2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
Archive for personal
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.
January 30, 2008 at 12:38 am · Filed under personal
10:20 AM on the PNQ Airport clock - and I’m mumbling the choicest of profanity for two reasons. To start with, my flight’s delayed by two hours and I really need to get in to work soon. So I’m a tad - in fact, more than a tad - snappy. To make things worse, there is no Wi-Fi at this excuse for an airport. The Pune Airport ought to be called by it’s official name, the Lohegaon Airbase, because that’s precisely what it is. Jerking my head left, I can look at where the airport begins. To the right, I see where it ends. That’s how huge this airport is. Apologies, I meant airbase, of course.
I’m now on the third seat from the left or right (depending on where you’re looking from) in the second row. This offers the perfect view with very few pillars or obstructions as I look at the people around me. Which means, the women, of course.
- - -
10:25 AM - Been glancing at this random firang female - late thirties, by the way - who’s taken the Osho idea so seriously that she’s actually worn a maroon cloak that is probably just barely acceptable for travel in an aircraft. Either that, or she packed all the laundry in and forgot to leave one for the journey. Not that I’m complaining, but after a week at Koregaon Park, I’ve seen enough Harry-Potter-comes-to-Pune-like characters to last me a lifetime.
Especially at night, in the dark, they looked like Death-eaters who had a change of uniform and lost the hood. And not just one or two - but an army - and while they didn’t flash wands or scream Avada Kedavra, I’ve gone the extra mile to make sure I don’t bump into them.
Behind her walks a guy wearing a red jacket, and he’s walking towards me. The jacket has ‘Established 1983′ on it, and has got a huge black strip on either sleeve. It’s got a red zip and a black hood. Proline, Winter 2006. That irritating feeling when you see someone else wearing a piece of clothing you own as well is now scratching at my mind.
- - -
10:35 AM - A total bomb, as brown and inviting as chocolate, just passed by, with what could possibly be the ugliest, scrawniest of freaks next to her. They don’t have the same nose, so he’s obviously not related. Shucks. If only I were uglier, I might have landed this gorgeous chick someday. But hey, what’s this? The thing I love about such women is that they’re blessed with the looks to attract guys, and more importantly, me. Indeed, this Brown Bomb (did I just violate a Corner House copyright?) has a lovely frame, and is quite well endowed. What I hate about such women, though, is that they still find the need to flaunt it.
And if she wore those jeans any lower, they’d pass as denim stockings. I kid you not. She’s the kind of girl that can take the low-waist idea to trenchlike levels. Simply put, if she worked at Levi’s, they’d come out with a high-knee version this summer.
- - -
10:50 AM - I’ve been noticing this guy for the last ten minutes now, and no I’ve not turned gay. Not just yet. But I can’t help looking at this this guy so closely, because he’s standing right in front of me, screaming his ass off on the phone about some business deal involving ceramics. While on the subject, a certain Tiwari guy seems to have screwed up a deal or two, and Mr. Loudspeaker-in-front-of-me-with-his-dick-in-my-face is yelling so loud that I wonder if Tiwari even needs a phone.
To my left is an Airtel kiosk for charging mobiles, and a Chinese-looking guy is struggling to get his cellphone charged. His spouse, to his right, is in absolute surprise wondering how to get the darned charger to work, having rolled her e-ticket, one end of the roll firmly settled in her mouth. Mercifully, Loudspeaker has stopped yelling and I can get back to looking at women as opposed to what I was.
- - -
11:21 AM - Now an attractive voice on the PA system announces that it’s time for me to get checked out at the security check. It was a rather interesting security check, to be honest. According to the CISF Jawan who felt me up, my i-Pod is a detonator. He said that jokingly, of course, but insisted I screen it with my hand-baggage. When I returned, he re-did the check, and found my keychain which has my RSA SecureID on it. It’s a random number that keeps ticking and - gulp - looks exactly like what a detonator would in a really poorly done Hollywood movie. So there was this very army-like raise of the eyebrow.
‘Yeh kya hai?’
‘Sir, RSA token’
‘Kya?’
‘Yeh Laptop mein jaata hai, jab ghar se kaam kar na hai’.
