Making Sense of HIS Future

Thou art anybody...

2011-09-10T23:42:00.000+05:30

Go to any new-age bookstore. You get an opportunity to browse through a lot many books by authors you haven't even heard of.

I remember browsing through one such author's book, who happened to be a Bengali (by surname at least). I remember the story starting with the protagonist dreaming about romping on the bed with his favorite porn star.

The book would probably have an enchanting story a few pages forward. But I was personally, put off by such an intro. These days, a virtual almighty like Google, gives you the freedom to express whatever you feel through Blogspot. But it fails to teach people to practice restraint.

However, it is still a great thing like self-proclaimed authors like me to obtain a taste of fame. Some amongst us are so unrestrained, that they get hold of publishers sitting on heaps of cash and try making a quick buck. The rest, including me, have very little intelligence but do understand that we go nowhere close to selling even a single percentage of each of the classics we've read till date.

Do you have an account on Picasa web or Flickr? And did you think you would share your little one's photos with her grandparents, who rarely get a chance to meet her?

Such websites aren't for you, ol' chap. It is meant for your friends, who constantly pester you to look at the photos they've taken during their recent trip to Pattaya or something random they've clicked on their trip to their home city.

You might fail to understand the context behind his girlfriend's unkempt hair on frames. You might end up spotting lice running amok on a few strands, trying hard to understand and appreciate the concept.

You might as well fail to comprehend the importance of a blank frame.

As I said, these websites are not for you, buddy. Everyone wielding a DSLR these days is a photographer. Gone are those days, when a person owning a Kodak or Fuji one-shot stuff held some status in the society. These days, everyone is Raghu Rai.

Dare you ask explanation of a photo. You'll lose your social standing, your girlfriend will leave you - you will, in a way, be devastated by the intelligentsia tremor.

Do you love Dev and Jeet's films amongst new-age Bengali commercial cinema? Do you like Raj Chakraborty and Jeet Ganguly? Do you still listen to commercial Bengali film songs? YOU KIDDING ME??????????????????

And you say so after having obtained education from top institutions? I'd once answered that I can't deny my roots, which humbler than you can think. So, I love simple and humble movies, which don't require me to rack my brains to figure out the plot. And after a tiring day at work, I do not have the eagerness or ability to think hard on a movie. I just want to sit back and relax my mind. I had received a scornful look.

The age belongs to Kurosawa and Fujiyama. Tarkovskiy and ScotchWhiskey. Yes, films from foreign tongues, whose wagging is hebrew to you. And just about everybody, working for the numerous BPOs and KPOs that line the major arteries of your city, is a renowned film-critic. Again, like the still pictures, you aren't allowed to ask questions about the plot of the moving pictures, you are forced to watch at times. If not for anything, for the sake of your girlfriend, you should appreciate every dialogue delivery, even when you are distracted and miss the subtitle.

Are you PIOUS? DON'T TELL ME!!! That's the GREATEST BLASPHEMY on EARTH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, my dear friend. Your theism can turn your life upside down. The real righteousness lies in being a leftist idealogue. Oops, there's an option of being a left-liberal too! Although, I fail to understand how the latter is different from being a rightist or the relevance of the former during a single period in history. I said, I'm not intelligent.

The intelligentsia would waste no time marking you one of the dirty sadhus, as dirty as the Ganges has got by washing away people's sins for centuries. You may be as vocal a protester against the foolery that goes on at times in the name religion, as them. But never mind, you are pious, and that says it all. Moreover, you are allowed to speak against your own religion. Not others, however wrong they may be. You become communal otherwise.

Weird are thy ways,
that steals the aura of humility.
As if the intelligent warrior slays,
my 'born-poor' sensibility.

I failed to decipher your shades,
and you left me in the lurch.
Pious is the new blasphemous,
in the new-age church.

Time flies fast,
every second there's a lot to lament.
Yet, I express my gratitude,
for not being blessed, intelligent!

Reality derives pleasure in dressing up, using cosmetics of complexity. It is far removed from you - one who, even with zero make up, unkempt attire and gym tracksuits, looks ethereal. I told you so, M... C???

Organized and Changed?

2011-09-04T01:23:00.000+05:30

They say, 'change is the only constant'. I do not know who said it first, though. Earlier this year, my beloved home state underwent a change in administration to the pleasure of a majority and just last month, the state's name was changed to a funny sounding Bengali translation, when spelt in English, to a majority's displeasure. So, whether you like it or not, change is inevitable and you got to accustom to it, or rot. Almighty, please instill into the initiators of illogical changes, some sense. I sing a silent hymn I heard at a Ganapati Puja pandal today -

Jai ho Pawan Kumar,

tori sakti hai apaar,

hey Bajrangballi,

vinti sunle hamaar.

Sunle hamaar, vinti sunle hamaar...

(That's it. And I repeat, I heard this at a Ganapati Puja venue, not the closest Hanuman Mandir. There, I hear again, "main to aarti utaaroo re, Santoshi mata ki...", at the same pandal.)

Take my case. I had started blogging on this particular platform more than a year ago, after shutting down two other platforms I was maintaining at that point. And my performance on the blogging platforms changed from singing paeans to love, friendship and all that is good to spewing venom at my enemies, albeit under a pen-name, "demented actuary". My posts at that point, harped on tumultuous lives of corporates. Mishaps in life, change you completely, or so, one should believe.

But then again, there was another change in less than a year's time. I dropped my pen-name. There were valid reasons. While spotting a faint streak of light at the end of a pitch-dark tunnel, didn't require me to remain an actuary under dementia any more, on another hand, I was also growing more shameless with age and experience. The drop of pen-name won me friends, foes and friend-turned-foes. Win or loss, my blogging style underwent a change for sure - in terms of frequency and content.

Yes, the major cause of my not being a demented actuary any more was the moving away of the major characters I spewed venom at. Some say they moved away voluntarily. Others, who I call friends, say they were forced to do so. But what about my thoughts on MBAs emerging from the western shores of this great country? You know what, I myself moved far far away, mentally, from the lovely and enchanting city of Pune. My stand on MBAs from the westen shores haven't changed a great deal. Its just that I have stopped making my stand public. A slight change there.

I was tuned into YouTube, listening to Mere Brother ki Dulhan songs, when I started reflecting on this a couple of days back. The playlist started with, "matrimonial si aankhein...".

I convey my respect to the Indian Defence Services personnel and love, to their families day in and day out. The personnel and their immediate families, are a marriage made in heaven. Just reflect on the number of sacrifices these families make so that other families can sleep in peace in the comforts of their home. Reflect on the sacrifices these families make so that politicians and a good number of businessmen in this country can indulge in corrupt practices undeterred. And surely, you can't do that in a minute.

dil se Dilli ho woh dhadkan se ho London,

dhoondoon main dhoondoon...

What do the personnel get after over 2 decades of service? What do their enough sacrificing children get? Brother ki dulhan? No they get an MBA degree.

They spend something close to five hundred thousands INR for that, may be higher. Do they learn anything new, that others don't know? Come to think of it, while her father is protecting his countrymen, the beautiful daughter of an army Major fights lecherous beasts day in and out, often in the national capital, all by herself and rarely with any aid. Such an action, for me, most surely epitomizes Ma Durga's deeds. The young woman surely is to be revered. The only son of a Lieutenant has to shoulder enough responsibilities, while other boys concentrate on XBOXes and Playstations, at a very young age.

But what about the 5L MBA?

The auto-playlist changed immediately as I was reflecting and researching on these two questions.

Ishq fikar da chadde palla
Maujein karta ho ke jhalla, jee ve
Ishq mein dilda hoya fakeeri
Maange sab ki khair sukhayya, jee ve
Gira deewarein, laga lalkaarein
Ishq di masti de vich sauvey te jaage
Dhunki dhunki dhunki laage...

You know what, Google at times is nasty enough to point starkly at uncomfortable truths. And I chanced upon this article which detailed the arrest of about 90 youths from an army-bred prestigious institution on the western shores of the country arrested from an illegal rave party, in 2010. Come to think of it. A respectable job. Always marching forward. Bowing your head, only before the Mother country and the National flag. At the end of two decades, bowing your head to sign your child's bail undertaking.

If I was an initiator of change, I would reward the army personnel by doing away with all OBC-SC-ST quotas and creating better quotas for the economically challenged and youth with defence background at IITs and IIMs. If not anybody else, it is we the taxpayers' responsibility to invest in the betterment of sections that actually has already done or has the potential to really do something for the country.

What does the 5L MBA teach by the way?

I've changed my shopping style as well. I feel pity for InOrbit mall, Hyderabad merchants. Just as HyperCity and Crossword were about to crown me best window shopper of the decade, I bought a book and became a regular at the grocery section of the mega departmental store.

Probably MBA degrees and globalisation has brought about an important change. During my father's era, labourer category people usually shopped from markets selling cheaper stuff and officers went posh and more established ones. Today, MD at my organization and I pick up stuff from the same shelf. He doesn't recognize me. I do, but unlike earlier, hold my ground and don't let him jump the queue at the billing counter.

And talking of queues, its here you experience mastery at business administration. Once at this same HyperCity billing counter queue, I had my chance. It was supposed to be an express counter. A pretty woman stands in the queue with a basket full of items, at least 25, despite the fact there's a sign on the counter - not to carry more than 10 items. Obviously, it was irritating for many behind her carrying only one or two items. But surprisingly, the hapless man preparing the bills took no notice of the unending list of items and went ahead with the billing.

Would he have done the same for a man who was just here to pick up a few vegetables, Horlicks and herbs, ended up buying 11 items and had to rush back home to attend his pregnant wife? He'd be greeted with the choicest expletives by others in the queue, however convincing a reason he provides. These same people - majority, men like me, in the queue, when dealing with this woman (seeming to be an MBA from western shores, going by attitude and attire) would initially pose a few direct and indirect questions to the pretty woman -

Question 1: Do you realize you are not in the correct billing queue? No answer. A sweet, rather pretending to be sweet smile.

Question 2: Do you realize you are holding up people behind you unnecessarily? No answer. A bigger smile.

Question 3: Do you realize you aren't exhibiting possession of the least bit of common sense? No answer. An even bigger smile.

Question 4: Do you realize... Still no answer. Lips stretching to the maximum. And then suddenly...

Koi bole dariya hai (kaisa kaisa hai isq)
Koi maane sehra hai (kaisa kaisa hai isq)
Koi sone sa tole re, koi matti sa bole re
Koi bole ke chaandi ka hai chhura
Hota aise yeh mauke pe
Roka jaaye na roke se
Accha hota hai hota hai yeh bura
Kaisa yeh isq hai, ajab sa risk hai...

SCREW ALL REALIZATIONS, MAN! Remember you are still single. Get a life! - The mind, rather heart, speaks after a long spell of silence.

I mean, c'mon, you're already putting up with Suresh Kalamdi's antics. Can't you live with a minutes of delay. You should know a section of women has an attitude to righteousness, which finds comparison only with BS Yeduryappa's attitude towards Congress corruption and Anna Hazare. Everything is fair in their own backyard, not for others. Chalta hai. Female to male ratio is going down by the day. Act fast or be doomed.

Do I still have a question, what a 5L MBA can change?

Your onsite opportunity, fills your palate with french fries.

And you find your 2 decades of desi upbringing - a vice.

I don't dress well and mismanage my life, you surmise.

You lap up foreign vices well, not virtues, does surprise.

Paying an expensive price, you achieve a hefty per-diem prize!

What good is such change - a bed of lies?

That was some billing queue, some day. From that day, till date, I've fallen in love with this woman MBA, MRC, who is actually a non-resident Bengali from CR Park, New Delhi (with an awful Bengali accent). Yes, she is the one I refer to at the end of each of my blog posts. She looks ethereal - a virtue of western shore MBA campuses, and talks sensibly - a virtue, completely her own. No course on earth can 'teach' this latter virtue.

Reality is a constant peer pressure to change with times. It is the change which remains constant forever, in this great worldly organization of ours. I told you so MR...C???

Cutting long story short...

2011-08-14T01:31:00.001+05:30

I love taking sabbaticals and then again getting back to my blogging workstation. Of late, I've been doing this quite a lot. আক্স মি হোআই??? (That basically means - ask me why). Because I have no work at hand. Simple as that. And an empty mind is a devil's workshop. But come to think of it, in the times of recession and Sheila-Munni-Jalebi sensation, global meltdown and in-love letdown, degraded credit rating and enhanced cricket betting, this workshop is the only one still up and running and reaping rich dividends to the shareholders. And when the season is of less corporate work and more extended weekends, consumer confidence in its stocks are the highest.

And like any other sensible shareholder, I went on a buying spree as the stocks rallied on a Friday evening and to enjoy the benefits I reaped on Saturday morning, I went to my usual lonesome hangout in Hyderabad - the Inorbit mall.

Bengalis hailing from South Kolkata (these days, Baruipur and Budge-Budge also fall within the frontiers of South city, but to me, it till date starts at Exide crossing and ends at Tollygunge Metro... oops... Uttam Kumar) are the most sophisticated in the world. Huh, you want me to believe that you didn't know it?

No, I'm not one who possesses any narrow regional sentiment. It is just that, these group of people do everything in the most sophisticated of ways.

Scene1: A family of four. Dad and Mom, visiting their daughter and son-in-law in Hyderabad. All of them wear aristocracy, but momma seems to be a bit uncomfortable with the attire. Probably, she hails from amader gaaon (our village) Howrah deesteekt (district). Aristocracy is born out of the recent on-site trip that daughter and her hubby had. Or should I say, a sweet honeymoon at the hapless client's expense?

"Koekta books kinte hobe... amra Crossword er privileged member toh, tai ei weekend e special discounts dichhe amader..." (Need to buy a few books. We are privileged members of Crossword, who can avail special discounts this weekend). Not sure if mommy understood anything.

"Mumma, we need to go to the third floor. Come, lets take the escalator." Ma was visibly worried. "Is there no other way, ma? You know I'm scared of escalators", the hapless being muttered, terrified at the proposition.

I felt pity for her. She's wasted the golden period of her life, to manage her family's expenses along the posh Anwar Shah Road horizon. Skipped meals, to ensure daughter had the best education at Modern High and then the best job-oriented engineering course at Jadavpur, still one of the best tech-colleges in eastern India after IITs and at par with NITs.

But the Almighty hasn't ever been overtly kind with her. If her 2 decades of toil was rewarded by her daughter securing a first rank in engineering JE exams, it was partially shadowed by the fact that the daughter engineered a love-story to perfection, with a guy who came first in the JE exams too, albeit on a special and separate list. If tears fought to roll down her cheeks, on seeing the invitation card saying "Mrs. & Mr. Chatterjee request the pleasure of your presence at the wedding of their daughter M, with the son of Mrs. and Mr. Horekrishno Dash", she had to control it, lest her daughter's smile changes to tears.

"Ma, you need to move with the times. Your daughter and I are making international trips every year. How would you manage to keep pace with us, if you are scared of a simple escalator?", chuckled the 'learned' jamai. Daughter nodded in agreement. The hapless dad could do little but stare at his wife with pity.

The special and separate results listing had earned the s.o.b an on-site trip for sure, but what his half-education forced him to miss is a sign-board beside the escalators of an airport of highest international standards which has clear-cut instructions for those scared of escalators to take stairs or elevators instead.

It reminds me of the day I accompanied my mom to a shopping mall. She'd hardly stepped on an elevator before. That my scornful look towards anyone uttering this 'move with the times' term stopped them from forcing my mom, is a separate issue. But even today, I stand in her defense, and ask her to ride one, only when her fears are absolutely allayed.

Scene2: A beautiful, foreigner woman waits behind me at the billing counter. God is rarely kind with me in such adventures, but today I had exchanged smiles and was just about to start a conversation, when this lanky guy walked up to her and they started chatting. This was not Sudder Street in Kolkata. So, the only possibility was that the woman was an expatriate and the guy was a junior level staff in an MNC, entrusted the responsibility of taking her around the town on an extended weekend.

Who would not love to take a beautiful woman out? However, today I learnt the grave realities as to why I have been denied such perquisites and have always been relegated to work with the XPs who were... oh whatever, forget it. That's past.

The reality was simple. Hail foreign shores as much as you can and relegate your own country to the lowest of levels. Highlight all that is bad in your own country, never even try to say anything good. Wish I had done that; my career wouldn't have had a tumultuous streak so early on. You know what, my conscience stopped me from highlighting a vice, to which I had not devoted concerted effort to stop.

I do not know if that would have translated to better appraisals or made my entire nation a laughing stock to the world, but in a similar situation, I'd do what I feel is right.

Whatever maybe the outcome, I shall share packed and sweet-'n'-sour expletives with all such colleagues of mine, who have imbibed qualities like this lanky guy, once my year-ends.

