2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
September 25, 2008 at 4:10 am · Filed under personal
Finally, I’ve come out of my writing shell. It might rain after all, tomorrow — perhaps a hailstorm. Sorry for ruining the weather, folks, and a quick word of apology directed and hurled at the Met office too.
And what brought about the change, did you ask? Well, you didn’t, but here’s me giving it to you anyway: coffee. Yes, holy, blessed coffee.
So, um, in the last few months, shit happened, to say — or write — or blog — the least. A few health issues, with myself. Mom went through problems of her own, kidney-stone, the likes (which is, by the way, all fine now). Someone extremely important — to me, atleast — decided to leave the city. The friends I used to hang out with — the gang — decided to just turn anti-social. Was left lonely, bigtime. In a space of two days, then, I lost a very, very close friend in a freak bus-accident in Chennai: something that many of us haven’t entirely recovered from. We still scrap him on Orkut, hoping he reads it someday, knowing fully that it isn’t going to happen.
Now that *that* is out’a the way, on to the climaxial metamorphosis.
So, after aforementioned lifecrap hurled at yours truly, I had two options: take it on the chin, bravely, and move on — or retract into a shell. I, wise and uber-intelligent as I am, picked the latter. All that amazing know-how of how great it is to be by yourself. And honestly, I kind of enjoyed it too. The long drives all by myself at night (well, not exactly *all* by myself, if you consider the playlist and an overload of Evanescence, MLTR, Westlife, the works). I’d start to spend late-nights at work, and though my worse days had started, the firm’s better days arrived automatically. Project were over before deadlines, people started recognizing me as Mr. Dependable at work. Things like that happen when you have issues.
Issues. Too light a word, methinks. The right word to describe my behaviour is something else, however, I’m blessed between my legs, as a result, it just isn’t technically accurate. So let’s just say I had issues. Mood swings, would keep randomly mum, not laugh at crazy jokes, you know? Yes, exactly. Periods.
But *that* was until one fine day, when I decided to try something different. A shot in the dark, or to be precise, at sunset. Hopped along into CCD and invited someone I don’t hang out with too much. To quickly introduce her, she works in my building, stays close-by, is a Mozzy, is a Mount Carmel product and can talk. The guy at the Nandidurga CCD went, “Sir? New gang today?”
“No gang. Just one and she’ll be here soon.”
“Oh. And what will you have sir?”
“Cappucino. Extra shot of Espresso, please.” I had two vodkas, the previous day, and suddenly the idea of vodka and caffeine turned me on with espressolust.
The coffee arrived, and so did she. And like most women do, late. In no time, her rear was rested on the black CCD couch (okay, I just got racist at a couch, forgive me Mr. Barack Osama, but I was being descriptive). I asked her if she’d like some cake, while quickly glancing at aforementioned rear to figure out if it would make a difference. Unlike the coffee, the rear wasn’t all that heavenly, and I’m sure her frame could live with the crime of a slice of Chocolate Fantasy.
Fast forward to a few minutes, when the cake had arrived. She wasn’t a great looker, and I instead eyed the hard horizontal chunk of chocolate at the top of her cake, as the lips made chocosexual contact with that extra shot of coffee.
The woman, however, swallowed down the Fantasy in no time. I made a quick mental note and update to my in-memory proverb dataset: a hungry man is an angry man, and a hungry woman is a bitch.
She had to rush, apparently. So we rammed into the car (into, not *in*, we didn’t ram *in* the car, the word was *into*, so stop that thread of thought right there) and headed out. That’s when she struck a little albeit signpost-like conversation in my life.
“I was wondering … you’re different at work, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Formal and all professional. No curses, and here you are, a different person. Five years younger too.”
I’m glad she said ‘five’. Two years more and she would be calling me a minor. I hate being called a minor.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s like that. You should see me at night though.”
No, I didn’t mean that. A clarification beckoned, instantly, and even as I started it, the inquiring eyebrows were out.
“I mean, when I’m alone, by myself, I drive out, late at night. To … contemplate things.”
“Hmm.”
I’m a firm believer in the thought that the word “hmm” murders conversations. However, in her case, I was wondering if she knew what “contemplate” meant. I didn’t think Carmelites were too bright, but hey, forgive me: it generally looks like all babe and no brain when you drive by *that* college, you know.
“You’re not a bad guy, you know? You need to just … be yourself, I think.”
Bing! A perfect stranger and she said the words I wanted to hear. I’d started to think, and feel better. Before my fornicated piece of mobile communication decided to ring, and before my fornicated idea of requesting her to hold on to my blessed, virgin Espresso materialised, and took effect.
“Hello?”
