the road divided. So when the divider ended, he took a sharp right turn and then somehow managed to back into the dhaba. No sweat, except for being on a national highway in the dark with other traffic zipping up and down. We continued to Meerut where they switched places again. Thank god!, thought I. I bet all the passengers heaved sighs of relief.
The driver (the original one) promptly got us lost inside a mohalla, almost ran down an old man and merrily waved away suggestions that it was not the best route and kept going through narrow roads, almost scraping lampposts and shop fronts.
Finally we managed to get back onto the highway.
Inside the bus from Rudraprayag to Rishikesh.
After some 7 - 8 hours of non stop bus travel off the mountains, we reached Rishikesh at 6 in the evening and found a bus about to leave for Delhi. And though we knew that it would be a hair raising journey (the bus was in worse shape than any Pallavan bus I've seen) but we got in nevertheless. At this point we didn't care as long as we got back to Delhi. It was as sane as a UP state transport bus could be, till we hit Roorkee. Somewhere along the road, the driver and conductor switched places...and the fun began.
The conductor (now the driver) kept stalling and moving forward in fits. At one point he found that the dhaba he wanted to go to for dinner was on the wrong side of the road divided. So when the divider ended, he took a sharp right turn and then somehow managed to back into the dhaba. No sweat, except for being on a national highway in the dark with other traffic zipping up and down. We continued to Meerut where they switched places again. Thank god!, thought I. I bet all the passengers heaved sighs of relief.
The driver (the original one) promptly got us lost inside a mohalla, almost ran down an old man and merrily waved away suggestions that it was not the best route and kept going through narrow roads, almost scraping lampposts and shop fronts.
Finally we managed to get back onto the highway.
Inside the bus from Rudraprayag to Rishikesh.
Wednesday 29 October, 2008
Invasion of the bongs...
GRRRRRRRRRRR! Off with the Bengalis is my refrain. They are so irritating! Deepavali weekend I went trekking in Uttarakhand. Climbed up to Chandrashila. The view was awesome - and it was mostly in my imagination thanks to the mist that played spoilsport.
But back to the Bongs. My friend and I hit Chopta to find that all the tourists there are Bongs. The family next door in the dhaba were Bongs. It was so bad that the dhaba guys kept calling my friend dada though he does not look remotely dada-ish. And the Bong family next door would keep talking. So we were subjected to intermittent chatter in osh kosh bigosh. Terrible. I have discovered an Universal Truth - life is so full of Bengalis. My office is overrun by them, I live in an area a stone's throw from the Bong heartland in Delhi and everytime I leave the city on a holiday I bump into more of them.
Ah well at least it was a lovely (though killer on the legs) climb. And an even better journey back. To be continued...
But back to the Bongs. My friend and I hit Chopta to find that all the tourists there are Bongs. The family next door in the dhaba were Bongs. It was so bad that the dhaba guys kept calling my friend dada though he does not look remotely dada-ish. And the Bong family next door would keep talking. So we were subjected to intermittent chatter in osh kosh bigosh. Terrible. I have discovered an Universal Truth - life is so full of Bengalis. My office is overrun by them, I live in an area a stone's throw from the Bong heartland in Delhi and everytime I leave the city on a holiday I bump into more of them.
Ah well at least it was a lovely (though killer on the legs) climb. And an even better journey back. To be continued...
Monday 13 October, 2008
My 007 mission...
Right. I've been getting comments on my disappearance from the world of the Internet. Actually it was only one enquiry but lets not be pedantic. I've been MIA because of this secret mission entrusted to me. Or rather prosaically, since my computer crashed - the techie guy says mother board needs to be replaced. And for various reasons this is not such a clever idea and therefore I need to get a new laptop. In the meantime I've been stuck with a dinosaur of a laptop courtesy my office that informed (or not so informed) sources tell me once belonged to our late founder. So I should behave with respect to the laptop; it having felt the touch of his fingers.
That's beside the point. The dinosaur doesn't like too many tabs opened on ze internet so I've been parsimonious with the windows. And the last week I was in the jungles of Madhya Pradesh (literally), having gone to Kanha National Park. I was chasing forest guards there. Tramping around in the forests. And oh yes, I saw a Panthera tigris. Tiger for the zoologically challenged. See me facebook for pictures.
So that be the 7 O'clock news.
That's all folks.
p.s. I have no theory on why I have escaped the attentions of the Beret but now that I have my Kanha story to do, things are already changing on that front.
That's beside the point. The dinosaur doesn't like too many tabs opened on ze internet so I've been parsimonious with the windows. And the last week I was in the jungles of Madhya Pradesh (literally), having gone to Kanha National Park. I was chasing forest guards there. Tramping around in the forests. And oh yes, I saw a Panthera tigris. Tiger for the zoologically challenged. See me facebook for pictures.
So that be the 7 O'clock news.
That's all folks.
p.s. I have no theory on why I have escaped the attentions of the Beret but now that I have my Kanha story to do, things are already changing on that front.
Thursday 25 September, 2008
The King of all that he surveys...
I went to meet a certain bigshot lawyer for a story. His lackey shows me into the hallowed office at the end of which was a large desk and behind it - the man himself. And after the initial pleasanteries in his upper class 'i say' accent, he suggests that we talk on the phone since he has clients waiting and doesn't want to waste my time hanging around. All the while I had a hard time suppressing my laughter for he kept taking mini breaks to puff on his fancy hookah. Between the accent and fancy room and the hookah...