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

I'm missing you a lot these days, M. You're the epitome of greatest human sensibilities. You know what, they've marked me an anti-woman, regressive and less educated being for speaking the truth. But doesn't grave realities bite, M? And more, when they're staring at your face?

Anyways, I have come to terms with the fact that you won't speak to me ever again, even if its the gravest of truths that pricks your conscience too. Yet...

Reality is an escalator to instant fame, heightened during times of soaring expatriation, that makes a mockery of our humble beginnings but cultured sensibilities. I told you so MR... C???

Long Drive

2011-03-27T22:53:00.003+05:30

The mobile ringtone went off at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Anybody else would have definitely been showered with choicest abuses, but it was Rahul da.

"Good morn. I'll be there in 20, mate. Get ready. We need to report by 7, but I've negotiated our reporting time to 7:30", the grogginess in Rahul da's voice hadn't gone yet.

Prithish wanted to say two words, one starting with M, the other with B, but restrained himself. He finally said, "Rahul da, khyama dao, boss. Urgent client requirement bole katano jayna ki?" (Spare me Rahul. Can't we bunk this affair citing urgent client requirements?)

Nishith's farewell party at The Hyatt had continued well past midnight. Since Prithish was as steady as the Banyan tree even after 6 pegs on the rocks, he was forever expected to guide the entire vineyard back to respective homes post the drinks. In these 4 years at Sector 5, he was the fortunate sole witness to a variety of post-party corporate-human behaviors. Last night, Chitra had slapped Rishi for taking out Disha - her eyesore - for a cup of coffee near Upal da's house, in a drunken stupor. This very workforce went by the name of "Business Intelligence Unit". Irony is a part of life.

And Sunday morning was Corporate Social Responsibility day - when corporates were supposed to come out of their AC offices and lend a helping hand to the underprivileged. Different people were assigned different duties. Chitra was supposed to spend time with inmates of a mental trauma care center. God knows, how much of caffeine intake she could withstand.

"You've been the hero of my team for the last four years now. You've scored a century whenever my team was in disarray. We need full participation this morning, and you're the best person to manage people there and show the team, you're ready for the next level!", Rahul da was excited.

Hailed be the one who invented the words starting with M and B, Prithish thought.

At 7 a.m., a brand new black sedan screeched to a halt before the building near PNB, whose 1BHK on the first floor, Prithish had rented. "Jump in mate", Rahul da instructed Prithish, standing near the iron gates. Rahul da was an insignificant notch lower than a Merc or a BMW now. Probably, the almighty has been a bit too kind during the appraisals. Almighty doesn't necessarily reside in Heaven, you see.

"How do you like my baby?", Rahul da enquired as Prithish got in. He took some time to figure out that he wasn't referring to the onset of his wife's maternity. Both of them wore the DINK identity with pride. "Awesome", said Prithish.

Rahul da sped down the EM Bypass. Prithish was still feeling sleepy and decided to submerge himself into the the edition of TOI lying on the dashboard. That was way better than lending a ear to Rahul da's rants. Their destination was a Government hospital near Mukundapur.

"Call center quartet killed in late night accident", read a headline. "Did you read that? Our employees are really at mercy of irresponsible cab drivers", Rahul da commented. Rahul da had spent more than a decade selling businesses with a superficial understanding of the client's problem. Had he digged in more, he could have saved many an innocent employee's job. "Investigations are on as to whether government should bring in a legislation to rope in the cab contractors and give a breather to such over-worked drivers. Its quite natural for the overworked body to give away, putting at stake the lives of many an employee", read a line in the middle of the article.

The hospital was abuzz with activity when they reached. Police and media-persons had been blocking the entrance. Rahul da and Prithish were the only employees to have reported to the social activity at that hospital in Mukundapur. They could somehow manage to get in, thanks to their i-cards and T-shirts with their MNC's logo. A bit of interrogation by Prithish with the hospital staff, yielded that the driver of the Sumo which met an accident last night killing 4 call center employees last night was admitted there.

" We'll spend time till 10:30 a.m. here, roaming about the General Ward and then call it a day. Then we can go to the ITC Sonar for their brunch spread. What say?", Rahul da interrupted while Prithish spoke to a nurse.

It took a lot of effort to convince Rahul da to go and meet the injured driver. But Prithish was determined. Finally he relented. After all, 4 years had taught Prithish some tricks as to how to get his points across.

Beside the rusty bed , sat Prithish, his hand caressing the wounds on Sheikh Rejaul's arm. Rejaul was in tears. Probably the injury pains hardly affected him. His sole bread-earning capacity would probably be unfit for a long time, maybe, all his future. This thought pained him more.

"You are a champion, mate. Then what went wrong at night?", Prithish had nothing else to camouflage his foolishness.

He started slowly, but spoke at length. Prithish has this talent of mimicking diction of different people.

"300 kilometaars. Yes, that is exactly the distance I had been driving since 11 pm last night with just a single 10 mineet brek. At times, I'm expected to drop off people at Baruipur, come back to Sector 5 and then speed again with emplaayes from the next shift, towards Barasat. Moreover, you emplaayes can't accept even a mineet's delay. All the while I'm on the road. I start my day at 8 am on days and end at 3 am at night. Do you accept me to be a human or think of me as a beast? I didn't fall asleep as these paper-walas are claiming, but there was a chaance I could. Maybe, I was a bit drowsy. And Alla had to send that drunkard lawrry daaibhaar behind me just that very moment."

Rahul da looked uninterested.

Rejaul, turned towards him, "Dada, you people are big shots. You can have your way easily. On many occasions, I've overheard your colleagues cribbing about their salary, even though they sit under an AC and hit a few keys on a laptaap. And here am I, working more than 12 hours a day, that too, all day on the road and earning an amount 10 times less than them. They bitch about you high lebhel people behind your back. We do it too. But they can get off the trauma by finding another plush job, which we can't."

"Your debates on political ideologies are sprinkled with the goodness of delicious food and foreign liquor, post which, both camps speak the same gibberish. Is there an option of debate for us? We lose our license to live, if we argue with our union dadas. You have a life and the extra leeway to crib. We don't have one, neither can we crib."

He didn't say anything new about the unjust society that Prithish didn't know or Rahul da hardly cared about. Rahul da was getting late for the brunch at Sonar.

"Don't worry, everything would be fine", was all Prithish could say. He thought of another fund-raising campaign for the aid of the lives lost in the accident for a second.

"You know what saheb, this line has been a cliche from time immemorial. When my abba lost his shop on Esplanade pavement due to Surjodoy Opraayshan, a lady said this. When my bhai's hopes of working at a car factaary crashed, some cadre dadas said the same. When my 2 year old daughter developed reduced vision in her left eye - post the injury caused by an irresponsible stone pelting, to protest the stay of some Bangladeshi author in this city, the Imam of the local mosque said the same. And today, when koll centaar emplaaye groups are demanding my head and my contractor and the company I drove cabs for are blaming each other for my work hours, you are saying this. But nothing has been and I know for sure, nothing will be fine. The poor man is a curse of the society who can never expect anything 'fine'".

As the black sedan sped towards the Park Circus connector, probably a few observations really plagued Prithish. Rahul da was immersed in thoughts around the lunch spread at the Sonar. As is the protocol, junior level staff are always supposed to be diligently observant on each project, while the high level are to chip in with random thoughts at times - whether useful or otherwise.

Probably, Rejaul's daughter, an intelligent girl at the Madrasah, would never be able to work in one such call center - a present day dream of middle class prosperity. Probably, Rejaul's family would not know what a square meal means, going forward. Probably, many other Rejauls would meet a similar fate and additional casualties would include a few more innocent employees.

However, on the Monday morning next, Prithish would reach office with a frown, shower abuses after his inbox gets updated and when Trisha and Ravi walk in, they'd go for a snack at the cafe and debate over the perennial issue of salary differentials across educational institutes and the work quality at their Business Intelligence Unit.

Mistake not my words for sarcasm,
I'm just plagued by this social spasm.
When you lovingly caress my hair, on the midnight bed,
a solitary soul hasn't yet toiled enough for his daily bread.
I easily look upon my job with disdain,
and he toils through a thankless job, even when his kin's in pain.

I do precious little apart from 'think',
for someone, who loses his survival for that split-second's blink.
I feel elated, seeing my country shining on Youtube streams.
My country prospers unequally, on foreign whims.

Reality dishes out a far more tasteless platter than an average back-office cafeteria. I told you so, M....C?

Prodigality that breaks; Prodigality that makes...

2011-02-10T00:09:00.000+05:30

There are instances, when we are low, frustrated with everything around us and really wonder what if we had started out differently? And when our minds run into limitless horizons starting from our childhood, we blame the people closest to us for not doing things differently for us. Do we ever acknowledge their honest efforts and peek inside us for faults?

The old book gathers dust. I dare not caress;

lest it reminds me of you.

Losing way, as I wander about the desert of distress,

self-inflicting painful nostalgia, I'd rather not do.

The old book for the good child, seemed too poignant.

I would say, "Can never be true!"

You'd say, "Two decades before it turns relevant,

build your self well, while its new."

The old book was one, you forced me to take,

when I was bent upon defying what you taught.

Tears seemed meaningless and this book fake;

I had sighted a mirage of all that I sought.

The old book had to be true.

Sublime mirage, forced my back against a wall.

The book hails the blessed you,

who forever awaits at the doorstep for me the son, prodigal.

The old book teaches to seek.

Truth. Only truth. To evil never be meek.

My vision is blurred, the days ahead look bleak;

when my stricken soul yearns for a good night's sleep,

oh how I wish, your caring hands caressed my cheek.

Not very long ago, there was a guy in an obscure corner of the country. He was an achiever, never willing to settle for the second best. The people around him always lauded him for his efforts and achievements.

Not very long ago, again, there was a man who'd go to any extreme to afford all that this guy needed to keep up the pace. Be it the furnace hot collieries of Dhanbad, terrorist infested pockets of Assam or the most obscure parts of Bangladesh, which even the country's citizens wouldn't care about - he scaled them all to earn the money to afford for this guy.

Again, not very long ago, this guy started taking everything for granted and started defying what this man taught him to be good. And this very irresponsible behavior best explains his fall into the ditch of discomfiture, he is in today.

There are hundred-thousands of guys & girls in our country today, who are less-fortunate to not have such a man as their guiding star. Their silent, helpless faces opine that if they did, they'd make sure they scale Everest-s of perfection. Just one chance is what they beg for.

But HUNGER is the monstrous impediment. And for this very reason, Akshaya Patra, chose to play Ma Durga/Allah/Jesus to ward off this pitch-dark monstrosity and let light, that EDUCATION brings, prevail.

I render my full support to the organization and shall try my best to be there at Indical, Kolkata on 20th February, 2011. I request all Indiblogger friends of all hues to try and be there. Even if not, please show some solidarity with the cause. And this last sentence goes out to all my non-blogger friends as well.

Reality is not as stark as Raghu Ram & Rajiv Laxman on Roadies 8.0, who'd say, "...is Desh ka agar kuch karna hai na, is generation ka, sabse pehle saare call-center bandh karo, uske baad saare gym bandh kardo...". Reality is a huge responsibility on the current generation to prevent "manufacture" of dumb prodigies and help the true intelligentsia evolve as the most beautiful lotus from the murky waters of poverty. I told you so, MR...C?

BRB! Till then, Make Sense!

To B or not to B? That's the Question!

2011-02-06T21:22:00.000+05:30

Finally, I have something to post again on Blogger. I had planned a lot of things to write on - another story, poetry or something just out of the box. But at the end, I decided upon something very simple - to just speak my mind. Now that could have been my opinion on the recent revolution in Egypt or for that matter, the recent inhumane developments in my own home state. Again, I felt, it was wise to leave these to the highly opinionated and much erudite clan of people around me. So, the easiest thing that came to my mind was to reach the conclusion of a debate running within me for quite sometime now - "to BLOG or not to BLOG, that is the question".

I would thank a few new blogger friends of mine, whose nice blogs have given me the much needed push to re-try my hand at writing.

Coming back to the topic. The first question would obviously be - what would change if I stop blogging altogether? Let me think. The Hooghly river wouldn't be obliged enough to flow above the Howrah Bridge. Mubarak wouldn't step down from the President's post immediately. Nor would some of my FB friends stop updating each split-second of their lives on their respective home-walls.

So, what would change? Nothing actually. I had hoped I would be able to change a few things around me - thinking some people would take cue from a few witty narrations of reality that I tried when I blogged regularly with gusto. Well, the constant population that I never expected to change was a select group - not blessed with a sense of humour. However, the yardstick of my failure was at its maximum reading when after reflecting on my blog, I found that 95% of things around me haven't changed.

But even though the world hasn't changed, few of its inhabitants have constantly come back to this address on the web, read whatever was written and posted comments as to how they have enjoyed them. And that is what makes all the difference. It always feels nice to meet new people and nicer when they like something you write with passion.

And so, I'll probably be back blogging regularly again. And more so, now that a few dislikes which were bad enough to keep me away from a few things outside work that I'm passionate about.

I know this is a bit of drab, since this doesn't contain anything that would make a large majority jump in ecstasy. But come to think of it, even though I'm not the protagonist, somebody has actually managed to change the world. And for that very reason, Munni Badnam Hui and Sheila ki Jawani win Filmfare awards. Was this the same stage on which legends like Lata Mangeshkar & Asha Bhosle been honoured?

Reality...is a saga of constant and unprecedented changes. I told you so,...

BRB! Till then, Make Sense!

Living a Corpse's life...

2010-09-27T23:50:00.002+05:30

I don't know why, today some unpleasant though turned my mood off. Leafing through a few pages of that torn and tattered notebook that I often fall back upon, when sad, presented this before me. I thought, why not share it with everyone else?

It seemed like ages, spent in plight,
I've lived through death, all this while,
before I heard her again, after a fortnight...

She's moved on; clearly that's the truth.
But you were with me till yesterday,
then what made you call me uncouth?

Well, I admit, I'm not the same anymore;
commitment to drudgery, when neither fagging nor sloshed,
has brought my evil face to the fore!

Did you ask me to quit?
I'd kill myself, commit the unthinkable,
if I stay awake a bit longer, sober...
O cursed destiny, I'd been someone's lover!

Hate, to stay alive;
love, if you haven't yet found a way to die!

Walk not that path, pursuing which my heart bled.
As if lost love wasn't enough, my friend turned fiend.
At a loss, today, I'm a soul, departed!

As life stoned me, the world looked on with glee.
At my grave, a loner rued the loss of her smiling advisory.

My soul failed to claim a tear down your cheek,
even though, I unflinchingly loved thee...

Ups and downs are a part of everyone's life. However, I lost my track through a personal recessive phase. I am indebted to someone for bringing me back to the righteous path.

And they say, you only meet evil competitors in this rat-race. I can't divulge much more; though a very cheap way to do, still, I express my gratitude through a simple Thank You!

Jaywalker Diaries 2: Shocked

2010-09-26T02:12:00.001+05:30

This post is much more serious than you think it is. I'm too shocked to even write something nice.

Along the stretch back home today, I actually saw a few things, which I would have comfortably ignored on any other day. I'll keep it short and simple, since I'm not in a mood to talk a lot.

1. A lorry carrying construction workers back home from work. Close to 100 people crammed inside the small space. The presumably human beings, had lost their identity - nothing better than packaged goods piled one upon the other.

2. A few of their clan, reside below an under-construction flyover. Making food to making what is not best made in public - all under the flyover providing a roof. And given the quality of the present bunch of contractors entrusted to build the national infrastructure, probably a corpse would be made out of them, if they're too unlucky to have the under-construction sky fall on their heads.

3. I travel back home in an auto-rickshaw. My co-passenger holds a copy of a Telugu daily, the front page of which flashes photographs of a damaged stadium, a collapsed flyover and shot of the athletes' quarters with most basic amenities in a sorry state. Although the script was close to Hebrew, it was understandable that it hinted at the sporting event, at the ill-organization of which, the whole world made fun of our Great country.

I was shocked yesterday, to learn about one unfortunate incident. A very close family friend, had gone to the factory he works at, to supervise the day's produce of high-tension electrical wires. Unfortunately, one of the machines wasn't working. A supervisor isn't supposed to be bothered about the running of machines - he can as well cane the normal workers to get a job done. But no, the honest employee of the "malik" and a compassionate leader of the hapless workers, had gone to assist the technicians to fix it. As misfortune would have it, he had placed his hand on the teethed-axles to check the problem, when the cursed mechanical monster decided to shrug off its dormancy. His left arm was crushed into four pieces.

Hours and settling of bills amounting to a lakh INR later, from the much hyped mint - I don't prefer calling them hospitals - called Appollo, he picked up his cell in his right hand and called my mom, "Kakima, daktar ra amar haat ta bachatey parlo naa, amar jibon ta ki britha hoye gelo?" (Aunty, the doctors failed to save my arm, would the rest of my life go waste?)