It was aforementioned-important-person-who-was-then-leaving who wasn’t entirely pleased that I was in CCD with female company who just didn’t happen to be her. Oops. So I focused on the call. What I didn’t focus on, of course, was the evil, mother-effing pothole lying in stealth on the road ahead. Sure enough, I went over it.
Now, normally, when a vehicle goes over a pothole, you’d expect people holding coffee to take protective action. You’d “expect” it, won’t you? Well, I did. And what I got in return was an ‘oops’ followed by a nice, big stain of coffee on my lovely white t-shirt. Provogues, for the record, is a second-skin. I think I was born with it, almost. Like Karna and the Kavacha and Kundals, you know?
And, because my middle name is Muriel and my surname is mighty close to Bing, I couldn’t resist a crazy pick-up line.
“There are *better* ways of getting my shirt off, you know?”
She laughed. I thought she’d apologize, or even better, wipe my shirt for me. I mean, if I spilt coffee on her top, I’d lick it all back. For the coffee, of course.
So, with half the coffee wasted and a Provogue white shirt ruined, I dropped her at home pronto and rushed for a change. That was certainly the last time I met her. It doesn’t matter if her rear was firmer, or if she assumed the shape and form of Giselle Bundchen. I would *never* date a girl who doesn’t share my respect for coffee and Provogue.
But she made me think. And think I did. Until I realised, that hey, I perhaps just *must* be myself. So here’s a little thank-you to the carmelite who I haven’t spoken to since. ‘Thanks, girl.’
Meanwhile, I’m on a roll since. New friends. Very, very, important and much needed new gang. Old gang looks like it’ll shape up soon. New-found rhythm at work. No more ‘issues’. And while the car does have *her* periods — she heats up, refuses to budge, and now isn’t honking, just isn’t horny enough — I’m on a little roll of myself in life with the occasional day off-colour. Happens to the best of us, you know. (as I quietly suggest, unknowing to you, in a fleeting moment of self-praise and boastfulness, that the best of us is me, or unknowing it was until I just pointed it out a few words back).
Tell you what? A lot can happen over coffee after all.
May 10, 2008 at 2:05 am · Filed under personal, photoblog
1940 HRS. The 37 degrees that the pilot promised prompted me to lose the jacketlike Provogue I wore over a thin, white cotton t-shirt. A hint of perspiration as I step out, for the first time in sixteen years, to meet the sultry capital. A huge airport, with lovely conveyor belts, excellent displays, and announcements going off in Hindi and English as opposed to the Kannada I am accustomed to. The baggage arrives on time, the support staff smiles, and even before you leave the airport, the city’s already invited you.
We drive out of the airport right into the road to Gurgaon and then to the central part of town. The roads are well lit, and I’m surprised at the lane-discipline being observed. Even more surprised to note that each and every driver out there has strapped his seat-belt. The traffic crawls like it does in the city I belong to, but it’s organized. Civilized. Back home in Bangalore, a four-wheeler will manufacture space meant for a two-wheeler in the midst of the winding snake of vehicles, and even as that happens, a rickshaw quietly sneaks in that one moment of driving genius or bastardisation, depending on which vehicle you’re sitting in. None of it here.
We’re now driving to the center, or should I say, The Center. Soon, buildings that otherwise seduced me in Bollywood reruns start to appear. Rashtrapathi Bhavan. The Parliament. Buildings I can’t put a name to. And then, finally, there it stands. India Gate, lit at night, rekindling memories of a certain Rakeysh Mehra movie that changed the way I think forever. And as the national strength of the nation carved into the structure looks at me, the goose bumps arrive. But the lights go out before I can click a snap, and though the gate now lurks in the dark concealing the pride in the night, the goose bumps refuse to leave.
Where the patriot met his nation. And when she smiled back at him, flaunting her grace, her might, and her beauty. And when he fell in love with her. Again.
Delhi, tonight.
April 6, 2008 at 8:27 pm · Filed under bollywood
I’m not blind - I admit, Kareena Kapoor is one of the hotter women I’ve seen out there, but whether that new firmly-toned body of hers really merits a tattoo on Saif Ali Khan’s hand - or any other part of his body - is questionable. I, for one, would have little space left on my relatively larger frame if I were to tattoo the names of the women I’ve loved, love, and will love in the foreseeable future.
But the question that’s eating me is this: is it just me, or are others too wondering if Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan have timed this just before the release of Tashan, where they both star together? Does a movie require painful body-art - and a love story attached to it - to gain traction? Isn’t the fact that Tashan is a Yash Raj production good enough for publicity? The very same Yash Raj who gave a movie like Chak De, and a movie flickshit like Jhoom Barabar Jhoom last year?