Btw, the Beret has returned and has been blading all and sundry..except, for some inexplicable reason, ME! I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the status quo continues.
Btw, the Beret has returned and has been blading all and sundry..except, for some inexplicable reason, ME! I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the status quo continues.
Saturday 6 September, 2008
The Return of the Beret...
The bad news is that the Beret is coming back soon. Way too soon. Worse, he’s on my GTalk list, so I cant put up my tracker Beret statuses (statii? What is the plural of status?). and he got there cos he had this clever plan of having a writing workshop for the poor sods in office (including us hapless folks who report to him and so have no choice in workshop participation). He decided to send a proxy email asking about who’d be interested in said workshop. And guess who was the unwitting patsy for sending the email?
Saturday 30 August, 2008
Escapades at the SC…
I’ve been haunting the corridors of the Supreme Court of India these last couple of months. Thanks to biggie environment cases that were coming to an end. The main ones were about mining in Orissa.
The first time I get into the court, it was a hot, sticky July afternoon and I’ve been plagued by a killer cough. So I get into the press corner which is packed and yet I freeze cos the court has it’s a/c on so high, they are contributing to global warming all by themselves. I guess they need it otherwise the lawyers in those layers of black will die of overheating. And I have keep holding the cough in which only makes it worse. At some point it get so bad that I have to cough and it sounds much louder - a terrible racking kind of cough.
Once everyone settles down, I started the game of trying to actually hear the proceedings. Except for this bigshot lawyer, dr. d, everyone else was mumbling to themselves- even the judges. It was impossible to hear anything. Added to which there was a chap from Reuters who was clueless about the case and kept asking me to explain everything. You’d think you’d do your homework before covering a case!
The last time I went to the court, I couldn’t get in even with a press card so had to enter by the side entrance where this lawyer was waiting for me. And his clerk just walked me through, straight past the gun-toting security. I must say they really protect the court from attacks don’t they? Splendid job, I say.
The first time I get into the court, it was a hot, sticky July afternoon and I’ve been plagued by a killer cough. So I get into the press corner which is packed and yet I freeze cos the court has it’s a/c on so high, they are contributing to global warming all by themselves. I guess they need it otherwise the lawyers in those layers of black will die of overheating. And I have keep holding the cough in which only makes it worse. At some point it get so bad that I have to cough and it sounds much louder - a terrible racking kind of cough.
Once everyone settles down, I started the game of trying to actually hear the proceedings. Except for this bigshot lawyer, dr. d, everyone else was mumbling to themselves- even the judges. It was impossible to hear anything. Added to which there was a chap from Reuters who was clueless about the case and kept asking me to explain everything. You’d think you’d do your homework before covering a case!
The last time I went to the court, I couldn’t get in even with a press card so had to enter by the side entrance where this lawyer was waiting for me. And his clerk just walked me through, straight past the gun-toting security. I must say they really protect the court from attacks don’t they? Splendid job, I say.
Tuesday 19 August, 2008
N. men everywhere…
Going to my aunt’s place is now fraught with dangers. Normally I park my bike in her old apartment complex in Alaknanda and hitch a ride with her to the baarder. But now I think I will brave the maniacs who zip up and down the jungle road with their headlights on high beam.
All this because of the life altering, psyche scarring encounter the last time I picked up my bike from Alaknanda. It was twilight and I was going through my usual routine of fighting with my bike. I always have to kick start it some five times before the engine fires. So anyhow, there I was swearing at the bike when I noticed some chap at the end of the passage walking by. No big deal. Then a few minutes later (I’m still kick starting) he walks back and towards me and serenely strolls past me. And at that single instant I realized what was so odd – his clothes. He was wearing a T shirt. Just a T shirt. And shall we say that he was…ahem… at attention?
Needless to say I renewed my efforts at starting the bike with increasing fervour and sped out of there. I did do my civic duty by telling the security guy about it. Strangely he was rather indifferent. Perhaps he was wondering what the fuss was about. Maybe the chap is resident kook, known to all as that weird wandering naked guy.
All this because of the life altering, psyche scarring encounter the last time I picked up my bike from Alaknanda. It was twilight and I was going through my usual routine of fighting with my bike. I always have to kick start it some five times before the engine fires. So anyhow, there I was swearing at the bike when I noticed some chap at the end of the passage walking by. No big deal. Then a few minutes later (I’m still kick starting) he walks back and towards me and serenely strolls past me. And at that single instant I realized what was so odd – his clothes. He was wearing a T shirt. Just a T shirt. And shall we say that he was…ahem… at attention?
Needless to say I renewed my efforts at starting the bike with increasing fervour and sped out of there. I did do my civic duty by telling the security guy about it. Strangely he was rather indifferent. Perhaps he was wondering what the fuss was about. Maybe the chap is resident kook, known to all as that weird wandering naked guy.
Wednesday 13 August, 2008
Where have all the dead fish gone?