Clips on various news channels across the television and cyberspace, keep on flashing news of the so called formidable constructors of a great country ranting about all sorts of impractical solutions to problems, when they themselves know, such things are impossible.

Back in the state of West Bengal (Oh Almighty, are you listening?) the very competent Government rues the loss of some car-factory - an industrialization idea that first struck them after 32 years of autocratic rule. However, the intelligentsia, who spoke in their favour, seemed to have forgotten about the first car factory in India. Incidentally, the Hindustan Motors plant was also located a few kilometres away from Kolkata. But militant trade unionism was the rule during the government's heydays. And they never seemed to take note that, the company was decaying. Did this sound like, Nano would be the new Ambassador, if not for Sanand? Probably, another 32 years would have confirmed, but alas!

The ubiquitous didi, who has the responsibility of being a constructive opposition, storms into the legislative assembly with her henchmen and destroys property built with a part drawn from taxpayers' money. The only agenda in her manifesto that she obeys true blue is - oppose the government, no matter what they do - good or bad. And she's too caught up with these too even care about a major railway accident every month.

Sum it up, and you have no economic security for the millions that that actually vote you to power.

The country's Government decides to hold a spectacular international sporting event. Everybody involved in the process makes a quick buck and when the skeletons come out of the cupboard in the form of collapsing flyovers, ill-equipped stadiums and amenity-less players' quarters, each of them keep passing the buck, before the enquiry committee, forming a vicious cycle of accustations!

The taxpayers decide to take recourse to RTI to check what was done to the money they paid and was used for this event - that would otherwise have bought them a new motor-bike at the end of the year. The janitor of the coffee shop, where they discuss this with like minded fellows, doesn't even know the difference between R, T & I.

A very respected film star decides to be the voice of a community that was facing displacement due to greater developmental needs (didn't understand, what was his problem) but retracts his step, when his films stop screening at theaters in that territory. The same star turns down offers of severing promotional-ties with a soft-drink major, when the concerned company is accused of causing water shortage and environmental pollution in another part of the country.

The same star today, sells the country's poverty on celluloid at the Western world's shores (I fail to understand, why they never can see the good things in the country) and hopes to win international awards, when he turns down indigenous awards. The same RTI discussing men now give him a very high status. Why don't they ask him to showcase the service sector they work for and which significantly contributes to the country's GDP?

Sum it up, and each of us sell the plight of our fellow citizens to build a palace for our own luxury.

The construction workers are still stuck in a traffic jam, not knowing for sure, when they would be unloaded from this moving concentration camp.

The worker's family under the under-construction flyover, goes off to sleep with the fear of the unknown that awaits them.

My co-passenger on the auto gets tweets on his i-phone about the newest corruptions unraveled in the ill-organized sporting event case.

It was only a week back, when this guy had called up my mom, "Kakima, amar bari ta toiri hoye esechhe, ekdin sokale apnake amar bike e choriye niye asbo, saradin amader sathey katiye jaben..." (Aunty, my home is nearing completion. One fine morning, I'd bring you here on my bike and you please spend that whole day with my family.)

I can't help, but quote Ray, "dekho bhalo joney roilo bhanga ghorey, mondo je shey singhashoney chorey" (The innocent and honest spend a life full of plight, while the unholy enjoy all luxuries of life.)

Reality is a stupendously crafted political lie. I told you so,... naah... I won't write your initials today, this post is not fake like our love story.

Guard of Honour...

2010-09-20T01:33:00.010+05:30

Even the sky had a swollen face that morning. What a bad way to start the day, with an overcast sky and an irritating drizzle, I thought. Add to that, the fact - I don't have a shortage of people who'd add fuel to fire. So frustrating, my life is. And this belief of mine was consolidated when I opened my MS Outlook Inbox that morning.

There was this high importance e-mail sitting ugly over there. Another instruction from the self-proclaimed Gods of this office of the global banking major, I work for. It said in that diplomatic tone I've grown to hate of late, that I need to wait for three more months before I could work on the strategy innovation for a new retail banking product - a project that I've been vying for last 3 months. Oh Shucks!!!!!!!! Six months' wait for a project that wanted me and I loved? Meanwhile, I was supposed to work on some reporting work, understandably not much interesting.

My just-woken-up face mimicked the morning sky. As if life wasn't screwed up enough, there were more reasons to feel unhappy. A tune started playing, suddenly. "Shey chenalo, aamake, e shohorer, oli-goli..." (She introduced me to each and every by-lane of this city). Oops! My phone was ringing. MRC, it was. I've probably introduced her to you before. At least some consolation at this sullen hour, or so I thought.

"Hey love, wassup?” I said in a sullen tone.

"Hey dude, how're you today? It seems something's wrong, from that tone", she inquired.

"Yeah, its the same project, that seems to slip outta my hands, every time I feel an inch closer."

"Oh, hunny! Chillax! All would be well. Give it a bit more time. Luv ya. Okay, lets talk about one very serious issue."

She's so sweet, that at times I feel, she's worth more than all I could ever ask for. I wouldn't mind waiting for projects for the whole of my pensionable service, if I just have her by my side, all through.

"Yeah, great. And what would that serious issue be, sweetie?" I said in a voice, merrier than before.

"Yes. Very serious. My mom wants you to brush up your knowledge of Rabindrasangeet", she replied.

WTF? I thought. "Rabindrasangeet? Me? But why?"

"You see, I could never get that Bong diction correct in these 25 years of my life. Forget Tagore. And you know the command my mom has over his works. She wants somebody to carry her legacy forward. The choice is obvious", she clarified, "and she wants to introduce you to the Bengali community at Chittaranjan Park, this Durga Puja."

"Screw the CR Park paraphernalia, lady. If her legacy is so bothering, what was your bro doing all these years? Chasing girls around CR Park? What about your dad? Is he still polishing his service rifle, post-retirement, to point at my temple? Why doesn't he learn some romantic music?" I was agitated.

"Uh oh! Don't get so angry, honey. It is for our happiness. Probably you'd be doing something better & more enjoyable than uploading your critique on labour-class music, every week on Facebook!"

"Look, M, let me be very clear. I expect your hand to be on my shoulder through this tough phase, not add to my tensions". At least, that's my way of interpreting, "Ektuku chhnoya lage, ektuku kotha suni..."*. And I disconnected the phone.

- 1 -

Why is life so cruel? But anyways, I was getting late. A quick bath, a quick bite and I was ready. Another disappointing day at office begins within an hour. I decided to give the office cab a miss today. I couldn't have taken in the rants of that dumb colleague from HR over and above this frustration. I took an auto-rickshaw instead. After traveling for half an hour, I reached the princely gates of my office campus. The auto was soon surrounded by the dedicated team of security guards, who I say hi to, everyday. But today, I was lost in unpleasant thoughts.

I flashed my id even before I was asked for it. There was this new team-member, another Gorkhaland agitator it seemed, who was checking my backpack. Content, he took a look at my id and then looked at me. He repeated this action twice over. Ultimately he said, "Shaabzee, the man in the id photo isn't you!" "What the F?" I said, "Are you nuts?" "Naai, shaabzee", he replied, "sachchi. The curvature of the lower part of your face doesn't match that in the picture."

"Abhi yeh kya musibat hai? I don't understand a single word you say" I replied. "Naai, shaabzee, I'm sure, this isn't the real you. Come with me." And he started pulling my hand. "Hey, hold it boy... shucks... what the F... what the hell... leave me..." I shouted in vain as he succeeded in pulling me out of the rickety three-wheeler.

Voila! Where was I? It was not the IT SEZ I was acquainted with. We were standing near a shack. There were hills all around and tea-gardens, where young women, chinkys as we call them, were working. The weather was cold but I felt warm. I partly realized, I was wearing a sky-blue shirt and a navy-blue trouser. I also had a policeman-cap on my head. There was a name written across my shirt pocket: "G3 Security". I couldn't pay much attention as I got lost in the tunes that reached my ears, "Khader dharer railing taaaaaaaa, sei dushtu do-doshiringtaaaa, amar soishober Darjeeling taaaaaaaaaa...." (the railing beside the abyss, the Darjeeling of my childhood). A middle-aged, bespectacled and bald headed man sang, playing his guitar. Indeed, it was Darjeeling.

"Hey Gorkha, where have you brought me?" I asked that security guard, now standing beside me and wearing an ethnic dress. "My home, shaabzee, Darjeeling", he replied. "I know, but why?" I asked again. "You'll soon get to know".

Soon after, an old man came out of the shack with his wife. Though he came across as someone just back from the umpteenth rally of the Janwadi Morcha, he did have a big smile, a bit too welcoming for someone from the plains. He gave me a hug and welcomed me inside. The agitated unifier in me chided, "you bunch of separatists, what business do I have with you?" and refused to go in. "Raajneeti baad mein, shaabzee...", and he forcibly brought me in. They were Gorkha's parents. A cup of hot tea and food, no less inviting than Bong delicacies were on offer. "Eat to your heart's content, shaabzee", father and son said in unison, "we've been serving the appetite of Bengali tourists from the time you were a kid". True, Darjeeling was no less than Swiss Alps for a low-income family kid like me, during school vacations. And yes, we did visit shacks like this for food during our sojourns, more than a decade back.

I felt at home. Did they actually belong to the community which we have grown to mark as separatists? Probably, I'd never have got to know their true nature had not Gorkha pulled me out of that small-world auto. Gorkha's shack, though without most modern amenities, had an awesome view outside the half broken window. The tea gardens atop the hills were clearly visible as was the harmony of the sky with the lush-green nature beneath. I wondered why our respective leaders have failed to be like them. Atop one of those hills, that were closest to Gorkha's shack, there appeared suddenly a girl and guy. They were in love. And wow, I could hear the music of their innocent laughter. But hold on, the faces are familiar. The girl looked exactly like Konkona. No, not the actress. I'm not at fault if my ex-flame's name was so. But we'd moved on after college, though I was a bit depressed with the fact.

The guy started singing in a common language of the plantation workers, "Arey chol gori, le zaabo tukey mor gaaon...". "Hey Gorkha, who the hell is he? How dare he gets close to my girl?" I shouted. "Shaabzee, but I thought she was your ex. But don't worry. You'll be surprised if you look at the boy's face carefully!"

F! I'm not interested. But I really did want to see who the rascal was. I took one careful look.

Oh Gosh!! "Its me! Gorkha, is it a dream?", I shouted in joy.

"Not at all, shaabzee!" pat came the reply. "B..b..but how's it possible?" I was bewildered.

"Konkona, are you truly back?" I shouted out of the windows. But she continued swinging to "Gori tor hoth laal, aaikhye kajal, karela kamaal". "She can't hear you so easily, shaabzee, but you two do look great in a Nepali attire", Gorkha complimented."Thanks, Gorkha!" My joy knew no bounds. If not the real me, Konkona loves the imagery of me that she still possesses. She didn't forget me completely. God, give me a time machine to correct my wrongdoings! I thoroughly enjoyed their dance steps. Reminded me of those days at Tantra, the nightclub. I had forgotten the pains of not being able to strategise new products for those few moments.

But they were stopped short suddenly. "You rascals from the plains", shouted an agitator, "why doesn't your car have a GL registration?" The young couple were petrified. Then they started pushing and shoving. One group shouted, "Chol, ladka, you'll have the time of your life now". Another group pulled Konkona away from me. "No...no...please leave them... please don't...", I shouted out of the windows in vain. The girl had tears in her eyes, as they parted.

Something similar happened six years back at Park Street, Calcutta. Respective egotisms had taken the place of these Gorkhaland agitators, back then.

There was a loud knock on Gorkha's door. "You bloody Tamang, open the door right away, we've got hints that a man from the plains is holed up in your home!" the door-bangers shouted. The old man, Gorkha's dad made a quick signal and Gorkha whispered to me, "Shaabzee, idhar...", opening the back-door. "Jump", he said. "God! Its a deep abyss! I'll die!" I was afraid. "Not at all, just jump". I was still waiting. Finally, Gorkha pushed me into the abyss and he jumped next. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...." I shouted at the top of my voice.

Thought, this was the end. I kept falling down.

- 2 -

I landed with a thud on a concrete patch. But it wasn't painful at all. Most importantly, I was still alive. I checked all over my body - no cracked bones, no scratches, no injury. Miracle! Another thud followed. It was Gorkha. "Hey, what happened?" I asked.

"Nothing much, just evaded the evil clutches of a few cruel separatists", he replied.

I saw Gorkha's attire had changed. He wore a torn and tattered T-shirt and faded jeans.

"Where are we now?", I asked.

"Oooh shaabzee, I thought you'd feel at home in this atmosphere", he replied, "Just give it a few more minutes".

We walked down the concrete basketball court and reached another open area. There was a concrete dias and on its steps, sat a few young boys and girls. They were chatting away merrily and it seemed they were exchanging study notes as well. Few of them held a book with a green cover in their hands which was familiar to me. An intense look and wow, it was "World Trade & Payments" by Caves, Frankel & Jones. Economics graduates from a college in Park St, Calcutta, would soon recall how an autarkik equilibrium were explained to them using examples of a roadside tea-coffee-seller and Barista along "the Park Street".

The young people weren't at all amused by our presence. So, we kept walking down the narrow roads of what seemed to be a university. A bit ahead, there was a small one room structure, which had red lettered posters of various demands in a socialist tone pasted on its walls. Poster size images of Che Guevara were not to be missed. Two girls with a linen satchel stood smoking, outside. Another guy, with unkempt beard and hair, was explaining an issue involving separatists from North East to them. He was too excited and spoke chaste Bengali. Indeed, it was one of those educational campuses, where the bell rang "Bong-Bong", instead of the usual "Dong-Dong". Pandit Nehru had one of the finest social sciences institutes in the world, named after him.

The university was a great place to be for social scientists like us. But what made Gorkha bring me over here? Gorkha was a mind-reader too. "Yeh Dilli hai, shaabzee", he said. "That I can understand, you dimwit!". The national capital beckoned. But why?

"Ooo dekho, shaabzee", said Gorkha suddenly.

He pointed towards a cluster of rooms with a common roof. Outhouses for the security guards and Group-D staff of this organization, they were, I suppose. But what was it, that Gorkha found so very exciting?

Hold on. There was a guy with a few people around him - they seemed to be his cousins and friends. All were dressed in t-shirts and faded jeans. The rest of the group seemed to be the bosses of these security guards' youth community and the guy was trying to convince them of something. A few steps away from them stood a very beautiful girl. She seemed more like a student of this institute. Words would fail description of her gorgeousness. Kisi zabaan mein bhi, woh lafz hi nahi, ke jinme tum ho kya tumhe bataa sakoon.

But her face looked familiar again. Gorkha and I moved a few steps closer to the group. It was MRC!

When the guy turned his face, I received a shock, yet again. Me!!!!! And with antics that I thought, suited Group-D cadre, he explained to the sarpanch of his little village: Mor aathra saal hoi gelak re, he dada, he baba, re dada, saadi karai de, mor jodi jumaai de... The group of Gorkha moderators seemed unamused, though MRC was enjoying the antics that were not often seen in office or any other hangout.

Gorkha started dancing to the tunes and continued till I gave him a nasty look. After sometime, when my alter-ego said, mela me dekhaloi uke seh din se chahona, chupe chupe maaney maaney pyaar uthey karona... first nods of approval were received from the deciders of our fate. But little did I know, there were Children of Higher Gods, who decided even the moderators' fate.

Soon, this whole group was surrounded by a group of high-class people. Few proudly displayed their sacred threads and few flaunted T-shirts with a caption - "Young Equals". I have supported their cause of equality across all social strata, all this while, but they were here for some other business today, it seemed. Suddenly, the sarpanch was kicked hard.

"Kyun paaji, bhai ki shaadi fix kar reh ho, tussi? Arrey in logon ko laddoo khilao yaar..", shouted a burly youth, who supposedly fought for equality.

At this order, the group of boys started beating the marriage-fixers party, mercilessly. One of them shouted to my alter ego, "Kaunsi jaat ka hai be tu?" "O...o...o", stammered my alter ego. "Saaley neech!! Ooonchi jaat ki ladki ke saath suhaag raat manane ka sapna dekhta hai", he thundered like a police applying third-degree on a criminal. Two burly youths started forcibly pulling MRC away from him, while he pleaded for mercy with tears in his eyes. The kicks on his stomach or punches on his face didn't hurt him as much as the divisive society which stole his only possession from him.

MRC and I can never enjoy married bliss in a society which till date believes in taking pride in and valuing your high caste identity. The way to value? Have nothing to do with lower caste people!

I protested, "hey you rascals! Leave 'em alone!!!" The burly paaji turned at Gorkha and me.