I’m now seated at the corner seat of the fifth row and observing this rather attractive just-out-of-college girl who hasn’t tied her shoe-lace, by the way. And her jeans are actually helping the Airport’s sweepers with half their job. And I’ve just stopped looking.
- - -
11:42 AM - Merci my Divine Lord. Finally, my kind of girl, even if she’s with her mother. Not the thinnest yet quite attractive, she’s 5′6, wears a white Kurta and black-worn-out jeans nicely folded up, with the light-gray folds showing outside, making them look like three-fourths. Ordinary slippers but extraordinary feet and luckily her nails aren’t drenched in colour like a mid-summer’s Yash Raj flick that stars and ends with the word Jhoom.
But what really hit me about this white-top is the short hair. I’m a sucker for women with short hair, and in all certainty, this would rank right up there, making the deep-blue-clad Indi-Go ground-hostess next to her look less attractive, simply because Ms. Blue isn’t as simple. In the distance, there’s this Kingfisher one (it’s quite obvious because the skirt is worn with such obvious intent of having the male population look at it). And while I have this thing for reds, I’m not looking there either.
So, back to the bobcut, because I have little time as I board in eight minutes.
Her accessories are simple - a little denim bag, a media player now plugged in, and a murder mystery for company - Agatha Christie. She probably is Maharastrian because her mother (and it is the mother or mausi - the same nose) is yapping her goodbyes in Marathi as if they were off to Bangkok and not Bangalore. Bobcut, meanwhile, is uninterested in the conversation that’s now revealed the presence of pickle in the hand baggage.
So I’ve been hoping that the bobcut passes a glance at me and notices me noticing her, while I type frantically. But it’s not going to happen, because I’m not Brad Pitt, and Agatha Christie is such a fine writer. The Kingfisher girl has wandered away too, so I’m just waiting for the boarding call now, looking aimlessly.
- - -
11:52 AM - There’s this firang guy who has his laptop out, has crossed his arms and is now scratching the elbows, very monkeylike, if I may. Which reminds me, whatever happened to the Harbhajan hearing? Either ways, here’s the last girl I’ll describe for you, for this one is a proper Puneite who would give most Bombay girls a complex. To say that she’s forward would be to suggest that Ponting can bat. With absolutely no subtlety whatsoever, the lipstick certainly having been entirely used up for this morning alone, in she walks with a black skirt that hugs her rear so firmly that I’m worried it might get stuck. And while I don’t mind black - ever - it certainly seems like there’s a certain amount of adhesive involved. The top is - mercifully - not too deep, and fluffy, which nicely counterbalances what’s below. Her ear-rings are huge - you can shoot ping-pong balls through them - and her hair is as straight as a Tendulkar straight-drive off a Zimbabwean bowler whose surname is longer than the Amazon. She walks like she’s either been done - or will be done - and that’s a total turn-off. The kaajal is also overdone: it’s like a third-grade item-girl who found herself in a nightclub outside Sanpada station in Navi Mumbai, and suddenly decided to travel to Mumbai.
Don’t get me wrong - I just love the unsophisticated, and just hate it when they try to cross over to the other side - but this one fits the bill of slut-seeking behavior.
- - -
11:57 AM - Okay, here comes the call. Goodbye, Pune, and goodbye my bored reader, and allow me to extend my gratitude for staying with my randomness at the airport. How random can I get? No, really?
January 20, 2008 at 2:20 am · Filed under personal, tributes
Shall we have the facts out of the way, as I’m dying to let you know? I’m an Indian. I love Bangalore. I love rock. Fanatical - I repeat - fanatical about a certain Paki band. The ‘times played’ count on my iTunes for Duur is a number you won’t come across in Math until Grade Eight. Now, Bangalore is the Mecca of rock in India. And Strings were performing.
Brimming with anticipation of an evening with a band whose guitarist I idol-worship. If excitement were fluid, I was first drenched and drowned until Friday evening arrived. Excusing myself early from office to ensure I be there at time, I weaved my way through Bangalore’s unsympathetically heavy weekend traffic and was at the spot about an hour ahead of time. Had the tickets - and the complimentary Colgates - with me, waiting for a friend and two Mutineers to show up at Palace Grounds. They did, although one of them lost her way in traffic and ended up paying a nice little visit to the King in the Palace itself, before promptly making a U-turn and heading for Palace Grounds. But they showed up on time, and after being checked out frisked by a Terrier security guard who mercifully looked far from homosexual, I entered the grounds.