The next day (after recovering from the train ordeal by eating, shivering in bed and watching Namaste London) I went off to Harike, hung with the local forest department range officer, spoke to some locals about the dead fish. Unfortunately for me, there were no dead fish by the time I reached. All that remained was a lingering sewage smell. Where had all the dead fish gone? Eaten every one.
The local populace had either eaten them (yipppeee…free fish! Easy pickings, never the mind the funny gabbu) or they had sold them. Fishing rights are also auctioned on sections of the canals and local fishermen then sell to the concerned contractor who sits in Harike or Faridkot, playing cards. I met a few of them and found that the fishermen had sold them the fish and these fish made their way to the local fish market. Needless to say I was planning to stay strictly veggie on this trip! Some Bihari migrant workers had also eaten the fish and some had fallen ill too.
I also talked to folks in Faridkot and found that the town’s purifies its canal drinking water with due diligence. The operation is outsourced to private companies. The guy there took us around (me and Balle’s alter ego- the Faridkot TOI reporter) the facility. Basically the important machinery were non functional (and this was for at least the past 15 days. Before that the chap didn’t know cos that’s when the contractors were changed) and all they did was to pump it from one tank to another while adding bleach and some other chemicals to it.
The local populace had either eaten them (yipppeee…free fish! Easy pickings, never the mind the funny gabbu) or they had sold them. Fishing rights are also auctioned on sections of the canals and local fishermen then sell to the concerned contractor who sits in Harike or Faridkot, playing cards. I met a few of them and found that the fishermen had sold them the fish and these fish made their way to the local fish market. Needless to say I was planning to stay strictly veggie on this trip! Some Bihari migrant workers had also eaten the fish and some had fallen ill too.
I also talked to folks in Faridkot and found that the town’s purifies its canal drinking water with due diligence. The operation is outsourced to private companies. The guy there took us around (me and Balle’s alter ego- the Faridkot TOI reporter) the facility. Basically the important machinery were non functional (and this was for at least the past 15 days. Before that the chap didn’t know cos that’s when the contractors were changed) and all they did was to pump it from one tank to another while adding bleach and some other chemicals to it.
Saturday 9 August, 2008
Jab we met (my version)…
I ran from the ticket reservation counter at Nizamuddin towards the train shoving people aside and yelling, “hato. Train chhut jayega”. This dramatic Jab We Met scenario was because I had exactly 3 minutes to catch my train to Punjab. And why was I off to the Poonjab?
To look for dead fish. Dead fish in sewage to be precise. My first trip to the Poonjab was all about dead fish that had popped up dead (obviously) in the canals taking water from the Sutlej river. The canals are a source of drinking water for a bunch of villages and towns in two states. So at the confluence of the Beas and Sutlej the river is dammed and water siphoned off into 2 canals. The confluence is also an important wetland and is a wildlife sanctuary (one of the few in the state of no forests). The wetland is called Harike, marked on the map by a hamlet of dhabas.
Now that you have the geography clear (if you are anal about it, you could google), I was off to Amritsar and Harike because this Times of India guy had reported the dead fish from nearby Faridkot town (which drinks the canal water). So off I went to check this out. Since it was all last minute I left early one morning at 5 in the morning for the railway station, reached there with 45 minutes to spare, hoping to get a general ticket, only to find two very long queues. With no prospect of getting a ticket in time, I contemplated just jumping into the train and paying the extra fine for traveling without a ticket. Then I found out that the fine was 10 times the ticket cost. I didn’t think my office would appreciate reimbursing that – certainly the accounts guy would not find dead fish worth it. So instead I tried that age old Indian trick of jumping the line with the added twist of looking like a lost female. That didn’t work either. Then my luck changed…this guy in front of me created a third queue and then suddenly barged into the first queue and got tickets. He had promised to get my ticket too – he was trying for the same train as me. So the next thing I know, he’s turning around and saying run, I’ve got them. And so that started my ‘Jab we met’ moment.
The train journey to Amritsar ranks as one of the worst ones ever. It was blazing hot and the coach was packed and I didn’t eat anything so I was little crazy with the heat and lack of food. Not to mention the fat Punju lady who kindly made space for me on her reserved seat, but insisted on talking to me in Punjabi which I only half understood (the Punjus in the family can take a bow, obviously the proximity has had effect). The journey was so bad that I couldn’t muster the energy to check out the Golden Temple or anything else in the city for that matter. It was all I could do to drag myself to the PCO and call all my contacts.
To look for dead fish. Dead fish in sewage to be precise. My first trip to the Poonjab was all about dead fish that had popped up dead (obviously) in the canals taking water from the Sutlej river. The canals are a source of drinking water for a bunch of villages and towns in two states. So at the confluence of the Beas and Sutlej the river is dammed and water siphoned off into 2 canals. The confluence is also an important wetland and is a wildlife sanctuary (one of the few in the state of no forests). The wetland is called Harike, marked on the map by a hamlet of dhabas.