That very moment Gorkha dragged me by my hand and started running. Soon we crossed the tall gates of the varsity campus. "Taxi...!!", Gorkha yelled at one. It stopped. "Aoo shaabzee, jaldi" and literally pushed me inside the cab. He boarded behind me and instructed the driver, "Chaliye, jaldi...". The cab started moving.

- 3 -

The cab was cruising down a long flyover like structure. Soon, I could see water all around. Gorkha managed to change his clothes in the interim, I do not know how. He looked like a cab driver. But wait, water? How come? Wasn’t Delhi a land-locked territory?

“Hey Gorkha, what’s happening? Where are we now?”

“City of Dreams”, pat came his reply.

Is that, is that, the Arabian Sea?

“Absolutely, shaabzee.” As I said before, Gorkha was a mind-reader.

Wow! Within a span of a few hours, this flat-nosed Nor’-easter managed to take me on a tour of 3 cities. Is he really human?

But seriously, we were driving down the Bandra-Worli sea-link. Magnificent piece of architecture, but I wonder what surprise Gorkha had in store for me in this city. The cab’s radio played a Hindi song in a strong Bengali accent. The lyrics brought out the true blue spirit of the city – “Utar jaaye ragon mein jo toh ye nasha hai, iski aadat jo padh gayi to yeh sazaa hai, aise hasdey, ke khaali kar de, saare pal yeh, aisi jagaye… shola hai ya hai bijuriya, dil ki bajariya…Bombai nagariya.”

After travelling for some time, the rickety Premier Padmini screeched to a halt near one of those famous Mumbai sea-sides. The first things I saw were couples holding hands and doing all sorts of romantically inclined things. I was sad. MRC was taken away forcibly for me (though Gorkha claimed I was just seeing hallucinations) and I had to wander about this wonderful locale with a crazy security guard.

And the next thing he did was to lead me to the place where fishermen and women were at the end of trading their days catch. All their stock were nearly sold and they seemed to be really happy. I was completely sure Gorkha would show me a spectacle involving my alter ego and one of these fisher-women who would break anytime into a “Dhagala lagli kada, paani theem theem gada…” and before we reached climax someone would stop us!

I was partly correct. The fishermen’s party did break out to a jig but to more familiar tunes. The tunes were East Indian. And whoa! I was there in the dance-troupe, alright, in a cab driver’s attire but look who’s beside me!! Sonali. Sonali Achrekar, the Marathi new hire in our office. She’s been a constant companion since her joining for coffee breaks, when MRC wasn’t around!

The background music was fitting too. “Sonali, Sonali sunke Sonali, chhati mora koire chela toye to khaali…” Gorkha broke into an impromptu jig again. I was happy but wary too. I just wanted to see what message Gorkha had for me in the antics of disruptors who’d soon be here, I guessed.

And why not, if the tunes of “haamey raja toye hamaar banjo raani”, essentially with a

Dhanbad coal mine or Bongaigaon tea-garden flavor reaches the ears of the self-proclaimed guardians of Marathi culture, do you expect them to stay locked inside their homes?

There came the Jai Maharashtra flag-bearers. I whispered, “Got the message, Gorkha, let’s go!”

“Wow, shaabzee. Chaliye.”

We left behind shouts of “Kai zhala, Marathi manus? You siding with the North-Indians? How dare you?”

But hey, Bihar and Assam were in east India. I tried looking back.

Gorkha, the astrologer said immediately, “Shaabzee, to them, India just has two states – Maharashtra is one and the other is North India.”

I chuckled, after a long time. I wasn’t bothered about my alter-ego and Sonali. However, thoughts of Mr. Barve, Sonali’s lecherous boss did cross my mind. That idiot from Pune was always a kebab mein haddi during our coffee breaks with his stupid Marathi compositions and always managed to exclude me from the conversations in their lingo.

We walked along the sea-shore, barefoot. The foam of the sea-waves breaking on the shore wet my feet. We kept walking down. Next is what?

- 4 -

Soon, the waters that washed our feet didn’t seem to be from the Arabian Sea. We had actually walked down a long distance, chatting. There were no Marathi manus to be seen anywhere around. A group of people became visible at a distance, wearing lungis, folded into half.

A few amongst them were selling coconuts. My mischievous mind always prompts me a song for each occasion. And here it was, “Hum ye lungi uthati, tumko disco dikhati… josh mein aati to fir sabki chhutti hum kar jaati… I am Krishnan Iyer Yam Ya, I am naryal paani waala…”

Mithun da! There was a connection via the Bay of Bengal. Let me not confuse any more. We were walking along the shores of the Bay of Bengal. Southern India. Hoax has it, this is the second longest beach in the world. From Marine in the west, we had been “driven” down to Marina in the south!

Gorkha was back in his security guard uniform. I thought, it was time to go back, since Hyderabad was only close by. Wow! Come to think of it, four corners of the country travelled, dancing all along in under four hours!

“This is a nice place, when there’s no Tsunami”, I told Gorkha.

“Jee, shaabzee!”

Random thoughts invaded my mind again. I realized the Bay of Bengal must be a bangal (the common term used to describe people from East Bengal; present day Bangladesh). Since, if such people get angry, they fire goblets of fire from their mouths (no offence, Hermoine). And the Tsunami was no less.

“Jee, shaabzee” replied Gorkha. His clairvoyance was a spot of bother for people around him. But honestly, I had grown fond of this short safeguard of our safe haven workplace, in these few hours.

“So, Gorkha, what else do you want me to experience today? Let’s go back, if we are done.”

“Jee, shaabzee, par pehle, lets walk up to that restaurant, I’ve heard they serve awesome rassam…err…awesome coffee”, replied he.

Wow, Gorkha was a knowledgeable person, when it came to knowing the country. After a long time, my spirits were lifted. I started enjoying Gorkha’s company. The fool spoke a bit too much, but was otherwise good. Coffee, with such scenic beauty in the background wasn’t a bad idea at all. Finally, my alter ego had some rest, I thought.

“Ende, anna?” the waiter asked what we wanted.

“Two, coffee”, I replied looking out through the windows at the vast expanse of blue.

“Rendu cawffee”, the waiter shouted out to the people in the kitchen.

Wait, that voice is familiar. I looked around. Voila! Its me again! I looked at Gorkha. The fool was smiling mischievously.

“What? Would you now make me dance to apdi podii, podii?”

“Dekhtey raho, shabzee!”

And then he dragged me out of my seat to the backside of the restaurant. There I saw my Rajini style alter-ego exchanging notes of love with a dusky beauty, far from the madding crowd. But her face was known to me too! Serendipity? No, no! What’s the name of that dusky ramp-walker in our office? Padmavathi! Yes, it was Padmavathi, with an unnecessary h (heich, to be Tamil-ogically precise).

“Sapada polama?” (Can we go to eat?), asked Padma.

“I have enough work, darling. If I don’t work, your dad will kill me.” That’s so characteristically me!

“Then just give me my gift of meeting you and I shall leave.”

“No, never”, replied my Rajini copy.

“What gift, Gorkha?” I asked remembering that he could read minds.

“Hee hee, kaise bataoon shaabzee? Sharm aata hai! Aap khud ladki ka melodious voice sunlo”, he kept giggling. Fool!

No seconds wasted, the girl broke into a jig, “Ey raja, raja, raja, kareja mein samaja… jawani-wani-wani, baiyaan chhuda ke naaja…jab le eka chumma na deva, peechha chhorum na hum hum hum…”

My dark skin turned darker with embarrassment. Gorkha, the biggest fool on earth, continued giggling. And soon his giggles gave way to whole-hearted laughter.

This continued and my Rajini copy finally agreed, but on the condition, “Ey rani, rani, rani, hata na diljaani, ey sata matta humse rokai na jawani… jable hamra ke tu na debu, saadi kare ke vachan…”

But the commotion brought Mr. Laxmanasivaramakrishnan (OMG), the owner of this restaurant and Padma’s father, outside.

“Padmaaa”, he shouted, “how dare you?”

“Oh God, Gorkha let’s run”, I said.

Gorkha didn’t pay much heed. “I’m an yam ya in Carnatic music”, Mr. LSK continued, “and you dance with this labour-class to some lowly music? How dare you? Go inside immediately and study for your upcoming engineering exams and do the riyaaz too!”

“Seri, appa.” She went in, heartbroken. For the first time in the day, Gorkha was agitated. Why? He couldn’t accept that this Ravi Kissan super-hit was lowly music!

Mr. LSK looked at my Rajini copy with eyebrows raised to such an extent that his Tirupati tika touched his hair.

Gorkha was uncontrollable. He looked like a wild bull just about to maul this L matador!

This time, I somehow managed to drag him out of the restaurant. On the way out, I remembered how one of my ex-flames from the south had to sever all ties with me, since I chose to study a lowly subject like economics over what was Carnatic music to her family – science.

I hired an auto. Both of us jumped in. Gorkha finally calmed down as apdi podii podii played on the auto’s music system.

- Epilogue -

We were back at the princely office gates. I was shocked when I looked at my watch. Just 4 minutes had passed from the time I reached there and Gorkha pulled me out! But it seemed like 4 hours had passed. Inception, sort of?

I was back inside my Hyderabadi auto. Gorkha stood beside, smiling. I was bewildered, to say the least, but I smiled at him.

Finally, he spoke. “Shaabzee, all over this great country, our brethren are seen as low-class security guards, no matter how well-educated they may be. We can never expect getting the respect, the salaams that you command every day. Even our recreation – movies & music, is lowly. You get polite instructions from your bosses for every job, but we receive physical and verbal abuse. And after all abuse, when we ask for self-rule in our small town, they mark us separatists. But, shaabzee, we still enjoy our work and smile all through. And you frown upon something just because it got delayed and when even the work that you do presently is not a chowkidaar’s job?”

I just had no answer to that.

“Par shaabzee, how did you like the security guard’s attire?”

“Chowkidaar’s attire? Me? When? What are you talking about?”

“Ha ha, shaabzee, look, you were so engrossed in the happenings all around, that you never realized that your identity was that of a chowkidaar. Why don’t you just divert your minds to other things, when you are frustrated? And it should be easy with that beautiful lady, literally, by your side!”

“You opened my eyes, Gorkha. I shall be ever grateful to you. You’ll command respect in every sphere of life, I’ll pray for you.”

“Kaise shaabze? When after so long, you still refer me by my ethnicity? Ha ha, shaabzee, did you ever feel the need to know that my real name was Girish Tamang?”

My auto had started moving inside the gates. I was speechless. I considered myself the most virtuous person wronged upon by those in power, but never spared a thought for these hapless souls like Gor…err…Girish Tamang!

I took the elevator to my floor. I was both cheerful and sad now. As the elevator doors opened, I saw MRC waiting for me.

She smiled. “Daahling, I was worried. I thought you were upset with me and panicked when I didn’t find you in office this morning!”

We walked inside the working area, together. “Somebody has opened my eyes, M. I’m a changed person now. I’ll always smile with you, my love.” PDAs to such extent are within policies.

“Then sing for me naa, jaanu!”

I sang what I felt was apt. “Brishti nesha bhora shondhyabela, kon Boloramer ami chela…amar shopno ghire nache matal jute, joto matal jute… ja na chaibar tai aji chai go, ja na paibar tai kotha pai go? Pabona, pabona aa mori, oshombhober paye matha kute…”**

She joined me with whatever Rabindrasangeet her diction permitted, “Ooh la la, ooh la la, ooh la la, hey…”

Her mom must have fainted on her bed of certificates that she received for her command over Tagore’s works.

And the bald-headed, bespectacled, middle-aged man sings even today, “Tumi na thakle Robindranath kaalir dowat mathat thukey hoto kupokaat…ra pa ra pa pa, ong Bong Chong!!!”***

Reality is a far touchier ethnicity issue. I told you so, MR…C?

Translations:
* A passing touch of yours, a few distinct words, that's all I need to compose my poem in my heart.

**On an intoxicating rainy evening, which great one’s disciple am I? All drunkards gather around my dreams, dancing. I want what shouldn’t be desired, today. Where do I obtain what is unobtainable? I would never ever get that even after banging my head at the feet of impossibility.

***Without you, Rabindranath Tagore would have fainted banging his head on his inkpot. "Ong Bong Chong" is just a Bengali colloquial for Tom, Dick, Harry. Not used to hurt any sentiments.

Jaywalker Diaries 1: Wishes!!!

2010-09-12T23:50:00.002+05:30

It was high time I hit the keyboard again. Fever, lethargy, frustrations and all that bad had kept me away from blogger.com. Meanwhile, the people at Indiblogger threatened me with extinction by giving a jolt to my blog rankings. 11 steps down in a single blow and more were to come if I didn't start writing again.

So, before any of my blogger friends took the rash step of writing my obituary, I thought why not start writing again?

These days, I enjoy the evening walks that I take during the weekends. Enjoyable, in the sense, for that hour or so, I'm completely lost in myself, at times awakened by the broken Hindi of the Hyderabadi auto-wallahs "Dikhta naai kya, kaikoo aisa karta re???" And I realize, they were just about to mow me down with their three-legged BMWs since I'd started walking in the middle of the road.

A similar walk yesterday made me realize all the things that I'm in dire need of at the moment and literally need to run away from at the moment. I have just a few minutes before going to bed. Another grueling day would beckon in an hour or so. Though I enjoy the thing I'm working on at the moment, I'm completely sure that the skeletons locked up in my official cupboard won't let me enjoy it as much as I would love to.

Let me list down the settings and the realizations.

1. Setting: A huge Vinayaka idol being transported from the sculptors' den to the mandal, and getting stuck near the huge direction display board near Madhapur Police Station. You'd feel the pain in your belly laughing, but I really prayed with utmost devotion after a long time. I wanted to be back to those days, when I performed Sandhyarati(evening prayers) for the Grihadevi (Maa Kali). Life was so less complicated back then, probably because I had so many people to share my pains with - the Mother in my prayer hall, the Mother who always a shoulder to lend when I needed to cry; the Mother in the form of teachers who took the responsibility of my out-of-home life. That's history. Today I'm a part of a circus named Corporate Sector.

2. Setting: A Maruti 800 stopping just a few metres ahead near Madhapur petrol bunk. The man at the wheel probably breaking off all relations with his female companion on the front seat. The girl in tears. I discern I have seen those eyes wide with joy at the past year's Durga Puja organized by Cyberabad Bengali Association. And this year's Puja starts in 32 days. Probably she'll turn agnostic until she finds the next perfect man. Her inside was inconsolable, but she showed restraint on the outside, sensing the public place. That's the Bong fairer sex for you. Epitome of the Goddess herself in all walks of life. But still, I wish heartbreaks were as painful as cuts and scratches and you had Band-aid and Dettol to cure them. (I have an jumbled up version of Dettol in my life, which makes & breaks me every second).

3. Setting: A BMW X7 passing by a group of babes. The place: Ginger Court at Madhapur. A cacophony of oohs-aahs follow. I wish these girls were as interested in human beings as they were in the cars. Were they intelligent enough to understand that the BMW is not Rajinikanth with Pentium ultra core millenia V2 processor; 1 zetabyte memory; 1 terrahertz speed and a chip with all human emotions packed in? It won't sit through their rants in an attempted childish manner at a Barista outlet. Probably those girls were respected alumni of that college run by Indian Army coffers in Pune, which overawes me in every single mention.

4. Setting: An auto tearing down a lane going into Kavuri Hills near Madhapur P.S. crossing. A group of youngsters - who seemed to be children of a lesser God, hooting and shouting in weird voices from the inside of the auto. Probably they were back from a screening of Komaram...oops...Puli (Spare me Telengana). That instant I felt like taking a shared auto from Mallickbazar to Grant Street (Esplanade) (these auto-wallahs were pioneers of music-player in autos; Himesh music to be precise). Then taking the Metro from Esplanade to College street (MG Road), sit at some cheap joint other than Coffee Houseand discuss life with some very close people - their names? Pavel, UT, RSB, SB, MP, SJ, SA, SS, SS (2 of them, both close to PC Sorcar in a way. Magiiiiiic!!!), DPM (obviously with PD) and a few others including UB (I'm not talking about Vijay Mallya, though would have loved to talk about his niece, Sammy Reddy. But alas, UB is a guy). It would be a welcome break from discussions of s***-loads of money, fast bikes, powerful cars and the like. I've officially declared my hatred for Fiat Linea long back.

