The Things I'll Do For A JoB

It's summer. Not summer like the way it is in Mumbai, where its fashionable to bitch about how hot it is. No. I'm talking about a real summer here.

Summer like 45 degrees C and 4% humidity.

Summer in the way that water supply is limited to once in two days.

Summer in the way that people pray for the safe return of those who venture out during the day.

Summer in the way that you wish that God would throw a planet sized bucket of water on the Sun and douse its anger even if just for an instant.

This is Bhopal, and when most of Bhopal's population is vacationing somewhere saner, I've decided to head here. However, my trip here is not some miscalculated holiday. I'm here because, as a wise man once said, I need a job.

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Why in Bhopal?

Here's why:

I often mock people who stay stuck in Mumbai all their lives. I laugh at them for being closed to the experiences that other places offer. I rubbish their claim that Mumbai is the best place in the country because most of them have never lived outside it (I have, btw). I breezily dismiss their contention that they manage to get a feel of other places simply by visiting them. I often preach to these folks that they need to stay in a place at least for a few months to really experience it.

So when I got a chance to practice what I so vehemently preach, I jumped at it. That's how I find myself in Bhopal. That's also how I realise that in 5 days outside it, I miss Mumbai just as much as any of these people .In fact, I can't wait to get back there.

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My welcome to Bhopal was eventful. The pick up car developed a flat a few seconds after take off. The driver treated this like your average everyday event and went about fixing it on his own. It took half an hour to get started again. That's when the air conditioning hit the wall and I was treated to 17 kms of dust storms early in the morning.

The following day I went to work, which is about 30kms in the direction of even hotter. Our transport was, of course, not air conditioned. I got through the day with the usual first day ritual. You know, medical tests, laptop allocation, email setup etc etc.

On the way back there was a group of 3 gentlemen sitting in the back. In the paralysing heat, with dust blowing in every visible direction and with a 30 km journey just beginning, I felt like my end was near. These guys, however, looked like they couldn't care less. They were having a deeply philosophical conversation. One of them was quoting freely from the Ramayana, Gita, Mahabharata, whatever. He would quote, then pause to explain and then ask for doubts. The others were infinitely curious and they kept quizzing him on the rehasya of what he was quoting.

All this was in perfect Hindi, not a word of anything else. No Hinglish, no Urdu dilution.

At first I was pissed. I mean it's the hottest place on Earth, the least they could do was shut up. But then I started listening, and very soon I was captivated. I got lost in the what they spoke and how they said it. I guess there's something magical when a language is spoken the way it was meant to be. Something magical when people speak of things written millennia ago but with each thought still as fresh today as it was when it was first thought. When the accents of the people are so in harmony with the region that their conversation is intriguing even when the sun is furious and the land is on fire.

Thirty minutes later, I'd completely forgotten the heat and the dust. In fact, I would've stayed in that vehicle a lot longer had I not reached my stop. It was only my first day, and I'd already managed to get a taste of India. The kind of taste that Mumbai can never offer. Maybe this place wasn't going to be that bad after all.

My dad always tells me that "you don't get nothing worthwhile without a sacrifice, and if you do you won't like it". On Day 2 I was asked to make my first sacrifice. I was being issued my safety boots and respirator when suddenly a gentleman came up to me with a smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that clearly says, "I may be smiling, but this is going to be fun only for me".

He said, "Sir mujhe ek baat kehni hai......yeh jo ....matlab..... aap apnee daadi udwaa lo" (Sir, there's something I have to say......your beard has to go). Aghast I looked at him unbelievingly. My beard??!! Why in God's name??

He continued, "Sir woh jo respirator hai usmein suffocation ho sakta hai, french cut se bhi..." (The beard can cause suffocation in the respirator, even if it's a french beard).

"French!....French!!!!!", I thought. This was no French beard! It was my very own self styled little crop. How dare he call it French!