Now that you have the geography clear (if you are anal about it, you could google), I was off to Amritsar and Harike because this Times of India guy had reported the dead fish from nearby Faridkot town (which drinks the canal water). So off I went to check this out. Since it was all last minute I left early one morning at 5 in the morning for the railway station, reached there with 45 minutes to spare, hoping to get a general ticket, only to find two very long queues. With no prospect of getting a ticket in time, I contemplated just jumping into the train and paying the extra fine for traveling without a ticket. Then I found out that the fine was 10 times the ticket cost. I didn’t think my office would appreciate reimbursing that – certainly the accounts guy would not find dead fish worth it. So instead I tried that age old Indian trick of jumping the line with the added twist of looking like a lost female. That didn’t work either. Then my luck changed…this guy in front of me created a third queue and then suddenly barged into the first queue and got tickets. He had promised to get my ticket too – he was trying for the same train as me. So the next thing I know, he’s turning around and saying run, I’ve got them. And so that started my ‘Jab we met’ moment.
The train journey to Amritsar ranks as one of the worst ones ever. It was blazing hot and the coach was packed and I didn’t eat anything so I was little crazy with the heat and lack of food. Not to mention the fat Punju lady who kindly made space for me on her reserved seat, but insisted on talking to me in Punjabi which I only half understood (the Punjus in the family can take a bow, obviously the proximity has had effect). The journey was so bad that I couldn’t muster the energy to check out the Golden Temple or anything else in the city for that matter. It was all I could do to drag myself to the PCO and call all my contacts.
Thursday 17 July, 2008
Dasavatharam…
Saw Dasavatharam recently. UGH!!!!!! And I went all the way to Noida to watch it too- thanks to B and R who were ensconced in that place and so I had to make perilous trip across the Yamuna, across state borders to see Kamal buried under loads of prosthetic makeup. It was so much makeup that he could hardly move his facial muscles (= couldn’t act). I don’t know why I go with such high expectations – Kamal has degenerated into making these self aggrandizing movies. Should just stick to good old Rajni –at least you know what you are getting. No pretensions of high brow-ness. Silly masalas with great Rajni one-liners.
The perilous trip to Noida was more fun than the movie itself. I took a bus to 12/22…yes that’s what its called. And imagine the bus guy yelling it in hindi…in that inimitable Indian hawker way. Apparently it refers to sectors 12 and 22 which are on either side of this main road hence the innovative name.
It’s almost as bad as being told to take the Valad bus and get off at 36 and walk down to Boyfpown – this happened in Wayanad.
The perilous trip to Noida was more fun than the movie itself. I took a bus to 12/22…yes that’s what its called. And imagine the bus guy yelling it in hindi…in that inimitable Indian hawker way. Apparently it refers to sectors 12 and 22 which are on either side of this main road hence the innovative name.
It’s almost as bad as being told to take the Valad bus and get off at 36 and walk down to Boyfpown – this happened in Wayanad.
Friday 4 July, 2008
The anti aloo man…
Way back in February, I met this Tamil guy in Barmer, Rajasthan which is not far from the Indo-Pak border and hence the very visible BSF presence. And now that I've got the historical details down...He was an accountant with the BSF. So while waiting to get our tickets at the Barmer railway station- the one with the gorgeous plastic yellow and green palm tree - we indulged in a pleasant anti-Bihari (read North Indian) rant (in Tamil of course!). His main complaint was the Bihari penchant for aloo. Aloo-gobi, aloo-peas, aloo-beans…the list is endless. Our canteen (i.e. mein office) actually serves aloo-karela!
Monday 26 May, 2008
My family aka the CIA...
Why do I have to report everything in life to family - from brushing my teeth to going rafting? I went rafting a week ago and had people phone me indignantly. Apparently I was required to inform them! My cousin (the idiot whose wedding I went to) calls and says you went rafting with my friends, why didn't you tell me? I had to heard about it from my friend.
Didn't know I had to broadcast this info. Then my uncle got psyched out because my cousin showed him an ad on tv where these people are rafting and they go into the water. She told him, thats what S has gone for. And he started off about what is the child doing? Is she safe? Call and find out! She never said that it would be like that!
Family I tell you...
(Am certainly not telling him about the spill I took from my bike!)
Didn't know I had to broadcast this info. Then my uncle got psyched out because my cousin showed him an ad on tv where these people are rafting and they go into the water. She told him, thats what S has gone for. And he started off about what is the child doing? Is she safe? Call and find out! She never said that it would be like that!
Family I tell you...
(Am certainly not telling him about the spill I took from my bike!)
Wednesday 14 May, 2008
Sperm mail...
On a lighter note...I got this email from some guy inviting me to personalise my google search page. This was sent to one of the egroups I subscribe to. And a bunch of others emailed to the group suggesting it might a virus laden email which the person didn't actually send. A couple of days later we got confirmation that our surmise was correct.
The chap wrote saying,"I am sorry about the sperm mail".
The chap wrote saying,"I am sorry about the sperm mail".
The THING lurking upstairs...
I had the utter joy (read sarcasm) of writing the cover this time (May 31st issue). And after a week of chatting up total strangers in the hot sun, the story was written and turned over to the copy desk who love to kill us because we write such bad copy. Anyhow, I was sitting with one of the desk folks going through the story and plugging the holes in it when this person - no that would be insulting humanity - this THING popped up and asked me if I was SS who was writing the cover. I said yes I was writing the cover and IT started berating me for turning in the story after the issue closed. This was a load of hogwash because I'd turned it in before and anyhow it must have been the quickest first cover ever, having been finished in a week. According to IT, I was in distinguished company in turning in the cover late, along with the famous N.S who is now with the TOI. What was the THING'S problem? I have 3 bosses and a half (the half is in the Wash Post) who didn't demur a bit about my deadline.