5. Setting: A woman missing a step and falling down on the pavement. Location: Pavement opposite Barista Lavazza, Rd No. 36, Jubilee Hills. Her face-cutting implied something confusing. Did she hail from the 7 sister states or the country which claims Arunachal Pradesh its own and forces Google to map the same in lure of subscribers? (Unnecessary verbiage, but can't help it!!!) The chivalrous hunk in me was awakened that instant!!! I helped her get up and this sissy of Lucy Liu and I were staring at each other, hoooooosssshhhhh... ro******ally!!! Vrooooom!! Uday Chopra from Dhoom. A hallucinatory bungalow replaced Barista Lavazza. Sissy Liu & I standing on the balcony and a few flat-nosed kids playing on the lawn. Ahem!! She was the first to clear her throat. Blushing, she said, "Thanks". "My name is..." paaaaaparrrraaaapppa another bade baap ka beta honking in his new BMW. Some Ting-tong-tung, she mentioned and by then little hearts were flying out of her eyes. Come back to senses. Bhaag Arjun Bhaag. Arunachal border should be avoided at any cost. I literally start running...and voila I do complete the 3.5 kms marathon. Pant...pant...chaabi kothay?? (where's the key). I enter my home. Time to relax. Switch on my Airtel DTH. The Welcome Screen shows: "The Karate Kid (Jackie Chan) Rs. 50 only. On channel no. 420. To watch, send an SMS to..." PUHHHHHHHHHHHLLLLLLEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. SEND ME TO PUNE and give me a phone with "SYMBIAN" OS.

I'll be sued very soon.

Hitech City, Madhapur.

The Source Code of Love...

2010-08-22T23:23:00.001+05:30

In Retrospect, yet again. Today, I hold up another of my very early compositions. Though I have been a poet from middle school, most of those compositions went to the dustbin with passage of time. This one, composed during early undergraduate years, is also my first composition on ROMANCE. Understandably it came when I turned an adult; in middle school, it would have attracted a good walloping (with a broom as a prop) in place of applause.

I publish the most original version today. Yes, this has undergone modifications, every time someone stole my heart. It was customised to suit their nature. But the basic framework has been the same. This is like the SAS code of my love life. Sometimes customised for cross-sectional data regression (if the girl had a fetish for the lovers' hangout zones), sometimes for time-series data regression (if the girl had a fetish for the lovers' particular time to hang out, mostly citing family reasons. CRAP!) and at times regression using panel data (for the most boring class of girls, who wanted a convex combination of both. Did they actually LOVE? Coefficient of determination was probably close to zero). Whatever the type of data, regression it is!!!

However, this wasn't too good an omen for my love life. Whenever someone read a modified version, she bid goodbye for ever. Truly an ill-omen. So much so, few hours before writing this post, a pretty, female, prospective tenant knocked at my lessor's door for leasing the portion right next to mine! Elated, the evergreen lover in me was soon leafing through the old torn notebook to tighten up the Ordinary Least Squares method detailed in the old code. Alas, they fell apart that very moment on the issue of rent amount.

So, let me just publish the open source... oops, control Banerjee, control... we all know what you are frustrated with. Let me publish the original composition. Who knows, this might bring the elusive love of my life closer by a mile, today!!?!! ;)

The sky’s no limit for me,
when you’re by my side.
My hopes awaken, aspirations soar sky-high,
but how true is such a vision? Sigh…!
’coz, cursed by Lady Fate,
I have not, the gift of clairvoyance,
to foresee a rosy life with you;
but can predict the end of this useless life,
if forces separate us two.

The very thought of your moving afar –
sees my emotional affluence turn to poverty,
like nations impoverished by a failed treaty!

A voice melodious, but cruel enough –
a vendetta you do start,
stabbing me – a sword slashing my heart!

Why my Lord, while creating beauty,
was Thou, to a single being, so benevolent?

Would my love make me repent?
As if for clinging to his faith, an innocent meets his end…
Your turning away, crushes me, pricks my heart,
like on a languisher’s flesh, the well-heeled strut…

As the day nears its end, without you,
Every material pleasure seems mundane.
I care not what else tomorrow brings for me;
without you, all of it would be a pain!!!

Awaiting your comments!!!!!! :)

A Deca-logue named ME!!!

2010-08-16T01:06:00.004+05:30

Here's the first "tag post" that I have typed out. I never knew about any such thing, (probably because of my poor IQ about the blogging world) until one of my blogger friends, Shomoita, tagged me in one of her posts. I'm told, the rules for writing such a post are as follows:

Rules of Tagging:

Tell your readers 10 things about yourself that they may or may not know, but are true.
Tag 10 people with the award, and be sure to let them know they’ve been tagged (a quick comment on their blog will do).
Link back to the blogger who tagged you.

(All the text in red have been borrowed from Shomoita's blog, My Envision, without prior consent though. Shomoita, please don't sue me!!! ;))

So, here I am, writing 10 things about myself, which are true. I have always faltered when I was asked to describe myself in those scary job interviews I've appeared for. But yeah, I'd once performed well, that's why I can, by the grace of the Almighty, buy my bread today. I just wish I re-perform such a stunt, but with bits of twists & turns.

1. Hasta hua noorani chehra, kaali zulfein rang sunehra: There I break a rule. The latter part is false. Blame heredity or junk food, 20% of the matter over my scalp is no more black. Nor am I that fair. Tall and dark, but handsome? Never mind. But truly, I do come across as a fun loving guy. One thing, you'd never miss in me is my smile. Even when the going gets tough, its the smile which gets the tough in me, going. I don't have a single photograph, in which I'm not smiling (unless it was taken without my knowledge). [Film: Parasmani (1963), Lata Mangeshkar].

2. O Amar Desher mati, tomar pore thekai matha: (O my country, I bow my head before you). My English translation lacks style. But I don't think any other language would bring out the essence or emotional connect in as sweet a manner. Yes, I believe, I'm a patriot. My country is above all else. My people, my brethren, of all hues, are my support. And I'm happy enough to say this on my country's Independence Day. And a patriotic economist at that, I'm more interested in doing things that would work towards the betterment of the large masses that still have no secure life. [Rabindrasangeet]

3. Main kabhi, batlata nahi, teri parwa karta hoon main Maa: My mom. My dad. My parents!!!! They're everything for me. I've not really lived up to their expectations, and I consider myself to be the worst son in the world. But my parents are in no way different from the being I pray to every day. [Film: Taare Zameen Par (2007), Shankar Mahadevan]

4.Kal kya hoga kisko pata, abhi zindagi ka le lo mazaa: Boss!!! Not just an awesome song, it is one of the core philosophies of my life. Though it is not very evident from my appearance or what I write, I'm actually a person who lives in the present. I feel, if the only thing I did was to worry about future, I'd have been dead today. There have been umpteen obstacles all along my life path. But I have always dodged them with my attitude and countered each blow at a time. Probably, I followed Pele a bit too religiously. ;) [Film: Kasme Vaade (1978), R.D. Burman]

5. Kahe paise pe itna guroor karein hai, yehi paisa toh apno se door karein hai: I hate the people who hanker only after money. Money probably is important for keeping stomachs filled. But keep love away from it. Money can probably buy you a night of enjoyable excesses but the hangover it brings along next morning can almost kill you. I hate people who are only show-off, nothing else. [Film: Lawaris (1981), Kishore Kumar]

6. Chamka pasina, banke nagina, kaali raat beeti, mehnat kee thi: Though a few may not agree, let me tell you another truth. Work is Worship to me. I've had people who've hate-mailed on my work-interests and derided me. God sees the truth but waits. [Film: Resham Ki Dori (1974), Kishore Kumar]

7. Yaari hai Imaan mera, yaar meri zindagi: The truest thing to say. Gar Khuda mujhse kahein, kuchh maang aye bandein mere, main yeh maangoon mehfilon ke daur yoon chaltein rahein. My friends are my life. I wouldn't have been myself, without their support. Actually, I don't have lots of them, but the few that I do have, are the ones always beside me - through thick and thin. And with the blogger forums gaining popularity, the friends' army is just getting bigger by the day. [Film: Zanjeer (1973), Gurudev, who else?...Manna Dey]

8. Mere jeevan Sathi, Pyar kiye jaa, Jawani Deewani, Khoobsurat, Ziddi, Padosan, Satyam Shivam Sundaram: You must've guessed it already. If not, here it is. I'm a complete movies and music buff. A good film on TV or melodious songs playing on a music player - my day is made. Just like this song, my life is stitched together by various movies and nice songs. Music is a mean to reach God. And I've have happily followed it all this while. [Film: Ek Duje ke Liye (1981), S.P. Balasubramaniam]

9. Ek Raasta hai Zindagi, jo tham gaye, to kuchh nahi: This life is the single chance you get. So you got to live it to the fullest. There shouldn't be a single stop, come what may. This is another philosophy I believe in. [Film: Kaala Patthar (1979), Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar]

10. Bas Pyar ka naam na lena, I Hate Luv Storys: One department in life, where I have failed again and again. Have been through affairs & break-ups so many times, that have lost faith in Erich Segal. Quarter of a century spent in this GeneratioNext, but still I'm waiting for the angel from the darkness afar, who'd walk up to me to be by my side, love me till the end of time and most importantly, understand a complex person like me!!! [Film: I Hate Luv Storys (2010), Vishal Dadlani]

Now, that's quite a lot! I'm surprised by my self-reflections!!!

And now, for the toughest part. Tagging other friends. I have not really made scores of friends yet. But there are a handful, who need mention along with their blogs. Pardon me, for breaking the rules of tagging!!!

AND the Award goes to...

Shomoita Alam Lopa

Raksha Raman

Somanjana C Bhattacharya

Rakesh Vanamali

Thank you all for being such good friends. Please leave a comment here, if you like my blog!!! Hope to interact with you guys more in future.

Wishing all friends, a Happy Indian Independence Day! Jai Hind!

Demented Act...err...Patriot?

2010-08-15T02:09:00.006+05:30

"Ayi chhele, kyi korchhis...?" (Sonny, what are you doing here?), somebody spoke in a heavily accented Bengali, touching my shoulders. I turned back to see, it was the baker from the cake-shop across the road. I was bewildered. "How does he know me?" I wondered.

There I was, inside some by-lane sandwiched between Bow St. and Metcalfe St. - the Calcutta locality popularly known as Bow Barracks - amidst decorations for Christmas. My lady love was displeased with me and I had gone there to sing, "Anna mere pyar ko na tum jhoota samjho janaa..." and wish her Merry Christmas.

A shade under a decade back, I was preparing for my ICSE exams. An average student, I was fairly regular at school. On my way back, the prankster in me, walked up to the gates of a girls' school a few kilometres from my school at Wellington to irritate the girls coming out of the gates after classes. And after making umpteenth such trip, I met my first love, Anna. She was angry with me on the very first Christmas of our love story. And here I was with a strange looking Anglo baker wearing a black hat, black trousers and a worn out, striped blazer. Wearing a red scarf around his neck which partly covered his chin, this descendant of some Lord - Curzon, Mountbatten, whatever, was smiling mischievously at me.

He slowly removed his hat and scarf. I was shocked. "Kaka...!!!" I yelled.

As we anticipate that dawn, the only one each year that reminds us of the fact that we are "Independent", I can't help but reminisce the "antics" of Mahadev kaka (uncle). My dad's one-time best friend, he was seen amongst peers as one big loser. In their peer group, nobody was a kin of the Ambanis, Birlas or Tatas, though. While others could just make ends meet with meagre incomes, Mahadev kaka didn't even have that.

And he had a family to support. His wife did all sorts of odd jobs just to send their daughter, Mallika, to school. But very few people acknowledged, Maha, as he was known amongst neighbours, was a great cook. Understandable, 'coz with the apron on, he was no more the Maha, who was dumb, couldn't contribute to intellectually stimulating debates and butt of all jokes at the local club.He was an accomplished person to cook up a storm!

I got to taste kaka's delicacies quite often. My entry pass - being Mallika's good friend. Though I went there just for the food, at times I did notice that fixed smile on Mallika's face, while her eyes were fixed on the guest. She spoke less through vocal cords, more through eyes and unfortunately I was bad at reading (I screwed up TOEFL, later in life). We were adolescents back then.

Maha could never put this talent of his into business. Though he had a makeshift food-stall, it hardly had customers. In the lower middle-class town of Agarpara on the outskirts of Calcutta metropolis, eating out often was a luxury which hardly any family could afford. Even if they could, once in 2 months, it was rarely at the local eatery - since neighbours were all raised eyebrows, "hmmm... they're having fun tonight... the man must've got a raise...blah blah blah..." and bitching went on, just over a plate of chilly chicken, which BTW, Maha cooked really well. So, they preferred going to a far worse place in Calcutta - to keep the family happy and at the same time, not raise neighbouring eyebrows.

Add to that, the common Bengali perception of the cook. One Ghosh, Bose or Mittir can never bring that particular flavour to biryani or kebabs that a Khan, Hossain or Aslam would bring - is the fixed idea. Though, at free-dining public gatherings, Maha was the greatest delight to the taste-buds, people felt he needed to hone his skills more, when they had to pay to get his culinary services. And the good-natured Maha remained penniless.

Once, an idea struck him. He felt it was a path-breaking business strategy. India is a land of festivals – an advantage of being a multi-lingual, multi-cultural and most importantly, multi-cuisine nation. Maha was more interested in the last attribute. And so, he thought, why not be literally skin deep in the community while cooking their favourite delicacies? However childish such an idea may seem, nobody could help it. Our good ol’ Maha was more innocent than the locality children. There he was Ma, err… Michael in disguise, baking those Christmas delicacies at Bow Barracks, and had a sizeable customer base. Did I tell you, kaka was a good actor too?

He replied, “Don’t call me that, and call me uncle for a change. And how do you like this attire?”

“Wow!” I said, “You’re an Englishman, ka…oops, uncle”. I lied to him, that I was there just to enjoy the celebrations, afraid that my parents would get to know the truth. I introduced Anna as a tuition-class friend. But the pastries fresh out of Michael’s oven made my Christmas. I had ten bucks to save my dying love story, but kaka consolidated it for free. And holding hands while neon lights lit up this Anglo-Indian locality, I enjoyed the first peck on my cheek from a female, other than my mom and cousins. I thanked the Son of God. For me, on that day, He was Michael, my kaka!

Surprisingly, kaka’s strategy worked well. During each community festival, he mixed cooking and acting. Michael during Christmas & Easter, Mohammed during Eid, Manpreet during Baisakhi and understandably, himself during Durga Puja and all other Hindu festivals. And his perfect acts made people of different communities accept him as their own. In a word, he was independent India epitomized. He could finally earn a living.

One day, Mallika came to my favourite hangout – the carom board at the local club, wearing a long black skirt and a nice top that her daddy had got for Durga Puja. She looked cute. And British. She had that smile fixed. Probably she had heard of the name, Anna.

All was well. Suddenly, one fine morning, kaka was nowhere to be seen. Curious neighbours interrogated aunty. Some even alleged that they had a major fight that made kaka leave home. At the end, aunty came out all smiles. Kaka was travelling to the western shores of the country. August, 2002 and it was the month of Ramadan. It called for his alter ego, Mohammed to cook some haleem, kebabs, etc and elevate the fasting stomachs to a blissful state during iftaar. We, rather, our combined appetite, heaved a sigh of relief.

A week later, as usual, I woke up late. Grandpa as usual passed snide remarks, “during our times, we woke up at 4 in the morning and would rush to the parade grounds, to take an oath each day to fight till we gained freedom. And these kids, who enjoy the privilege of independence without any effort, can’t show respect even for a day”. Oopsie… it was Independence Day. But our locality was unusually quiet. It seemed like a pall of gloom had descended on a happy day.

Brushing my teeth, I held the newspaper in my hand. The front page had an extra large size photo of a man begging for mercy, tears in his eyes. All his surroundings were in ruins. The shambles went up in flames.

Kaka’s home was bee-lined by neighbours. My mom was there too, weeping in a corner. There was a shrill sound of wailings all around. Aunty lay half-conscious on a coffin.

Kaka’s face was partly visible. Archangel Michael had lost the Lord’s battle. Mohammed, the prophet bore the Lord’s curse upon himself. And Mahadev, the Lord of Lords was shunned by a country of multiple nationalities.

The western part of India was torn apart by communal riots. One day Kaka was returning home after serving food to the iftaar attending people, when he saw one of his innocent customers and his daughter felled by a bullet. Before he could reach out to aid, he was surrounded by sword wielding people, who called themselves “sevaks” (curators). I don’t know what they tried to protect. Kaka wore a green kurta and a headgear, usually worn by Muslims and a wide grin. He was skin deep into Mohammed. Before he could speak there was one swish. And he lay on the ground. He was stabbed until he stopped moving. The torn clothes revealed his bloody “poitey” (sacred thread). It took a sword for the curators to reveal his identity.

True. There are no Indians to be found. There are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs & Parsees. There are Grokhas, Bengalis, Telenganis and Gujaratis. There are Communists and Conservatives. One is at war with the other forever. Independence?

My father was inconsolable. Mallika sat still. There was not a single tear in her eye. And as usual, she didn’t speak. But the smile was absent. That was the last time I saw her.

