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.

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.

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.

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.

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 :-)

- - -

He walked out of the third lane, with his backpack, puffing at a few David-Offs to keep warm. Reduced to a zombie. Stretching his arm out, he stopped the first rickshaw that came towards him, got into it, and asked the driver to make a U-turn and keep driving. Putting the meter into action, the rick sped off in the other direction, straight on.

Inside the rickshaw, he took the weapon out, and started to sharpen it.

‘Kuthey?’

Nothing. The rickshawaala repeated his question a couple of times, but the passenger had no response at all. He was still sharpening the knife, the fatal metal-meets-metal sound that rung loud in the darkness. By then, the rickshaw driver had enough, and looked back at Sam. He was arguing and abusing frantically now, but there was still no reply.

The driver finally gave up, flipped the meter back to its original position, and as it read ‘For Hire’, jerked his thumb, gesturing for the passenger to leave. It was the end of the ride.

But the knife had gone in.

The ride had ended a lot earlier.

But yes, he loved her. Perhaps it’s only fitting that we quote his affection in past-tense. As a result of the events that followed, he went back to his most able shoulder of solitude, something he knew would never let him down. In fact, seclusion is a blessing so divine that even God has left it for Himself - apologies, but it must be awfully lonely up there all alone for you? - and maybe that’s a good thing.

Oops, lest we forget, He has the angels for company.

One of the plus points from such situations is how the heart responds, and as a result, how otherwise unwritten things would go up on blogs such as this. Not that it mattered to him. From day one, from his first lie and his first realization of the truth, he’d been maintaining this separate blog dedicated to her. A collection of random letters, stories and verses that painfully narrate every little feeling that ever stemmed for her.

While the world has been breaking its head to get into SEO and get their blogs listed right up there, he did the opposite. His feelings are private, in the sense, Google cannot index them. Yet, they’re there for the world to see. More importantly, for her to see.

It’s really what it is - a ‘blog’ - a web log - a log of all the incidents that happens, relevant to her and otherwise. It’s his personal diary she has perhaps been craving to read. But she’ll never get to see it, and when she will, he would’ve walked away too far.

Thing is, he’s already walking away. Hardnosed pragmatism seduces men, and empowers them with the ability to move on and out of a dark cavity.

Of course, this does mean that there is a change, not exactly the kinds that Obama’s preaching about, but a change nevertheless. He wouldn’t know if it’s constructive or drastic, simply because it’s difficult to fathom the extent of evolution from within the subject itself. He might have gotten tougher. What he did know was, he went silent. Mum. Zip.

Silence, as they all say, is golden. In that manner, it’s precious. Because silence leaves a lot unspoken, and it’s ironically the unspoken that stings the most, and hardest. But this isn’t just straightforward silence, no. He isn’t the kind of person who can keep quiet for too long. Which is precisely why he has the other blog where he can type away, a race of the fingers against the keys fuelled by desire. It keeps him ticking.

Besides going silent, he also went a bit numb, as the reluctance to react only shot up. In the past few months, joyous things have happened, so much so that, when someone asks him ‘how’s life’, the automatic response is ‘never been better’. Yet, he rarely punches the air in delight, or even intends it. He rarely exclaims his previous ‘yays’ and ‘wows’ and ‘cools’, resorting to the single, dry, unsympathetic, unapologetic and insensitive letter that murders chat conversations, ‘k’. It reflects his actual personality, and more importantly, the change, because here was a guy who couldn’t contain his joy previously. Now, it almost seems there’s no joy left.

It kind of scared him until he chanced upon a Kahlil Gibran quote yesterday, thanks to a helping hand, which summed it all up using real-estate as an example.

The deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Ah, there you go.

Credits:

You-know-who - who’ll one day chance upon his blog when it’s too late for the both of them.

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?’

‘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?

Respect. It’s a word a real die-hard traditional fan of cricket would preserve for few. Forget Dhoni, forget Boucher. The world has never - and will never - see an opening batsman, a hard-hitter and a wicketkeeper of such fine quality, both skills coming together to such perfection.

But this isn’t about Gilchrist the batsman. It isn’t even about the ‘keeper. Much has been said and written about his freaky ability to juggle both responsibilities, of ’setting a benchmark’ and whatnot.

It’s about Gilchrist, the magnificent sportsman, whose greatness was only underlined by the humility of his achievements in an otherwise arrogant Australian side. For me, the very fact that Gilchrist walks when he edges, or only appeals for ones he genuinely thinks is out, is a mark of a fine man. A cricketer who has his feet so firmly grounded in the ethics of the game, and if it weren’t for the likes of Gilly and Dravid, one would refuse to associate anything gentlemanly with the game of cricket.

And that’s what needs to be underscored. Australia might look into their reserves and maybe even pick a class wicketkeeper who could match Gilchrist’s record. Maybe they’ll find him to be a better batsman than Gilchrist - no one knows. But it’s perfectly safe to say that, there are very few gems in the game who are so loved even by the opposition.

For that, my friends Down Under, let me tell you that Gilchrist is simply irreplaceable.

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.