And then after a while the THING reappeared and started ranting about b*chod reporters who couldn't write and generally casting aspersions on our education level, reading skills, English knowledge and so on (I will spare you the graphic terminology). And IT kept directing this at me though IT has never edited anything I've written. So finally IT came to me again and said, " so S.S....rant...rant". I replied that wasn't my name and IT started yelling about giving IT attitude. IT then wandered away since I wasn't giving IT any fuel.
The worst part is that it is apparently acceptable for a THING to chew out people in front of colleagues when it was most unwarranted. All I got later was sympathy from everyone. Big help. No one had the balls to tell the scumbag to F* off. There should be rules on behaviour in public spaces. One cannot use words like b*chod at a colleague (or anyone else for that matter). It is so easy to yell at people junior to you, after all they can hardly swear at you. It is beyond the pale to chew people out in public even if they deserve to be chewed out(and in this case I didn't). And the THING comes after an hour and says it wasn't personal. This was said in private when I left the room on some work. If you can abuse in public then have the guts to apologise equally loudly in front of everyone. And anyway just saying it is not personal doesn't make it okay.
Can I scream and hurl the choicest of abuses and then after ten minutes say it wasn't personal? Why don't we all do that then. The THING is now beyond even acknowledgment. I sail past IT as if IT does not pollute my office space. Unfortunately that is all I can afford to do.
And we pride ourselves on our ancient society and culture?
And then after a while the THING reappeared and started ranting about b*chod reporters who couldn't write and generally casting aspersions on our education level, reading skills, English knowledge and so on (I will spare you the graphic terminology). And IT kept directing this at me though IT has never edited anything I've written. So finally IT came to me again and said, " so S.S....rant...rant". I replied that wasn't my name and IT started yelling about giving IT attitude. IT then wandered away since I wasn't giving IT any fuel.
The worst part is that it is apparently acceptable for a THING to chew out people in front of colleagues when it was most unwarranted. All I got later was sympathy from everyone. Big help. No one had the balls to tell the scumbag to F* off. There should be rules on behaviour in public spaces. One cannot use words like b*chod at a colleague (or anyone else for that matter). It is so easy to yell at people junior to you, after all they can hardly swear at you. It is beyond the pale to chew people out in public even if they deserve to be chewed out(and in this case I didn't). And the THING comes after an hour and says it wasn't personal. This was said in private when I left the room on some work. If you can abuse in public then have the guts to apologise equally loudly in front of everyone. And anyway just saying it is not personal doesn't make it okay.
Can I scream and hurl the choicest of abuses and then after ten minutes say it wasn't personal? Why don't we all do that then. The THING is now beyond even acknowledgment. I sail past IT as if IT does not pollute my office space. Unfortunately that is all I can afford to do.
And we pride ourselves on our ancient society and culture?
Thursday 8 May, 2008
what is it with weddings and coots?
The coots were out in full force. Silly bro got married and so I am next in line to get hassled. Every couple of minutes another old methane filled coot would stop next to me and say you're next; when are you getting married; why don't you get married and many such variations of the same theme.
I almost grabbed one of the lifesavers (the groom's friends who kept bailing me and M out of fraught situations with the coots)and paraded him in front of the coots. Actually M and I were going to pass him off as common property, a shared resource. But then we decided we didn't want the deaths of the coots on our hands.
I almost grabbed one of the lifesavers (the groom's friends who kept bailing me and M out of fraught situations with the coots)and paraded him in front of the coots. Actually M and I were going to pass him off as common property, a shared resource. But then we decided we didn't want the deaths of the coots on our hands.
Friday 2 May, 2008
Packets of every kind…
I made the ultimate sacrifice recently (and brother mine better appreciate it) by going for my bro’s wedding. It was a sacrifice because the old coots were being their usual cootish selves –more on that later.
But first enroute to the mehendi session M (aka P) were discussing sourcing of a certain plant material in Delhi. And I mentioned that A had got ‘a packet’ from Paharganj. When an aunt accompanying us asked innocently, "What was in the packet?" Ha, like we're going to tell you! We then got to discussing what to get the bridegroom and I suggested “a packet” of another kind – the Durex kind. At this point, another aunt sitting with us added, “The priests also give these packets out don’t they?” I will leave you with the image of a pot-bellied vadiyar with his kudumi handing out “packets”...
But first enroute to the mehendi session M (aka P) were discussing sourcing of a certain plant material in Delhi. And I mentioned that A had got ‘a packet’ from Paharganj. When an aunt accompanying us asked innocently, "What was in the packet?" Ha, like we're going to tell you! We then got to discussing what to get the bridegroom and I suggested “a packet” of another kind – the Durex kind. At this point, another aunt sitting with us added, “The priests also give these packets out don’t they?” I will leave you with the image of a pot-bellied vadiyar with his kudumi handing out “packets”...