Somebody touched my shoulder. “Its 10pm. Lets’ go for dinner. Else we miss the cab back home”, Mrittika’s sweet voice filled my ears. Come to think of it, I wasted a good two hours of utilization for a US multinational, writing this. Scary thoughts, though. Ought to be; its Friday the 13^thof August. This very day, kaka was killed 8 years back.

Mrittika Ray Chaudhuri, a Bong babe from Delhi. Her mom has some degree in Rabindrasangeet. But her Bengali is poor. I’m mesmerized each time I look at her face. Completely smitten, my heart sings.

An army brat, she's a proud MBA from one of those Pune colleges run by the Indian Army coffers. There’s a whole consignment of them out here. Symbian? No, that’s some technology. Whatever! Do I care? Why should I? I am an alumnus of a Tier One social sciences institute. What has she done in life except resting on her dad’s laurels? Congrats, my mind; thy chauvinistic alter-ego hast succeeded in creating a demarcation in affections too!

As we walk down to the office canteen, we bump into another colleague of ours. “Hey, Banerjee, why don’t you guys join us tonight? We’ll gorge upon Chinese at Mainland China. Lets’ party. It’s the Independence weekend”, he said. Though he addressed me, his eyes were fixed on Mrittika. Bloody, Delhi-ite, Maroo lech, I cursed him. The guy was handsome, but how manly can a person who only hangs around with girls, be? If this was Bow Barracks, I’d have knocked out his teeth, I thought. “Wow! That’d be fun!” Mrittika replied. “Great. Hop onto my Linea waiting at the parking lot”, he says again. I often wonder if the only thing taught to these girls were how to party. “Banerjee, what you thinking?”

“I’m not coming”, I said. I’ve loved to hate Chinese cuisine of late. And today, I knew I couldn’t. I’d be reminded of the cuisine at Kaka’s place. “Cum naa yaa; it’d be so much fun”, Mrittika pleaded. I snapped at her and walked back to my desk. Even though she’s used to ‘snaps’, I’m sure she’d be Linea’s arm candy tonight, rather than my sweet companion aboard the company transport cab.

I remember Mallika today. Does that mysterious smile still demarcate her face from the rest today? Or has our Independence made her more dependent on someone to even find a reason to smile? Did her father finally earn an identity that she could use? What is the significance of the date, 15^th August, to her?

My mind corrects many an action that is wrong every single moment. But with General category hard-workers, OBC cakewalkers, learned Hindus, belligerent other religions, North Indian lechers, East Indian intellectuals, army-bred MBAs and social science intelligentsia – clearly demarcated within the field, I call, my surrounding, how Indian have I been?

Reality is far too complex. I told you so, MR…C?

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy... International-ed... 'Honest'-ly

2010-08-10T23:25:00.001+05:30

Now that's eerie!!! Just a day after I started giving out awards for some reason, another award for an entirely different reason lands in MY hand. And mind you, it "Intaarnyaashanaal" (pardon my pronunciation, its "international"). Today, Bappi da has enough reasons to feel proud of this unsung protege of his!!!

Its not everyday that one gets recognition in a particular field. And that too, when recognition crosses barriers. You treasure the friendship, brother(sister)-hood, and all good things that such recognition brings along.

One such kind hearted blogger friend of mine, Shomoita Alam Lopa, gave me this award. However, no red rose comes without even a single thorn. LOL. And so, this award has forced me to put on my thinking cap for my next post on this blog!!!

However, this shield of "mehnoti manush" (hardworking man, literally) is reason enough to do an extra bit of self-reflection. Who knows, it might surprise me as well!!

Thanks a ton!

Meeting you my desire is...

2010-08-01T01:33:00.005+05:30

Finally, the Demented Actuary shows his skin. Life is not that bad after all. Yeah, you do get frustrated for months together, say what not about the leadership. Talk bad each moment they are discussed amongst peers. However, there are moments, when one feels, "get over, they're colleagues after all". And then go out and smile with them again. And moreover, when the employer in question is someone, you have vowed to love all your life, whether staying with her, or not.

Yeah, "patch-ups" are probably the only reason, why there's some humanity still left in this planet. Today, this very instant, two neighbours can call each other names; however, the very next day if one of them is in pain, the other is the first one to come to aid. And the ensuing reconciliation is a treat to watch and a great healer of the heart. At least that's the way the tiny suburban-North Calcutta-world spends its life. At times when nothing go right for you, the frustrations target the ones by your side, first. However, at times, something or someone does walk in which oxygenates your rather bed-ridden life.

For me there was something similar.

First of all, a FIFA PC Game, which finally ran on my rather sanitised laptop. A very small way to relive the days I missed during my childhood. When every other kid in the locality ran out of their homes, coming back from school, either with a football or a cricket bat, I stood at the window, a textbook in hand, and could do little but smile when the cacophony of their laughter knocked my ear-drums. At times I did throw the text-book back on the table and wished I could join them; but coming out of the study room, I could see my mom pushing her tired body forward to do that extra bit for me to help me study and could picture my dad still stuck up inside some dingy, risky, goblet-of-fire-like coal-mine for business, that would pay for them. I quietly went back. Today, I've no regrets for the same.

Secondly and very importantly, the advent of someone again in life. A foolish being like me has screwed up relationships more than he could stitch and has been fooled by people who were categorized under the nomenclature of "best friends". All love stories that I could give shape to in my dreams have ended even before they started and have left a bad taste in the mouth. Enough reason to watch, "I hate Luv Storys", I suppose. However, optimism is the only true friend that has stayed by my side all these years. Who knows, this fairy-tale romance might also sublimate over time; or by the time this hero of the dreamy movie finishes composing the soulful tune for the wedding aisle-walk, some co-actor might already win her over by his more visible antics.

But is there a harm in thinking that it would actually end the fairy tale way? Is it "a sin" to hope that a "Lived Happily Ever After" tag would scroll up during the end credits?

Even when work-life frustrates me no end, I still have a few things to live for. First, the two heavenly beings who showed me the light of the day and are responsible for bringing me to up to the level I am today. Next, where day-to-day frustrations are concerned, this particular "she" in question is really someone who brings cheer. I curse the sun for initiating another fateful dawn, but the very next moment, I praise the office cabs for having some amount of cheer in store for me.

Probably this is another infatuation, probaly her smiles and curious looks are her ways of deceiving and probably, though she claims a single status, there's someone already waiting at the other end of the world for her. However, each half-hour journey with she by my side seems to contradict the theories of Cupid's children, that the path to romantic bliss is rocky, potholed. Yeah, at times there are irritating bumps. (You can always blame Greater Hyderabad Municipal Corporation for that). The rest seems to be a highway of pleasantries. These are times, when you wish being in Mumbai or Calcutta; traffic-jams, far from being a bother would have been a perfect shooting locale for the dreamy movie.

She did sit beside me, (probably shedding all inhibitions) the other day. That memorable half-an-hour, saw my various alter-egos voicing their opinions in a tune never heard before. The traditional and conservative Hindu yelled, "Hail Secularism". Though what she spoke was Hebrew to me, the "bhasha-shohid" (language martyr) said in an explanatory tone, "each language has a sweetness of its own. Its upto you to ignore them and follow Sunil Ganguly mohashoy and feed me to grow inside you; finally ending up breaking window panes of the Grand Hotel shopping arcade. A better way of doing things would have been to harmonize and keep our own peace, that way at least, we could have imbibed the better parts of others and create literature to suit the taste of today's youth".

The proud East-Indian hollered, "North or East, South or West, my 'India' is the greatest". Probably for those few moments, he'd stopped being a Bong and appreciated the existence of "Indians", not just Mallus, Gujjus, Maroos, Tams & Tellus and for once, he asked the Telenganis, the Gorkhawalis, the Marathiwadis and cheap and less idealistic netas to "Shut up and F*#& Off".

The Demented Actuary thoughtfully said,
"I'd gorge upon chow-mein and chilli-chicken again,
we're colleagues after all and all that happens is not all bane.
Frustrations do turn you insane,
but meet their end on a deathbed of romance-filled rain drops, on the window pane.
No job is menial, babe, treat none with disdain;
while you enjoy thinking and working 'analytically',
why not appear for an actuarial paper, again?"

Oooo! That's tough. Enough thoughts cris-crossed across alter-egos. However, before the adult-suffrage exercising, law-abiding national could shout,"hail Communism", we had reached the office gates and the heightened levels of security checks woke me up from the dream sequence. Then, another realization dawned, though I may be head over heels, my heart still doesn't rule my head. And so, I'm still sane.

I have not spoken to you much apart from a smile-filled "Hi!" and "hello!". But as one of my favourite, yana South Indiana singera, wud have sung lah, I would say,

"Meeting you my desire is,
love my motto is,
and one promise is, lover...
that we meet,
or we don't,
but the whole world shall read our note of love,
O my Love..."

(तुमसे मिलने की तमन्ना है, प्यार का इरादा है, और एक वादा है, जानम... जो कभी, हम मिलें, तो ज़माना देखेगा अपना प्यार... ओ मेरे यार...)

"Race"-ing back home...

2010-07-25T23:46:00.002+05:30

Its a new dawn, the alarm sets off.
"You still possess the enthusiasm to experience it?",
my small world seems to scoff.

To get ready and face it, I'm no more agile;
but the minute-hand of the clock is on the go.
It was only me for her, all the past while,
to her abode today, I've turned foe.

One final effort, before thoughts drive me crazy;
and I leave with a prayer, "despise him not, whom such misfortune befell".
Kicking the snoring canine at the door, I call it lazy;
another care-thirsty being, in this concrete jungle.

On the move, I feel pity for the disabled wretch,
who's immobile on this otherwise fast stretch.
How he hopes for those few coins in alms,
that could drop a few grains of rice on the leper's palms.

A few steps ahead, inside the dingy tea-stall,
walks two small, nimble feet; his hands have a job to keep.
Neither can he flip through a book, nor play ball,
and the less he toils, the lesser fed his kins go to sleep.

In quest of supremacy of the rat-race, I have a cab to assist,
while others physically slug it.
Not just me, who sells oneself, every working minute;
money clothes physique, but does it hide the feel of guilt?

My thoughts just sublimate, before the horizon turns red-chrome.
Each day, on my way back, I bring misery back home...

There's no mistake in the spelling of the header. It is just my apart from usual way of taking a look at the world that I'm unfortunately a part of. All this while, I've not really been able to do something concrete physically that could initiate change. Then an idea dawned upon me, why not remind my readers, my biggest friends of the recurring problem that plagues our society. Give this a thought.

I am participating in the WeBlog's Sleepy Sunday contest! You may read other participating posts HERE

"MR." Demented Actuary

2010-07-23T00:21:00.002+05:30

The DA is not totally un-romantic. Apart from Ctrl+C & Ctrl+V (oops...that's core actuarial technique...not to be discussed in public) one of his major interest lies in building relations and making friends, until they "CRUSH" him totally... ;)

By priyamb | View this Toon at ToonDoo | Create your own Toon

Welcome Again!!!

2010-07-21T01:27:00.001+05:30

Though this should have come earlier, still, better late than never. Readers should forgive the DA for being so shy. ;)

It feels really good...!!!

2010-07-17T01:18:00.000+05:30

It does feel good to be back to blogging after more than 2 months. No, I had not lost my way back home to my laptop. Nor did I pay a visist to the OT of a dingy hospital owned by Govt. of West Bengal. Not even boozed like Dev D.

I just fought with my conscience. You wonder what? There's no sin in telling the truth. So, why be afraid of it? That's exactly the reason why I have decided to get rid of my pseudonym. Today, my frustrations have hit the roof and just because of that, I'm no more afraid to be despised of doing what I feel is right.

I know, I am making a few enemies. But amongst those, who are afraid to face the truth!!!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

P.S. - I have shed my signature too. Just moments before I remove them all from this page.

Fall Marks the END...

2010-05-03T00:07:00.002+05:30

At times, you do recollect events that has touched you in the past. Maybe it evolved you in a beautiful way or may have shattered you. At times, you leaf through those pages of the past and when you stumble upon one date, one wintry night that marks the end of one year; and recollect the pains you had to undergo with nothing to drape around your frail frame and incessant snowfall. What do you feel about the event and the person, who left you alone in such a state, far away from the place you belong to?

'Tis the season for you to be merry,
not me; that's verity.
As you choose to take the Almighty's side,
I prefer Satan's proximity.
I stand lonely amidst darkness,
while candle-lights decorate your abode, pretty.
No matter how much I hate you for your harshness,
I can't prevent myself from visiting you,
my dying city!

I wake up, ready myself, with increased agility.
Look at the decor around,
end of another year, my city gears up for the felicity!

Only the lover in me understands the morbidity.
The gentle caress of your hand, your loving kiss,
all this worldly glitter,
canopies thy cruel depravity.

I know it,
my professing my love, today, is a cliched parody.
Mind if I say once more,
that I still love, only thee?

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Escape

2010-05-01T16:12:00.001+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Escape. But before that, you got to participate in this marathon. And there's no way you can avoid it. The marathon is called life. (And all those who love to call their life, by the nickname of "blogging", participate in the blogathon - "Blog-a-Ton"). Let's "question" the relevance of "Escape", what say?

Honestly, I'm no masquerading sage who'll have an out-of-the world answer, customized for each of his followers (and after a few days, appear on national television, having been booked by the top sleuths for "sagic-amour"). I'm just another commoner who can only pose questions and expect others to answer.

I've always wondered, what goes on inside the minds of well-known people, who have been the centre of controversies or scandals or scams, when the beans of their misdoings are spilled? What was the feeling that came foremost to the mind of a minister of an Utopian state (or, is it Ulta-pian considering majority of politics is a game of crooks?), whose financial interests were disclosed on a social networking site by the chair-magnate (now, that's what you expect when you cross a chairman and a business magnate) of one helluva rich sporting event?

Was it, "HOW do I get out of this mess? HOW do I ESCAPE?"?

Leave alone this author, he's paranoid. What do actuaries generally do? Yes, they make financial sense of future. Take for example, an actuary in the Property and Casualty field. He does everything, from designing an insurance policy to making fair rates for them that would be attractive for the buyer and profitable for the selling company. He pools your risk with that of others' and you feel secure, 'be there a theft of property or a casualty due to unforeseen Acts of God, my finances are protected, my family is safe'.

But the actuary himself knows, this is crap. There are a lot many terms that condition a payout of an insurance claim. Take an example of another demented mind, who values pension funds of companies and calculates using actuarial skills, the retirement benefits of individuals of a country, which has been ruling the world economy and given him a job alright, but has also done significant harm to his own country. What sense of his own future is he making? What mathematical equation does he solve, when he pictures his old age where he is in no state to earn?

Does he say, "WHAT do I do to protect the property called youth and secure an ESCAPadE from one casualty named old age?"?

Picture the third. A bright student, sophomore at one top-ranked university in the country teaching social sciences. He faces the wrath of recession along with his classmates and is forced to take up a job, which he doesn't like, well-paying though. After a significant amount of time spent doing that job, he wishes to do something new, something which interests him. But he's got to tread a rocky path to reach his destination. Nobody's willing to let him do what he wants, even though he's got the capability. Nobody cares for the impressive qualification. Unless you choose to prove your credentials in the academic sector itself, you are treated as just another amidst the masses, your qualifications get diluted by your proximity to a bunch of nothing-doers, who are only concerned about the amount getting credited in their bank accounts at the end of the month. Nothing else. A big PERIOD.

When he starts gasping for fresh air to breathe, in this back-office corporate culture, what does he say?

Is it, "WHEN do I earn my freedom? WHEN do I do something meaningful, ESCAPing this tragic vocation?"?

Everybody needs to ESCAPE from the illusory reality show called present and the bigger event, "their own life". Life is frustrating, it doesn't let you sit back and relax, even for a split-second. Its a challenging marathon, which you can't avoid, if your heart is pumping blood into your veins, while your eyes are on this article.

What's the Escape solution then? The sage would say, "all is maya". The minister would add a "wati" to that and retell the cliched lies about the money in his/her bank. The actuary would still love his job and inflate the image of security before cautious pedestrians on the risky-wealth and life-path. The sophomore would try out the easiest act of cowardice and write "I quit" on a piece of paper. RIP.

Which amongst these are right, is up to us to decide. However, have we given a thought to our deeds that at times forces upon us a situation, which we badly need to ESCAPE from? I end with a note close to my heart, about such deeds.

I feel like a beggar on the street.

Remember, all wealth isn't stored in a bank.

Priceless love I'd bought you, when I could hardly eat;

to reach the peak of success, you used me as a plank.

Wish I could be as selfish.

Avoiding the miscue, could have given life a shape.

On my clean linen, I won't have lamented the single blemish,

To the vast expanse of perfectionism, I'd escape.

My deeds left me holding a drooping flower,

even though, I cared, deep within my core.

Now that the marriage has turned sour,

and your tweets have turned sore,

I only wish, I'd known you before.