So, before we digress too much, tattoos. I’m all for it, I mean, what better way than to inscribe her name on a limb (or a rear) and dedicate it for the love of your life. But one must question the wisdom of Saif Ali Khan here. To begin with, Kareena Kapoor has demonstrated in her past relationships that she is as loyal to men as leaves are to trees in autumn. Not that Saif has the best track-record either, so considering these factors, a tattoo might just be going too far.
And please do consider that Bollywood is so seduced by numerology these days. If people do krazzy things, like make moviees - named Karzzzz - add ‘e’ in their names, then what’s the guarantee that the name won’t change? What if she takes a leaf out of SRK’s Darr performance and calls herself Kkkkareena? If they could do that to Kkusum, they could do it to her too, right?
While on the subject, I personally think the position of the tattoo is important. A tattoo on the hands, for instance, expresses support. A tattoo on the chest might reflect where the guy keeps his girl, in his heart. It might get interesting: a tattoo on the back would mean the girl is piggybacking on him, and a tattoo on any of the rears would mean, well, never mind.
Yesterday, I went to this store to get a new arrowhead that would sit in the old piercing, and I came across this guy who had a tattoo all over his neck that sprouted onto his back, of a snake. I’m starting to believe in this, really. I think in the rare event that I build a Godlike body for myself, I might actually end up tattooing a name on it. Atleast, I’d do it for the girl, and not for a movie.
So I’ve decided. I’m getting a tattoo done the day I get a great body and a steady girlfriend, both of which currently seem remote. While on the lookout for the girl, I’ll of course try my best to look for a North Indian, or a Maharastrian. No, Raj Thackeray hasn’t brainwashed me (yet) but atleast the names of the women in that part of India are short and sweet. Anu, Ria, Pooja. Come down south and you have Jayalakshmis to Bhanupriya, Bhagyashree or Bhanuwati. Or - gulp - Priyadarshini. To make that tattoo would, um, hurt.
Well, atleast I don’t live in Colombo, if that’s some relief. Spare a thought for Chaminda Vaas’ lovelife’s name if she were to do such an absurd thing. With all due respect to her frame, I highly doubt if ‘Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas’ would fit.
Highly, highly, doubt it.
March 28, 2008 at 7:10 pm · Filed under fiction
To begin with, the last few days for him have seen a few paradigm shifts, well-aligned with the numbness we associated earlier.
For as long as I can remember, he has been driven by enthusiasm, motivation, and a perpetual appetite to live life to the fullest. For the first time ever in his short life, he now sees himself losing these very things that govern the way he lives. People talk about him being wiser than his years because of skill or experience. Someone suggested the other day that he is a lot more responsible than he ought to be as a result of events that have happened in his life. All that accounts to, and amounts to absolutely nothing. The only thing that’s kept him going and perhaps will is one word: attitude. He lives to win and wins to live. He wants to be excited throughout the day and night about anything he does, and most importantly, he is a die-hard optimist who considers himself sensible enough to bring in pragmatism wherever necessary. For him, pessimism equates to fatality. Until the recent past where he - and this comes as a shock as he admits it here - has simply lost interest in the things that excited him the most from cursing the strays in Bangalore to gulping down coke to table tennis, geeky studies and - shudder - writing.
To say that it’s taken a hit on his relationships with people is an understatement. But incidents have happened, people have changed, and people have either distanced themselves too much or gotten too close for comfort that it’s made him look into the mirror every single day and made him question, ‘why are you not yourself anymore?’.
But today, he didn’t ask that question. Simply because he didn’t need to. He wasn’t being someone else anymore. This is how he is now, and it’s here to stick.
The guy has gotten nastier, a lot more rude. Shallower. He’s not erratic, yet there’s a sense of unpredictability that comes along with him. At times he gets so evil that he perhaps doesn’t realize the impact. There have been formal, written apologies on blogs from people as a result of his anger or wrath, as he remains oblivious to the power he commands and influence he has over his friends and foes. But these aren’t the scary things about him.
The scariest bit, about this particular individual who places himself as the ideal pivot, a bridge amongst people, is his willingness to let go of things he held dearly. For instance, the people he loves, his family, his friends, the girl he’s bonkers about, close friendships, close associations with events, communities, things that he insisted he did for the cause. He’s reached this stage where he gives it up effortlessly and easily, without a hint of hesitation or regret. It’s rendered him lonely, and the best part is, he loves the seclusion. There have been instances where people have tried their best to penetrate through his iron-carpet of silence or humor, and they’ve all failed. Humor is a powerful weapon, but a better shield - and his humor, like Scorcese would put it, was savage, one that came out of a great deal of pain. Those who tried too hard or nearly made it through - he ignored them entirely for an eternity. His harshest punishment is the unsaid, the unspoken, the unwritten.