Monday 7 April, 2008
Loove marriage…
One weekend recently, I asked my uncle (the Punjabi one) to pick me up from my new place on his way home to the baarder. When he came by, my landlord was loitering near the gate so I introduced them to each other and they a pleasant chat in Punjabi reassuring each other about the safety of the little girl (me). A couple of days, my landlord asks me, “Your uncle, he’s Punjabi. But you…..?” For I obviously don’t sound or look remotely Punjabi. I confirmed my madrasi origins while saying the uncle was an uncle by marriage. That zapped them further and he said, “We don’t marry our children outside the community”. So I said it wasn’t my grandparents choice, my aunt decided herself. And the mystery unmystified itself in their eyes.
“Ah! Love marriage!”
“Ah! Love marriage!”
The simian habit…
The monkey menace in Delhi is a favourite space filler with the media. There were all these reports of monkeys going crazy some months ago. Including one about this monkey which attacked a municipal corporation guy causing him to fall off the building and die. This monkey was hunted down and caught – maybe it owned up to the crime – and relocated out of the urban area to Asola Wildlife Sanctuary. Asola is this scrubby jungle with no wildlife really, on the Delhi-Haryana border. It also happened to be our very own baarder so you can imagine we weren’t too thrilled about this MCD personnel killer monkey in our neighbourhood! Wonder if the monkey which slapped our dog was the same one?
Talking of monkeys, was on my way to Jantar Mantar to meet some protesters (as always) when I noticed these two dudes on a scooter in front of me at the traffic lights. The pillion rider was carefully searching through his friend’s hair. Apparently our simian instincts haven’t left us completely.
Btw, nothing to do with monkeys...its been a month sans beret! How time flies!
Talking of monkeys, was on my way to Jantar Mantar to meet some protesters (as always) when I noticed these two dudes on a scooter in front of me at the traffic lights. The pillion rider was carefully searching through his friend’s hair. Apparently our simian instincts haven’t left us completely.
Btw, nothing to do with monkeys...its been a month sans beret! How time flies!
Wednesday 2 April, 2008
War against global warming...
Cities around the world observed Earth Hour this weekend by switching off all electrical appliances for the appointed hour. Me and the denizens of Utsav, Kant Enclave, The Baarder also observed Earth Hour - for 12 hours.
Wednesday 19 March, 2008
Obit: Lichen Tee
My lichen t-shirt is no more. The monkeys in the balcony got to it. They came, upturned the garbage, tore up my shirt and absconded with my trousers. Guess its time for a wardrobe makeover anyway.
This was in my new place. Yes, I finally moved out of the family homestead; out of the baarder and into the city; back into cellphone range; out of the jungle, just not away from the monkeys.
This was in my new place. Yes, I finally moved out of the family homestead; out of the baarder and into the city; back into cellphone range; out of the jungle, just not away from the monkeys.
Wednesday 5 March, 2008
The Beret goeth...
Well The Beret has left us bere(f)t. What will I blog about? Who will we bitch about?
He left on the 1st of March for six months during which time he will be driving people in The Washington Post mad. But not before he inflicted two of his famous sessions on us. The second one was actually fun because we collectively gathered the guts to challenge his ideas and it almost erupted into a full fledged yelling match. But even ten of us together were outyelled by him - he just stood up and loudly, emphatically stated his point of view. And that was that.
Well, life goes sans Beret though not post Beret.
He left on the 1st of March for six months during which time he will be driving people in The Washington Post mad. But not before he inflicted two of his famous sessions on us. The second one was actually fun because we collectively gathered the guts to challenge his ideas and it almost erupted into a full fledged yelling match. But even ten of us together were outyelled by him - he just stood up and loudly, emphatically stated his point of view. And that was that.
Well, life goes sans Beret though not post Beret.
Tuesday 26 February, 2008
Re the parallel universe me...
Got a rather prosaic explanation for why I received a call from myself. There goes my beautiful parallel universe theory.
Apparently it might be just a glitch in Nokia handsets. Dang! Too prosaic and possible. I will stay with my parallel universe...
Apparently it might be just a glitch in Nokia handsets. Dang! Too prosaic and possible. I will stay with my parallel universe...
Friday 8 February, 2008
the sessions cometh and cometh...
The Beret has been in top form.
Certain mind exercises to better our journalistic talents have been designed. I do believe these will help...but as always it is beret's approach which makes us all shudder and cross ourselves and drop down on our knees. We had the first session this week for over 3 hours starting late evening. We were all looking rather worse for the wear by the end.
And now, we have a new definition of Monday morning blues...our next session is scheduled first thing on Monday. Such joy and happiness!
Certain mind exercises to better our journalistic talents have been designed. I do believe these will help...but as always it is beret's approach which makes us all shudder and cross ourselves and drop down on our knees. We had the first session this week for over 3 hours starting late evening. We were all looking rather worse for the wear by the end.
And now, we have a new definition of Monday morning blues...our next session is scheduled first thing on Monday. Such joy and happiness!
Saturday 19 January, 2008
all sound and light...
The mind numbing cold of December makes one do rather silly things, especially the 'improving one's mind' kind of activities. Our family went, en masse, for the son et lumiere show at the Red Fort. The good folks at the fort take their work literally - only sound and light, no shadows or anything to add dimension. At least we had different colour lights. Anyhow, it rambled on about the fort was built by Jahangir (I think) and how the women of the fort were in charge of the place once a week.....