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense"!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

My Grievous Reminiscences

2010-04-28T23:36:00.001+05:30

Whenever, I've taken up the pen to write (rather, hit the keyboard to type), I've invariably made a scapegoat of someone or the other living around me. Few of my closest friends have been made one, more than once. Here's another instance.

When a person has little or no work,the easiest thing for him to do is to let his mind wander. Some minds lose their way, hankering after intellectual pursuits. However, others, like the mental wanderings of yours truly, culminates in what is called building castles in air, or, daydreaming, in short!

Now that he stays away from his family and friends, their thoughts often cross his mind. One fine morning, he let his mind wander similarly, and thought about the future – concerning his relationship with his closest buddy. Let me tell you, of late they have lost touch and hardly find time for each other.

So, his mind was on track – a railway track to be precise. Where was he travelling to? That is not known for sure. What unfolded was actually a “filmy” sequence – a “flashback” of sorts, which I describe now. The author is not widely known for his clairvoyance, but chances of such a daydream coming true cannot be ruled out.

Though a complex situation, the solution does lie in the hands of the protagonists.

The power of steam, pulling me ahead,
lush greenery is what I leave behind!
Where the solitary reaper, toils to earn her bread.
‘Can I relate to her?’ I ask my mind.
Given my tumultuous life, the answer’s affirmative -
even the whole world seems too lonely a place to live.
I’m reminded of my relationships,
my best friend & other comrades on my ship.
The symbolic side-berth, AC train coach & a dream date,
the first movie enjoyed together, “after we met”!!
A best friend earned, on a dream man’s trail,
and the hilarious, “lonely-girl-open-treasury” doctrine,
remember the station master’s gratuitous counsel?
Those were the days, under the shade of a banyan tree,
some moments were spent in mirth & gaiety.
Presently, seems like the tale of a fairy -
do you by any chance remember, “unity in diversity”?

Today, ‘analysts’ code their lives,
& ‘mangers’ rack their brains, to innovate!
My buddy wines, dines, jives
& walks the “treadmill-path”, with her dream date!
Yesterday was heavenly, today’s a hellish curse;
previously, I needed proxy for attendance,
today I need it to “buzz”!!

I always believed, friendship was beyond definition -
life’s most precious possession; but I mistook.
Little did I realize, some day,
it’ll be narrowly defined by the name of “Facebook”!

Have you experienced a similar fate? You have no other choice, but to curse the society, you live in.

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense"!

Belated Birthday...

2010-04-24T01:44:00.001+05:30

She's one of my best friends, till date. However, I have failed to be one to her. Probably that's the reason why I comfortably forgot her birthday and never realized it, until after a week, when she herself reminded me.

However, later but not never, a token of appreciation for her being a friend to a paranoid corporate, was presented to her which included this note too!

I slept soundly before those scary exams,

kept the faith, her knowledge was an open book to share.

A class half-attended sitting beside her was dreadful,

'coz she'd tackle every question, while I just managed a blank stare!

While equations and contradictions, scared us to death,

she was only afraid of the stray lizard!

Maybe not a great deal to talk about,

but certainly, poetry-fodder, for the poor man's bard! ;)

As the one in the limelight amongst us,

an aura of mirth, with icing of banter, she'd create.

One really misses those days, which you made special,

when life today, does more than frustrate.

I can trade my unworthy present,

in a highly undervalued barter.

But never can I afford losing a buddy,

who'd praise my foolish poetry,

breaking out in her own characteristic laughter!

Here's wishing a long life, to the woman,

to the friend who does care.

Your birthday I can comfortably forget,

keeping the faith, come what may,

My friend, you're always there!!!

Belated Happy Birthday!!!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Love - thy fear...

2010-04-24T01:33:00.003+05:30

Everyone has a heart. Everyone loves. Some more, others less. But love, they do. Even the toughened terrorist has a heart. Its just that he's misguided by the evil souls masquerading as their know-it-all, Oh-so-Holy leaders.

A poet's compositions scribble themselves out automatically on a piece of modified papyrus, when he's gripped by that all amorous sensation, which we laymen call "love".

A playwright pens a screenplay, hearing in his imagination, the sweet something, that he expects his beloved to sing to him everyday.

However, not all is a cakewalk. This all defying feeling is accompanied by a perpetual sense of fright, that of losing out on love! Who knows, maybe, what follows, is a depiction of the same?

I lay supine on the floor,

reflecting on my life and the accompanying rancour.

I was probably in a daze;

I'd realized, I was trapped inside a maze -

which had all pleasures on offer,

but I traded my sanity; gone forever.

From inside, I could only hear you sing,

tried really hard, but failed to catch a glimpse.

I craned my neck to look out,

and through the hole in the wall, I tried to shout -

to the lone passenger on the last red bus leaving the depot.

"You see, I have not a pen to write a note.

Can you please do me a favour?

Carry my words to her - how much I feel for her.

I'm crippled; I can't move, I falter.

My voice is feeble; I stammer.

Should she feel bitter?

Tell her I love her still; that each night I stay awake -

think of her, just think of her...

Ask her to wait; I'm imprisoned, I might be late".

The bus disappears into the dark night,

I'm left wondering; would she hear me ever again?

Can I see her smile, once, just once, outright?

Opening my eyes, I realize,

the maze is just a few square feet - my cramped room, to be precise.

My small world at present.

Spotlight has shifted - a tumultuous, emotional descent.

Can't be re-staged, the dramatic play has flopped.

I thought about you just once today,

but then, I never stopped!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Hours foreseen?

2010-04-20T23:42:00.003+05:30

Have you ever felt it this way? You live for someone or something for no matter how long, and then a few cruel hours changes it all. You spend all your time wishing well for that very being and those few hours metamorphoses your persona in a way that you can't help but be malevolent. You start hating that being each minute that you live after those few gruesome hours!

And moreover, you pray, may even your worst enemy never live through a few such hours. I couldn't speak out my feelings, but did write them down.

I’ve seen the amber horizon, at the break of dawn;
I’ve seen the sky after the rain; seen the rainbow con.
I’ve loved the melody that lingers on,
I’ve dropped the rose, held on to the thorn; there’s none to “lead me on”.
I’ve walked the rocky path again,
I’ve burnt my fingers, playing with fire; was once more, slain.
I’ve broken down totally, though, happiness I feign,
I’ve never learnt from mistakes; all that matters of heart gave me, was pain.
I’ve still strolled past the lake, admired the bloom of a thousand flowers,

I’ve seen life fall apart, in a matter of hours…

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

How selfish have I been?

2010-04-12T00:13:00.003+05:30

Life meted out hardships from time to time,
I could help little, but take blows lying down.
A lump in my throat, I could hardly speak,
my temple bled from the pricks of my thorny crown.
Each time, you stood by and held my hand firmly,
caressing my hair, you promised, "there's nothing to fear".
Each time you lent your shoulder,
I could do little, but wet them with my tears.

I've been rude to you, when we argued, when we differed.
You forgave silently, never did you chide.
But behind the mask of your loving face,
was there a discontent that you did hide?

When the going got tough, you faced the severest blow,
that I may live, concealed the injury underneath your skin.
You had little to eat or wear, life's lows you'd only seen.
But for the achiever in me, happiness you did feign.

All this while, I charted my own course,
and did fist the punching bag, I'd made of you,
each time, my persona lost sheen.

Oh my Mother, how selfish have I been,
how selfish have I been.

[Forgive me, Maa. My well-paying job could only buy you a life full of frustrations. How useless a son have I been?]

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Ro(w)man Holiday

2010-04-05T23:19:00.002+05:30

Here's another of my very early compositions. When my days were not that frustrating. Read and enjoy!!!

Prologue
I believe many of my buddies have travelled abroad during vacations. Whether in school or in college, vacations or extended weekends were what we really looked forward to.

Now, I had this unique experience of travelling abroad (or, aboard…the context shall become clearer once you read the travelogue that follows). Romantic, yes it indeed was, but really I’m being diplomatic because I don’t consider any city to be better than my home sweet home…Kolkata!

Yes, these days I’ve been researching a lot on romanticism (crap, really!). And as a result, these days, my compositions have become nothing but a jittery juxtaposition of juvenilia for my Juliet – beautiful, melodious yet not within grasp.
Essentially, the travel was close to Rome somewhere in Italy. So, indeed it was a Roman Holiday (or, Ro(w)man as the context shall be clear). The following is my travelogue. Go read it!

Travelogue
A welcome break from my varsity,
in the season of ‘watery’ adversity –
saw memorable events unfolding!
I had set out for an unknown destination,
but shortly after, I found myself cruising,
in river waters – romance mixed with relaxation!

Yes, there I was, where ALL ROADS LEAD TO
and a bit further, on a GONDOLA tour!
Venice! Wow! And I thought love songs,
was the domain of Bachchan-Pancham duo.
(Oops, forgive me BARD; there also was Portia-Bassanio!)

On that lovely li’l vessel sat I (aka PECK)!
I discern, I saw my Hepburn, on the opposite of the deck!!

She was a Royal, really an angel.
How beautiful? Truly, I can compose a monograph!
What elements had I to be eligible –
a poor freelancer for The Telegraph?

Just the sight of her visage, could have taken me across thousand nautical miles…
but I’m no Romeo & we exchanged words & smiles!

Did I feel intimidated by her stature?
Aaah…there’s hope, many an epic Love Story,
had its origin in a chance encounter!

Where do I ask her out? Taj or Zaranj?
Grand or Chinese Mainland? (Dude, watch your pocket!)
Eureka! How ’bout Barbecue Nation?

Suddenly, all around there was expletives’ explosion!
Subsequently, there was a crash,
following which was a huge SPLASH!

Oh Lord! With misfortune I had made a tryst,
’coz it wasn’t Venice, but a waterlogged College St!
My erstwhile GONDOLA was a makeshift raft,
on board which, starry-eyed I prepared my Love Story’s draft!

Alas, now neck-deep in Kolkata’s fluid garbage,
PECK, Gregory has taken a fake turn!
In this deluge, given the Mayor’s gift for every age,
Sob…!! She eluded me again, my Hep…err…heartburn!

A silver lining in the commotion, I didn’t drown in the flurry.
Thank you my Star! You’ve guided me to the “Kalibari”!

There I prayed, ‘Answer me Deity, if you can –
why the link between Ro,row & woe, was this common MAN,
who still awaits a smile from his woman?’

(For the non-Calcuttan: Visit College St. & Amherst St. during the monsoons, if you are impressed by this ‘Travelogue’. But, do pay a visit to Thanthania Kalibari – the temple of Goddess Kali at Thanthania near College St., if you want your prayers answered.)

Epilogue
No matter the allusions to my failed marriage,
the verse is nonsense, with only humor to gauge.

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Locked in, "Keyed up"...

2010-04-04T00:50:00.004+05:30

Another realization has dawned upon me today. I've not really given up one bad habit that I'd grown during my years at a hostel. Even today, I unlock the door and forget the key behind, hanging from the keyhole of my door-lock.

During my hostel years, be it a shared room at Narendrapur (the place where I completed my Plus-2 level) or at Indian Statistical Institute, Kolkata, there have been many such instances. I remember, once my friend, Pavvy, had noted this and after two or three similar instances, where he found my keys hanging from the door-lock, to teach me a lesson, he had locked me up inside, and then started banging the door.

As soon as I rushed to open it, I realized what I'd done. I coaxed him a lot to open the door. And then, after I could convince him that I won't do it again, he finally opened it.

However, as we say in Bengali, a doggy's tail is never straightened. A person acts as is his wont. As the pressure of studies mounted, and my staying at the hostel lessened, my friend couldn't care less about my lock and key. However, he was never successful in correcting my habit.

Today, at a place far away from home, when I'm staying all alone, with no caring family or friends around, I still go about doing same mistake. After returning home, on a hot afternoon, I was thirsty to say the least. So, I had just unlocked the door and ran inside the kitchen to drink a glass. And the careless me, forgot the key outside, yet again.

Then, I had my lunch, caught on my afternoon siesta, watched a cricket match and only when I wanted to go out to get dinner, did I realize my blunder. Not that people around here haven't warned me before.

I sat down to reflect after that, if this is a part of the real me, if this blatant carelessness (or, 'key-lessness') is what I'm identified with. Probably yes. I've always eaten what life has dished out to me. Never complained, even if the taste was worse than bland. And when it dealt blows, I took 'em lying down.

I always thought, accepting life as it comes to you, would make you happy. But, does that apply to your life, which you balance with work today? Definitely not! The worst part is, it has taken me 10 months to realize this. What status does an employee, who is supposedly at the bottom of the pyramid, have in the corporate world? That of a janitor. To some, it may sound as a very rude comment. But, I just can't avoid writing the truth, just to be polite.

Here I cite an anecdote. Inside the office, or rather the back office of a multinational consulting major, sits an analyst and his manager. The analyst is racing against time to complete a deliverable to be sent out by EOD. He looks at his watch, ohh!! There's a meeting of the whole service group with the leadership in half-an-hour. There's also some stupid game, which is a part of the agenda. The organiser of the game, asks the manager to provide the names of all his team-members in small chits. The manager, obediently (the girl was pretty, you know) takes a printout of the names. And he walks up to this poor analyst, hard pressed for time and says in his sweet, coaxing voice, "can you please create small chits with the names of the team members?" All this, when he does nothing other than controlling who is doing what project and the analyst is neck deep in tasks.

And all this, just because the work is "low-key". There are thousands of analysts in India, who do similar jobs. But they can't be "keyed up", just because they are on the lowest rung. And by being disobedient, they screw up their appraisals. (And managers enjoy pleasure, by commenting before dignitaries, "I can ask my analyst to do any work for me, and he'd oblige". The poor guy can't help but smile and nod.)

Sometimes, I wish, the "key" to the pyramid was in my hand. I would have demolished the tapering upper part and would have loved to have a flat hierarchy.

However, in the initial years, fate keeps that way locked for you. The key to your success, lies in your managers hand. Just because, you've forgotten to take the key inside after locking the door (by saying yes to doing crappy work). The manager jumps to the opportunity, locks you inside and takes the key in his hand. The manager is rarely your friend (leave alone he being like Pavvy, who would jump to save you, when his own crises are drowning him).

He blackmails you, while you are inside and has his way, till the time he's forced to hand over the key to you. But by then, you have grown to be like him and when a new analyst moves in next door, you prey on him/her and pounce on the opportunity, that very day when the poor guy/gal forgets the key outside.

I promise to be careful, next time onwards. Neither do I want to be locked up, nor do I want to lock someone up, who has spent two tough years overcoming one helluva obstacle named post-graduation and make him mop the floors.

(And FYI, I am happy to be an inhabitant of a headless state).

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Mango is just a seasonal fruit

2010-04-01T00:59:00.001+05:30

The average Bengali, does have a deep fondness for mango. Come summer, when there's no Kalboishakhi (Nor'wester in Bengali) to provide respite, when there's no pitter-patter on the window-screen, and inside one hellish power-cut-led dark room, life is on the rocks for the average man.

But name a delicacy, say mango, at that very moment, such day-to-day sufferings become trifle (no pun intended) for the Babumoshai. And come to think of it, we matured over the last two years with our second home beside a mango orchard.

I still remember the day when 19 boys and girls took up admission, dreamy-eyed into this institute. While some did realize their dreams, some others failed and the rest had hallucinatory images of their futures. Be it the influence of ganja (marijuana) or just nonchalance, little did they ever realize, while still they had time, that they were screwing up their future.

All started with my best friend hitting on a few Bong ladies of the batch. However, the hardest hit was a bubbly girl, who took up a room in the Ladies' Hostel to stay close to her new-found love.

Then there was a Blackberry cell-phone. A simple college-kid from the suburbs would believe Blackberry, is the most expensive buy, with "pocket-money" (only to surf ebay.in and find that the same is get-able for under 7 grands). Oh, how the Boys' Hostel was rocked over a lost Blackberry and all the chivalrous men hopped onto the "search bandwagon" taking pity on a poor girl.

The usual discrimination: A man is never mature enough when compared to a woman. The hostel names speak out in support of it. ;)

There were two things common to every weekend. My best friend running away to his home and a few others going out for treats. A low profile restaurant in a corner of North Kolkata, named Ambrosia, was a luxury, back then. (The owner was really an inspiration for the thought provoking ads of Monster.com - "Caught in the WRONG job?" Cooking "AMBROSIA", that too, in a dingy by-lane.)

Now thanks to the foreign exchange, a trip to a place like Taj Krishna or ITC Kakatiya in a city like Hyderabad is common, once in a while. However, you won't find that female friend, who'd sleepwalk into the restaurant, nibble at the Butter nan and laugh at every joke cracked silently. (??? Yeah, when she laughed, just her shoulders moved, she didn't make a single sound!!!)