Cyanides, I guess, were playing then. I lost the name in the crowd that were getting restless, and they finally booed the band out of the stage because - and I must agree with them - everyone were here for one reason.
Plunging the stage into darkness, the bloke on the keyboards came up and did a quick sound-check. Keeping him company was the percussionist, a lead guitarist and a bass guitarist. Yet no signs of the Paki duo we all waited for. But a few hundred sound-checks later, they walked in. The vocalist, clothed in a no-nonsense khaki jacket, and the brilliant guitarist wearing a tight khaki t-shirt. Surprisingly, they began with their Shootout at Lokhandwala hit, Aakhri Alvida.
That woke the crowd up, it did.
Faisal took a few minutes for a chat as Bilal fiddled around with his new special red-and-white guitar. Talked about how he loved Bangalore, the Habba, that the crowd were awesome and the usual stuff an artist says at every venue. Before - and we weren’t hearing things - a certain lead played in the background. Anjane had arrived.
That was it. That got the feet moving, the arms in the air and the mouth yelling. Like a Pied Piper, Bilal got the crowd screaming huey, begaaney kyon! almost at will, as Faisal generously pointed the mike at the hundreds of people who had succumbed to their sound. When they were done, the crowd went ‘once more’ before Faisal silenced them.
‘This is a very special song’, he claimed. The lead began, and I lost what he said in the screaming crowd, catching just one word, ‘Spiderman’. Oui, na jaanay kyon it was.
And like only Faisal Kapadia can, when he went dil bhuja gaya, ghar jal gaya, na jaanay kyon, na jaanay kyon, we were with him. Perhaps relating to the song itself, perhaps lost in thought or rock, but we were lost somewhere. A rock cover for their finest song, and if truth be told, nothing short of exceptional.
What now, then? Three of their best songs and we wanted more. Took us a while to figure it out, but next up was probably a song that changed their entire careers. Into it’s sixteenth year, yet oh-so-memorable, Sar Kiyae was playing, and it got Faisal all nostalgic, as he went back to the 90s and talked about the gap of eight years. Enough talk, however, and only one word escaped the audience, before he finally put us out of our misery and struck the right note. With Bilal’s fingers holding F# firmly, and the drums picking up the beat, Faisal walked up to the front mike.
The crowd waited, and he gave us Duur. Enough said.
Zinda! screamed the crowd. Faisal replied, ‘we have a few technical problems, we can’t play that song’. Of course, he was screwing with us. When the interlude began, and yeh hai meri kahani was underway, the crowd were lost again, for the second time that evening. As Faisal set it up Anwar Maqsood’s magically penned monologue, Bilal took it forward with that awesome solo piece.
What followed next, though, was quite interesting. A tribute to Bollywood’s yesteryears, as Strings played - and mixed - rock versions of what are probably their favourites. Starting with meri umar ke naujaawanon, and as they broke into om shanti om, it was all so clear - classics are classics. Koi kahe, kehta rahe followed, mixed with main tera tu meri jaane saara hindustaan, at which Faisal asked us to sing the chorus with pakistan in it. We - of course - obliged, why, we’d even go main tera tu meri jaane saara australia if he wanted.
As the vocals paused and the rhythm continued, Faisal dropped a quick emotional line about how he likes this friendship between countries, even videotaping the crowd’s Pakistanised version for their personal record, before breaking into yeh dosti and the insturmental from Don. And then, three more tributes, beginning with aa dekhe zara, milgaya, hum ko saathi milgaya and finally ending it with yeh jawaani. At the end of the extended tribute, ten-odd minutes of rock where Bollywood was celebrated, we were both tired and overwhelmed in love for music. Unsurprisingly.
Next followed a rock lullaby, and expect Strings to carry it off - Soja, before they finally wrapped up their show - and nearly the show itself - with Dhaani. With Adeel on the lead guitar, Shaakir on the bass, Haider on the keyboards and Yasir on the drums, they gave us an evening I’ll find it hard to forget.
The MC hopped on stage, a Carmelite surely. It’s only at Mt. Carmel’s in Bangalore that they teach you to pronounce the word “more” like the way an American would pronounce the word “mow”. So, when she went, “Bangalore, do you want mow?”, ours was an affirmative response that very nicely asked her to get off stage and have the music back.