Then after Aurangazeb the place went to the dogs for the following Mughals were weak, insipid, alcoholic louts. Like the one who kept drinking (we heard him) inspite of news that some invaders or the other were descending on Delhi. All he would say amid his drunken orgy was that Delhi was still far away. Our favourite lout was this unnamed guy who, according to the Voice, fell in love with a common Slut. At this point the sound system's delicate sensibilities were overcome and it shut down for a while. After smelling salts were administered, the system recovered but started all over from the beginning. We half expected it get horrified by the S word again, but it overcame its embarrassment most manfully and continued without a glitch.
I also went for a play about Pushkin written by some Indian woman and dramatized by somebody else. It was called Pushkin's last poem (or was it letter?). With some sad acting and even worse directing, it was one of the most pathetic plays I've seen. They had this narrator who would smirk and explain the scene, and then the actors would enact whatever she said! So silly. And the play certainly did not increase my knowledge of Pushkin or his work except in that he seemed to conform to The Artist Rule, ie., all great artists should love a woman but not be with her, instead they should be womanizing drunks who no one understands and everyone persecutes. And their genius gets recognised posthumously.
Then after Aurangazeb the place went to the dogs for the following Mughals were weak, insipid, alcoholic louts. Like the one who kept drinking (we heard him) inspite of news that some invaders or the other were descending on Delhi. All he would say amid his drunken orgy was that Delhi was still far away. Our favourite lout was this unnamed guy who, according to the Voice, fell in love with a common Slut. At this point the sound system's delicate sensibilities were overcome and it shut down for a while. After smelling salts were administered, the system recovered but started all over from the beginning. We half expected it get horrified by the S word again, but it overcame its embarrassment most manfully and continued without a glitch.
I also went for a play about Pushkin written by some Indian woman and dramatized by somebody else. It was called Pushkin's last poem (or was it letter?). With some sad acting and even worse directing, it was one of the most pathetic plays I've seen. They had this narrator who would smirk and explain the scene, and then the actors would enact whatever she said! So silly. And the play certainly did not increase my knowledge of Pushkin or his work except in that he seemed to conform to The Artist Rule, ie., all great artists should love a woman but not be with her, instead they should be womanizing drunks who no one understands and everyone persecutes. And their genius gets recognised posthumously.
Saturday 12 January, 2008
The wiggle mama...and others
People do the oddest things while driving...perhaps they think they are invisible. This portly mama in front of me, on his vespa/chetak was chugging along at 40 kmph when he suddenly did an excellent butt wiggle. So out of the blue was it that for a second my cousin, S and I weren't sure if we had actually seen the wiggle. A glance at each other told us we hadn't hallucinated. (UGH! Imagine, hallucinating about plump mamas doing a butt wiggle).
I do meet some interesting mamas don't I? Ohhhhhhh! An absolute gem of the mama breed was the one I met in Toronto....classic mama, he was.
This was way back in the good old days...2007. I was visiting Buffalo and Toronto in the height of tourist season - January. I was staying with family (as always). [An aside: whoever came up with that line about mallus in every corner of the world got it wrong. The original usage had to be extended R.S. Mani clan. This was for the those in the family or as they say in TN, "those in the family way"].
Anyhow, I was staying with family, having a great time freezing while exploring downtown Toronto and getting very familiar with every Starbucks in the area. One day, my aunt said we had to go for a seemandam- 'the loading of bangles and eating pure carbs' ritual for expectant mothers. So we dutifully went to some TamBram (Iyengar specifically) house nearby. And there I was introduced to a mama (more a thatha really) who had been dying to meet me. His family was from the same village as my dad and his dad knew my granddad....and so on. So he sat me down and went into an explanation (for the benefit of others seated nearby) of how we hail from the same village and how my granddad had 9 kids and one was a doctor.....and then he says, one of her (ie me) uncles scandalously got married to an....IYER! Gasp, the horror of it! I kept trying to interrupt and say, ahem..actually it wasn't my uncle, but my dad.
Gotta love the mamas. Just gotta.
I do meet some interesting mamas don't I? Ohhhhhhh! An absolute gem of the mama breed was the one I met in Toronto....classic mama, he was.
This was way back in the good old days...2007. I was visiting Buffalo and Toronto in the height of tourist season - January. I was staying with family (as always). [An aside: whoever came up with that line about mallus in every corner of the world got it wrong. The original usage had to be extended R.S. Mani clan. This was for the those in the family or as they say in TN, "those in the family way"].
Anyhow, I was staying with family, having a great time freezing while exploring downtown Toronto and getting very familiar with every Starbucks in the area. One day, my aunt said we had to go for a seemandam- 'the loading of bangles and eating pure carbs' ritual for expectant mothers. So we dutifully went to some TamBram (Iyengar specifically) house nearby. And there I was introduced to a mama (more a thatha really) who had been dying to meet me. His family was from the same village as my dad and his dad knew my granddad....and so on. So he sat me down and went into an explanation (for the benefit of others seated nearby) of how we hail from the same village and how my granddad had 9 kids and one was a doctor.....and then he says, one of her (ie me) uncles scandalously got married to an....IYER! Gasp, the horror of it! I kept trying to interrupt and say, ahem..actually it wasn't my uncle, but my dad.
Gotta love the mamas. Just gotta.
Thursday 10 January, 2008
No Irish lakes for me...