You'd miss the friend, who'd keep getting calls on her cell, either from one investment banker or foreign universities. And when she was not attending them, she'd crack an intellectual joke or laugh measured-ly at the foolish ones cracked by us.

At Taj, nobody would be bothered to go home early; colleagues would rather have a drink than have a light banter. There, you miss another girl-friend of yours, who'd say, "guys hurry up, its 9 already, and I'm late by 5 minutes to log into G-talk".

You'd like to run away to meet your buddy, who learnt every single dialogue of Jab We Met and Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Naa and enacted them in public. Breaking out into a song, whatever language maybe, or, shaking a leg, or, watching the above two movies - these were her favourite pastimes.

Now, that's so boring in a corporate party. You don't walk up to your stylish colleague and compliment her. You stay back at one corner with the males and bitch about her weird dress sense and her anatomy. Another jealous female colleague, joins in to support you.

How can you forget that friend who'd pat your back in times of your crisis and say "Aal izz Well", when he himself was getting submerged in a quicksand of various crises? How about the two others, who readily extended their helping hand to protect you when you roamed about homeless? Does a corporate have an answer to that?

And then comes a day, when you are about to be relieved of all associations with the mango orchard. Now, those people who don't enjoy the fruit in summer, lament later on about the high price they're having to "pay", to "buy" that enjoyment, when even Mastercard doesn't have the credit limit to buy things which are priceless. The seasons bearing delicious fruits don't last long. And it comes with a lot of suffering - like the summer heat.

And truly, seasonal fruits don't taste good when the season's over. If I have the liberty to tweak a Bengali saying, I'd say it here. When your teeth are strong enough, you laugh at a dentist's credentials, saying that, he copied to pass his Medical entrance tests. And when, you lose 'em all, you only hope, you were a bit restrained in your speech.

I could blog my entire life describing the happy moments and the true friendship I enjoyed at Indian Statistical Institute, Kolkata.

I may have missed out the Convocation, for one dementia giving vocation that I'm into. But I lived each moment of it, through you my friends. When you walked up the stage to receive your degree, I walked beside you. When you bowed down to accept the "uttoriyo" from the Governor, I followed suit.

When you threw your caps into the air, celebrating your graduation, I just, looked up at the sky and uttered, "Hey you there! Today, I'm not even a bit interested in the money, which I was running after at a point of time. 'Coz, today I've understood, that I'm nothing more than a beggar, having lost all my riches".

Its not long, before you write an obituary, of the Demented Actuary.

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Continues...

2010-03-29T17:04:00.002+05:30

No matter how hard I try to be myself, my frustrations don't seem to subside. Today was another day!

However, to cheer myself up, I thought of a new project. Its been long since I last did something creative. The film I had planned to make on my group of friends, still remains unfinished. :(

So, I've given it a thought. Billy Jean is the name. Have been thinking over it for quite sometime now.

(Don't think I'm attempting anything different from MJ and Bappi da).

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Why masquerade as Dev D?

2010-03-27T19:36:00.001+05:30

It's not without reason that one takes to drinking. Its not without reason that someone takes recourse to hurting himself, to waste his life. There was a similar incident in an Actuary's life as well, which led to Dementia!!!

And the side effect was Poetry. Yes, to give vent to his sorrows, he took up writing poetry, which brought tears only to his eyes and hardly anyone else. When I started blogging 2 years back, I used speak my mind through the voice of fictional characters. However, not everybody liked it and I was chided by someone for having "multi-personality-disorder".

Now, 2 years, 4 murdered blogs and loads of human nature experience later, I still try not to reveal my identity, when I speak my mind. Its not always the best thing to do, obviously; and more so when your blog has "Sense"-itive information. ;)

So, I write with an apt pseudonym. And I reproduce here, again, from one of my murdered blogs, my attempt at foolish poetry, in a state of high-dementia!!!

Read and leave a comment whether you like or hate this.

Looking back at life, I still say,
I've held no grudge.
Only, the castle that I'd seen on the sea-waves,
was actually a mirage.
You left me at a crossroad,
when more than all else, I needed you by my side.
Gift-wrapped pain, life for me had stored;
I loved you more than life; you reciprocated blithe.
Did my love have the slightest shortcoming,
that I received solitude, and for lost love,
an insane yearning?

I slept peacefully on the ground,
only to see you gone after the rise of the sun.
The eternal optimist still has this profound hope,
that you'll be mine, you'll return.
The opportune moment may come today, or at a future date.
Come back to your senses, before its too late.
Or else, of no use would be your woe.
I shall silently whisper, "Remember? You'd let me go!"
The sun would still shine, birds would chirp,
and the brave sailor won't be tackling the last monstrous sea-wave.

Your tears on my concrete chest would twitch me,
but won't awaken me from my grave.

BRB! Till then "Make Sense".

Chhalkaye jaam, aaiye... hic... aapki... hic... aankhon ke naam...

2010-03-26T23:53:00.001+05:30

Ever since I started blogging on this platform, there have been concerns that I've started drinking too much. No, I didn't foresee it. The profile details do suggest that. However, its nice to attract attention at times.

When it comes to drinking, people always raise concerns about the harm it can cause to your health. But no one ever appreciates the fact that the very influence makes you speak your mind. Yes, for a change, you speak the truth. So much so, that your boss also appreciates that you don't deserve doing what you are actually doing. (Here, I mean alcohol obviously, in cities like Hyd and Cal, it is taken for granted that water and soft drinking consumption would be above average)

There have been instances too, when a drop of Antiquity Blue, has removed someone's BLUES and for a night has succeeded in making him/her break free from his/her ANTIQUE lifestyle and live life to the fullest. I happened to visit an official party dressed in the poorest of attires and nobody noticed it. All were ecstatic.

And what more, (oh! I pray for Whatmore and a bit of luck for KKR)I've seen someone do the weirdest thing. One of my closest buddies of late (yeah, we drink together and also, curse our jobs, together) swore he was a pure vegetarian. On the same party night, I see him helping himself with some Chicken Pasta (I can imagine the lips of someone in Ames and someone in Bangalore, smack). Wait! Buddy, what did you just do? He had a nonchalant reply, which certified that he lived dual personalities - he was Vegetarian when sober and an Omnivorous when sloshed.

On others, the effect last forever. Like my most favourite senior in the corporate sector. He lives a world of his own, although, he has earned the credibility to sell his autograph. Now, that's a lot of money in actuarial world!

Those who follow Adventures of Asterix and Obelix, would be knowing that the superhuman-strength-giving magic potion had a permanent effect on Obelix, since he fell into a cauldron full of it as a child. Now my senior didn't fall into a cauldron full of whiskey, but had an effect in a different way. One fine day, he mentioned that when he visited Goa, he had gone beach-hopping riding a bike. Next day, I gave him a suggestion of buying a bike to commute to office and he replied, he didn't know how to ride one.

So, has the claim I mad a while back, been contradicted? Absolutely not! I'm a Keynesian. And I believe in the Short Run effects. You are free to contradict. ;)

Another long and boring and inconclusive treatise. What a waste!

BRB! Till then, "Make 'Sen'-se". (Moonmoon Sen looked gorgeous in Mirakkel-5 today!)

Birth of Model-ing

2010-03-25T00:12:00.001+05:30

A week of madness! Another example of what frustrations can do to you. I forget the birthday of one of my best friends, meet her online after a week has passed and still chat nonchalantly to her; until that poor girl takes pity on my tragic state and says, "amar Birthday tui bhuley geli?" (how did you forget my birthday?)

That's what relentless "chhappa" does to you! (If you are wondering if this a new addition to the recent edition of Oxford Dictionary, be rest assured, this won't be a question in your GRE or GMAT exams. It simply means C-C-P, or, Cut-Copy-Paste). It reduces the sharpness of your brain. And by the time you reach a level, where you can change the way of working, your brain has been covered by a thick coating of C-C-P brand rust and the innovative ideas, fail to break down that nasty Berlin Wall.

I wonder, how people still take pride in what they do and put up a face that claims to the world that they are the greatest?

Let me share an anecdote. In a sloshed state, I managed to walk up to one of such self-proclaimed greats - an inhabitant of the actuarial world. I expressed my desire to do some actuarial & analytical modeling exercises, that were being performed under a different umbrella within the fold of one "Big-Four-ian".

He was impressed! And assured the drunkard, that such exercises were also being done under his umbrella. The sloshed student actuary, had an out of the world feeling and downed the bottle in one go! Bottoms Up! Finally something to cheer about! Hic... Or so he thought.

It was "model-ing", of course. Draping a saree around a half-clad model! Oh no, not even a model, just a mannequin. With a flesh and blood model, you could have played around a bit (or, played safe, with a bottle of Bisleri, of course).

The modeling, that the sloshed student was hoping to do, was just pasting values into an already built template. But drunkards are not impatient. Since in a stupor, they hardly can sense, what's going on and can keep waiting for the "perfect, sultry, sexy, but, voluptuous model" to come their way.

P.S.: I've lost the election, I mentioned in my last post. So, didn't harp on it. After all, I'm a Four-ian Actuarial student. I should cover my shortcomings and promote my "long-comings" as much as I can.

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Vote for... ???

2010-03-21T00:01:00.001+05:30

My new adventures! I'm part of an election. Weird?? Hey! I'm serious. No, thankfully, the Indian Actuarial Society doesn't elect its members. One becomes an Actuary after clearing a lot many mathematics based papers. Sigh! Thank God! Otherwise, the Yadav groups would have made their presence felt in such Governing bodies as well. I wonder which Reservation Bill they'd have opposed there, even if they entered the Society with fake certificates??? ;)

Enough of shit! Now let's get back. I'm standing to get elected to the Executive Committee of an Association, which has pledged to bring my hometown closer to me, when I've travelled far away from it. It has brought the culture closer to me, no doubt, but it has failed to maintain transparency, in its means in achieving its end. And supposedly, I'm supporting a faction which wants to set things straight again.

But Vote for whom??? Mine is the least known face in the group! I won't divulge more. I shall post the results tomorrow. Till then, pray for my win!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

My Friend...

2010-03-19T21:01:00.002+05:30

There was a time when I blogged seriously. The intention was totally different though!!! All that, is history now. Incessant blogging and bad company led me to a fall, which caused me screwing up my actuarial ambitions and which further led to the present - dementia. However, even through that "bad-blogging" phase, I had not forgotten my truest buddy (I don't know if this superlative is correct English or not, but I couldn't find a better one. My vocab sucks, you know!).

His love for me, his purity in the friendly bonding was proved just few days back, when he lent out his hand for the umpteenth time, this time, for a homeless, frustrated, suicidal me! They, rightly said, "A friend in need is a friend indeed". And how foolish was I to despise him.

Now, during those insane days, I had dedicated something to him. Our common friends laughed at the inherent humor, but very few actually appreciated that this was a feeble attempt on my part to keep alive this true friendship, which has run into rough phases often.

So, here, I re-publish that very post and say a silent prayer - let us part ways only to reach the destinations that each of us has set for ourselves, and not go out of the hearts!!!

Sometime ago, I had a conversation with my Lord! You don’t believe it? Quite natural! What the conversation did was just awesome…it really brought out my feelings from deep within my heart. I saw, even after having changed a lot over the last year, I still say that short prayer everyday. Yes, that prayer, worshipping someone whose contribution to my life cannot be described in a single blog post!

Yes, he’s no heavenly being but a simple human like me but at a point he did the unnatural, pulling me out of a ditch into which I had fallen & seeing me through crucial tests! This blog is dedicated to the people whom I love a lot, outside my family…so, it’s impossible that you won’t be a part of it, ‘dost’!

Here’s an edited part of the conversation that I had with my Lord:

“Parthasarathi (PS): Oh Arjuna, why art thou so depressed?

Partha (P): My exams are knocking at the door. Honestly, I’m stressed!

PS: Why worry? Didn’t you study?

P: Time flies, buddy!

PS: You’re decent, nonetheless. I shall grant you a boon!

P: What’s that? Can you please tell me soon?

PS: Basically, I give you 2 choices that, in this exam, can see you through!

P: Enjoy Guru!

PS: Ahem…the first one is a 100 woman army – 20 doses each of –

- first, a robotic epitome of perfection,

- the second, an overflowing tub of emotion,

- third, one who’s, sadly, sleepwalking,

- fourth, the sharpest receptor, adept at GTalking,

- for the fifth, you’ve got to keep away the lizards, rest, she’ll hit the eye of the bull!

P: Really?? That’s Coool!

PS: The second choice, a single being in love with a Libra!

P: My Lord, in your ‘MAHArashtra’, women are the source of all fuss, pardon my illiterate interpretation of the ‘sashtra’. To tell you the truth, I shall always go for, one, MAHApatra!”

Here are a few lines through which I want to convey, that nothing has changed, buddy – as you may be thinking! Yes, apparently, there’s a wide gap, considering the fact that you’ve got a promotion to 205 from 108 and I still enjoying the ambience of 109. But, even if you go far, far away (which seems impossible for the next 1 year at least) you can always bang your wall…and I shall be able to hear you…not just the ones at BHOS, even the Chinese Great Wall is not that strong to create a rift (not even Buddha babu, who’s trying his hand at doing the same to Kolkata & the rest of Bengal!).

To the one, I address ‘dost’,
For whom, my affections are still the most,
Somewhere down the line, link got lost?
No, never! At least not with a person, whom I owe a lot!
You’ve been told a lot, so have been I.
But, buddy, isn’t it childish, to useless talk, subscribe??
So, on a parting note, why not give it a try –
To go back to our old ways; as we were, during our early days @ ISI??

Waiting for your comments buddy!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense"

Some Nerve!!!

2010-03-17T23:51:00.000+05:30

How do you deal with 'someone', who at times really gets on to your nerves? 'Someone', did just that today. But this 'someone' is no mean man!! But still!

At times, I feel why did I ever yearn for outside exposure and move out of Calcutta? Could have very well done a fellowship in my subject and been happy with the meagre allowance given.

But then again, its Lord's wish after all!! To make sense of the future, you yourself got to be sensible. Such virtues are lacking in the powers that be. So, carry on, until you reach there and try bringing sweeping changes, rather than being just another 'manager'!!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

Knights...

2010-03-16T19:41:00.000+05:30

The IPL frenzy is back again! And this time, its somewhat better. Not just because Kolkata Knightriders are winning (rather, were winning until they lost, today). More importantly its back in India.

And what's better than an evening enjoyed with friends? Even though we lost, the mood is still cheerful!

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense".

MSHF

2010-03-16T13:32:00.000+05:30

An attempt of a confused guy to create a stable career. One who shies away from networking in the corporate sector has lesser chances of making way through the clogged road to success.

So, what does this shy, stammering guy do to speak his mind? Yeah, correct! He blogs! And to popularize it, he names it MSHF! The very word may give an adrenaline rush to some, get someone high, etc. Why so? 'Coz the abbreviation has a deeper relationship with students of the top-league universities in India.

Be honest! You've just got out of school and the clutches of your Ma and Paa. After the initial ragging sessions, intro's and proximity to seniors, you visit the institute Computer lab, which has got an upgrade with snazzy new machines and lightning fast internet connection. A curious engineer/mathematician/statistician/economist/whatever, that you are, you switch on the computer to search for educative materials, research papers, thesis by alumni and what not!

You have heard that Naman was the brightest student that your institute has produced and today, he drives around in a Lamborghini in his leisure and at work he writes reasearch papers and publishes an extract on his blog. You've forgotten the blog-address. So, you type in N on the address bar, hoping, the institute as a respect to its most favourite son, would at least have bookmarked his site. But by Toutatis! (too much of Asterix, eh?) The first site that pops up in the auto-complete, takes you to the domain of "America"n women who are supposedly "Naughty". A bit more "research" and you're there - the site of your "sister's" best "buddy", who can also give you a bit of "warmth" of a different type! Oh, cut down the verbiage, please!

Yeah, MSHF was what I was referring to.

Now, the Chatur Ramalingam's of every batch would have their both hands covering their wide open mouths and run away at once. But the more un-academically inquisitive Raju Rastogi's like me would "research" a bit more. And there starts the relation of 2 or 4 or in some cases, even 5 years!!!

And after passing out, (or, merely scraping through?) when they join some obscure back-office of again some "American" MNC, this MSHF has a greater relevance. Now, those in the Actuarial fields, would try manipulating figures and putting up a face that suggests that "Aal izzz Well" in their Corporate lives, tactfully saying, "We're making financial sense of the future!"; but away from the limelight, they can't hide the truth from themselves - the bookmarks on their lives' address bars link them to "My Sinister and Heavy Frustrations!!!"

(A quick info from my Google searches in a sloshed state: Alumni of IIT Delhi used to have an Orkut community which urged the die hard fans of Naughty America to sign up!!!)

BRB! Till then, "Make Sense!"