No longer is he a team player, a knot of sorts. He prides himself on his newfound love - solitude. The intent for the causes will come back. The associations should. The friendships might. The love won’t. The damage is irreparable. The cavity caused, unfathomable. And the future? Unpredictable.
March 15, 2008 at 11:39 pm · Filed under travelogue
It isn’t often that it happens. The odds of yours truly spending two days absent from the blogosphere are the same as that of PotUS bombing the right nation. Either ways, I kind of hibernated for a bit, after an all-hands meeting at the Pune office before we kicked off for what I’d been gearing up for. Oh, do allow me to digress for a bit as I wonder why it’s called all-hands when indeed all-limbs, rears and other vital organs also made it with the rest of the frame. Anyhow, we were moving out, and a 44-seater Volvo beckoned us before driving up to the Fariyas Resort at Lonavala.
Yippe-yip-yeah. STC had started, finally.
For those out there scratching their brains and rears figuring out what in Haysoos’ name STC is and why it gets to go on my blog, heck, I’m a PSG bloke and the STC is like a once-in-a-year event where I get to meet other PSG folks and chat. The STC is actually a Summer Technical Conference, but like most events in India, things get delayed so we conveniently rechristened it Spring Technical Conference, although I’m tempted to call it Summer after all with the blazing sun in Lonavala. For the record, the blasted TIBCO jackets we got at the end didn’t exactly do much to cool things down.
Right, so we went off a tangent again. So, um, yeah, STC. ‘Twas fun, serious fun (if that means anything), especially the team building sessions by the HR consultants, and those silly little games that (damn-me) suddenly made shitloads of sense.
The most interesting part of the STC was a session by the Director of Sinhgad Institute of Management, Dr. George Judah, we figured out a lot of things we knew but perhaps still needed to be told. On the importance of the right-brain left-brain getting together, on how you treat people the way they want to be treated, on random yet focused stuff like not allowing things to affect you, etc. Being optimistic, and stuff around that. I’m probably downplaying it but it was a motivational talk and a half, and thanks to Parag who arranged it for us, it really did make a lot of sense, except the stroking but. When he first went, you ought to stroke your loved ones a bit more, I was like - hello? - until he mercifully clarified that ’stroke’ in the context hadn’t had much to do with sexuality. Like a verbal ‘I love you’ stroke, and so forth. Imagine calling up my girl and telling her, ’sweetheart, I wanna stroke you’. That’d be like Armageddon 2008.
So Dr. Judah is a fun guy, vocal, emotive and absurdly funny. The guy doesn’t tickle your funny bone, no-siree, he crushes it and shatters it to bits with his lovely little ‘Mrs. Judah’ jokes that are hilarious to hear. If you bump into him during your morning walk around the society he stays in, do drop in a hello or two, I’m sure you’ll get home smiling for the rest of your day. Oh, and he’s vegetarian and an ex-combat pilot, so think twice before you offer him a fried sausage unless you want a MiG’s missile up your rear.
And the biggest take-away from the STC? I’d love to be all pompous - modesty be damned - and say that it was the award, the ‘Best Team Player’ award, that PSG India gave me. Apparently the guys who picked me overlooked my rebellious attitude and affinity to the back-bench. Or I’m doing a good job of hiding it all from them. And if they read this, rest assured I ain’t getting ‘Best Team Player’ 2008-09 ;-)
No, the biggest take-away was the networking. And I don’t mean the women, there really weren’t any at the resort we were staying that’ll make my head turn twice (or for that matter, once) save a firang mom who looked like she smoked enough to give the Fariyas chimney a complex. No, not the women. I met up with the PSG folks and I can finally say that I ‘know’ them all. Which is cool, you know, considering I’ve been banished from the clan for a year. Also met up with an old colleague from the Bombay office and someone I’d never heard of before from the US who’s now in Bombay, and they’re both the kind of people I love to work with - sensible, smart, fun, and most important of all, zero attitude.
Ah, fuck it, who am I kidding anyway? It was the blasted award that I liked the best about the STC. Okay, was kidding.
Well, that’s that for now. Anyone who missed me while I was away, save your tears, I’m back. For those who didn’t, go blow yourself (up), and I’m back anyway.
Until next time, see you around folks.
- Sandy
P.S. I came absurdly close to being officially gang-raped by my team on Thursday night. I mean physically. I luckily escaped with minor injuries, seven bruises, a messed up t-shirt, a messed-up pair of jeans and a few minutes of my life I’d do well to forget. Worse, there’s a photograph of the aforementioned attempt at intercourse that made it to - you guessed right - my own bloody presentation. So much for corporate stringency, and guess what, I’m loving it :-)
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