Went for a talk in IHC (India Habitat Centre for the non Delhites). It had the intriguing title, Early Irish Mythology and India. Since I wasn't aware of any Indian connections with ancient Ireland, here was an opportunity to learn. Reached the place a bit late but found nothing going on. Some Indians and presumably Irish folks were wandering around in their evening best. The talk started over an hour late. Apparently the Irish believe in IST too - Irish Standard Time.
Anyhow, sat through some random intro speeches including this really hilarious guy called Dr.K. He was to introduce the main speaker. It was so funny I actually noted stuff down. His gems,
.....rebuilding the mammaries of the existence of ancient peoples. [That was memories if you haven't got it yet.]
Then he went on about the main speaker's interest in antiquities,
"As an Indian, I can appreciate his interest in antiquities". [As if Indians have a patent on appreciating antiquities.]
After we (colleagues and I) derived much enjoyment from these words of wisdom, the main guy with an unpronounceable Irish name (and they say South Indian names are complicated!) started talking. Apparently the names of the father and mother gods in Irish and Indian mythology is very similar. Unfortunately I didn't catch the names due to his lovely accent. After that there was no Indian connection. He just rambled on about the Celts who had some bizarre myths. No Indian angle at all. So we got bored (no visuals for us lesser non anthropology creatures) and left rudely half way through the talk. I did hear a lovely myth which I just have to share:
This is straight out of Indian movies (ah that is the connection!) with a couple on the run from the guy's father who is a god of something or the other. The pair are in spot of trouble so the girl's father gives them this wondrous magical horse. The only catch (of course there is one!) is that the hero can't let the horse stop or urinate. If either of this happened all would be lost. Imagine the fate of these star crossed lovers being dependent on a horse not peeing.
Of course, the horse stopped AND peed. And this formed a spring from which arose a lake. This is the origin story for Ireland's largest lake apparently. As for the lovers, all was not lost. The girl's dad gave them another horse. Didn't find out if this is a loop story with endlessly repeating elements. Hopefully not for I wouldn't be able to go into any lake in Ireland then!
Anyhow, sat through some random intro speeches including this really hilarious guy called Dr.K. He was to introduce the main speaker. It was so funny I actually noted stuff down. His gems,
.....rebuilding the mammaries of the existence of ancient peoples. [That was memories if you haven't got it yet.]
Then he went on about the main speaker's interest in antiquities,
"As an Indian, I can appreciate his interest in antiquities". [As if Indians have a patent on appreciating antiquities.]
After we (colleagues and I) derived much enjoyment from these words of wisdom, the main guy with an unpronounceable Irish name (and they say South Indian names are complicated!) started talking. Apparently the names of the father and mother gods in Irish and Indian mythology is very similar. Unfortunately I didn't catch the names due to his lovely accent. After that there was no Indian connection. He just rambled on about the Celts who had some bizarre myths. No Indian angle at all. So we got bored (no visuals for us lesser non anthropology creatures) and left rudely half way through the talk. I did hear a lovely myth which I just have to share:
This is straight out of Indian movies (ah that is the connection!) with a couple on the run from the guy's father who is a god of something or the other. The pair are in spot of trouble so the girl's father gives them this wondrous magical horse. The only catch (of course there is one!) is that the hero can't let the horse stop or urinate. If either of this happened all would be lost. Imagine the fate of these star crossed lovers being dependent on a horse not peeing.
Of course, the horse stopped AND peed. And this formed a spring from which arose a lake. This is the origin story for Ireland's largest lake apparently. As for the lovers, all was not lost. The girl's dad gave them another horse. Didn't find out if this is a loop story with endlessly repeating elements. Hopefully not for I wouldn't be able to go into any lake in Ireland then!
Thursday 3 January, 2008
Rockin' the baarder...
We wisely skipped the rockin' pre christmas party, if it ever occurred (I have my doubts). Instead we waited for New Year (a more secular day) and partied in our own inimitable baarder style. That basically meant partying with all old coots we live with and a couple of non coot friends. And of course, the coots out danced, out drank, out partied us young things. One of them even got these crazy lights - indescribable!
Of all places, the baarder was happening!
Unfortunately, the next day I was subjected to the beret editing my work! He's on an editing spree- none have been spared. To celebrate this he brought out the smashed milk can hat. So now we have a Stevensonian stand off between Dr. Milk Can and the benevolent (comparatively) Dr. Beret. Fun n games! [No doubt that last exclamation point would be edited out with a stern 60 minute ramble if he ever saw this blog. And that would be followed by a pathetic me back on the job market).
In between all this we were mightily entertained by K chasing V around the office after supposedly digging his nose. V is notorious for her fastidious nature. Need I say more?
Of all places, the baarder was happening!
Unfortunately, the next day I was subjected to the beret editing my work! He's on an editing spree- none have been spared. To celebrate this he brought out the smashed milk can hat. So now we have a Stevensonian stand off between Dr. Milk Can and the benevolent (comparatively) Dr. Beret. Fun n games! [No doubt that last exclamation point would be edited out with a stern 60 minute ramble if he ever saw this blog. And that would be followed by a pathetic me back on the job market).
In between all this we were mightily entertained by K chasing V around the office after supposedly digging his nose. V is notorious for her fastidious nature. Need I say more?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