Parikrama followed soon after, and after a few zillion sound checks (again), their lead vocalist mercifully went ‘to hell with the technicalities, let’s rock’, before giving us their original compositions. In walked Saif, and as women went ‘ooh’ and guys went ‘wtf’, a rather off-colour Saif picked up his guitar and settled himself next to the lead-vocalist. And as a red T-shirt hugged his short frame with the word ‘Hendrix’ on it, Saif and Parikrama - as they claimed - ‘kicked some ass’.
But after the Strings hangover, their performance eventually turned out to be uninteresting, pepped up by the appearance of Robin Uthappa and Sreesanth who were at the concert for I-don’t-really-know-what but were - and this must be a crime - gifted a guitar each. A Fender, for Haysoos’ sake. Second time I’ve seen Saif gift a guitar and it wasn’t me. Criminal.
Either ways, the cops arrived and the lead vocalist was eventually forced to gesture at Saif to put an end to the show. Which they did, and as Ms. Carmelite read out the sponsor’s name, I walked out of Palace Grounds with an aftertaste of Dhaani, the Zinda lead still ringing in my ears.
Awesome, simply awesome, and I can’t wait for Strings to be back. Faisal and Bilal, guys, here’s a request from your biggest fan: for the sake of Bangalore, yeh aakhri alvida na ho.
December 25, 2007 at 12:57 pm · Filed under personal
Had stepped out last evening to indulge in a bit of stargazing. Mars, they said, was right next to the moon. Maybe it was. Not sure, if the bright red star just above the moon was the one. Either ways, I wanted to believe it, and get over with it.
He calls up from somewhere around OMR, asks me his usual, “’sup bro”.
“The sky.”
“Lovely tonight, ain’t it?.”
“Certainly.”
“Went to church? Oh, Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“You too. Yeah, just got back from there. Nothing great happening, not like the good old days.”
“What good old days?”
“Remember St. Mary’s in Dubai?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s funny, I remember asking Father Daniel not to ask the girls to stop wearing deep necks and sleeveless to church.”
“Oh, did you? (laughs) What did he say?”
“Shrugged, and told me it’s church.”
“Lovely human, is Father Dan.”
“Absolutely.”
“Remember the crib we made?”
“Hell, yeah. And I asked Father Dan then too, while spraying those cotton snowflakes, how could Jesus be born in deep winter, because the Bible says that shepherds were outdoors at night with their flocks.”
“Luke?”
“Eeeeeeeeyup.”
“What did Father Dan say?”
“Said he was impressed that a non-Catholic’s knows his Bible.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. Surely, he knows, he’s just a mysterious man. I didn’t want to press it either.”
“True.”
(silence)
“Sup?”
“The sky.”
“It’s lovely, bro.”
“Mars looks like it’ll plant a celestial kiss tonight. On the moon, of course.”
“Hmm, don’t think there’ll be any outer-space collisions. Those Alien STC bastards are nice.”
“STC?”
“Space Traffic Controllers.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, like the air-traffic ones in space who - ”
“Dude, I got it.”
“Okay. Sandman, what’s with you bro? Mars kissing the moon? No profanity? You’ve been skygazing? All okay?”
“Yeah, I am. And hey, I love looking at the stars. You know me, I’m a Centaur.”
“As much as I am. Firenze was hotter though.”
“Firenze? Yeah, but he had filthy teeth, probably brushed them every time Halley’s comet went past him.”
“They see Mars better than you do.”
“I see it myself, bro, there she is, a bright shining red.”
“Here we go again. What’s wrong with you man?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“But you’re right, it looks beautiful in red.”
“Well, not as beautiful as someone I know.”
(silence) He wasn’t sure what to say. After about three minutes, “Hey!”
“Yeah.”
“Sands?”
“Yeah?”
“’sup, bro.”
Yeah, what was up after all? Why am I being so stupidly romantic? Poetic? Am I in love? Or is it just an infatuation? Or am I still stuck in the trench of the October sorrow? Will someone tell me what the fuck is happening with me? I didn’t know what to tell the guy on the other side of the phone, so I just looked up at the carpet of blue.
“The sky.”
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