Collecting myself, I realised that singed as I was about what he called it, the fact that he wanted me to get rid of it was probably a bigger issue. I stuttered all over the place, "Par...par ...par aap logon kee toh sabki moonche hain!" (But all of you have mosutaches).

He replied without the slightest change in his smiley expression, "Haan Sir moonch chalti hai". (Sure, a moustache is permitted).

Then he went on to politely tell me that even being unkempt (except for the moustache, of course) was "red-line behaviour" and all that could befall me if I were to behave in a "red-line" manner. The smile never faded, by the way.

Now here's the thing about my beard. The last time I was seen without it was years back. I'd had it shaved as an experiment. The experiment had caused me to face much ridicule (pun intended), lose half my friends (they disowned me) and not be able to go out with my family (they didn't want to be seen with me in public). Back then I'd decided that the beard and I would never part again. As Suddu put it, "Dude, I think a naked upper lip is just not your thing".

But who would explain all this to this heartless gentleman. So casually he asked me to snip it off, like it was no big deal.

Sigh! I knew I had to do it. The next morning, my chin saw the light of day after years in waiting. I didn't get rid of the moustache though, I thought it was best to hold on to whatever I could.

That was the sacrifice. The first of many, I assume.

Ahh, such are the times and such is life, the things I'll do for a job!!

Who do I vote for?

Having become a registered voter, who to vote for suddenly becomes a real question. Not a question as in hey-lets-debate-who-to-vote-for, but as in who to vote for next week. Real in the way that you've spent all your life so far talking about democracy and freedom of choice and representative government and blah blah...... but well, here's the chance to actually give it a shot.

Then the realisation hits home that despite the infinite fundae I distribute to people on governance (for free, no-less), I have no idea who to vote for.

Yes. Who do I vote for?

What do I base my decision on? What's the crux-factor, so to speak?
Everything gained seems to be at the at the cost of something even more important.

I mean, they tell me the following are the questions I have to answer:

Should I vote for a good MP from my area (so work happens in my constituency) or should I try and influence the right government coming to power at the centre?
Do I regard path-breaking progress such as the nuclear deal more important than homeland security?
Do I want a progressive economy or a stable one?

etc etc....


More realistically, my options often read:

Should I opt for the regionalism of the MNS or the moral policing of the Shiv Sena?
Should I choose rampant minority appeasement or blatant saffronisation?
Should I choose riots in Gujarat or genocide in Orissa?
Should I choose a government that doesn't value good international relations or one that sits impotent in the face of 16 major terror strikes?
Do I opt for a government that has real economic thinkers within it but has allies who claim they will get rid of mechanised farming and computers?
Do I choose a government that's losing grip over Kashmir or one that fuels communal disharmony?

Needless to say, the responsibility attached to my vote has hit home.
As for who to vote for, I still don't know.

Any ideas (fast!)?

Are We Ready For Women's Equality?

There is no dispute that women in India were given less than their due for most of the last millennium. There is no dispute that this inequality needed to be straightened out in Independent India. Again, there is no contention to the fact that the issue was social as much as legal.

In India, the status quo stayed simple for most of the last millennium: Women would be given virtually no regard in public life. At home they were given respect as masters of the home domain and the bearers of children.

Then came the British and ingrained ideas of "ladies-first" and chivalry into our social fabric.

Today, with women undoubtedly far ahead of where they stood in pre-Independence India, we arrive at two inevitable predicaments: 1. Equality vs. Chivalry 2. Discrimination vs. Reverse Discrimination.

On the first predicament:We're used to treating women with special respect and dignity. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. To let the ladies walk through first while you hold the door open for them, to wait while the ladies sit down first, to serve them first at dinner, to have a special queue for them at rail reservation counters etc etc. However when women are to be regarded as equal, all this is a confusing contradiction. Equality is essentially first-come-first-serve, not ladies-first. It entails an even platform for all the equal parties, in this case, men and women.

On the second predicament. We as a society are now well aware of the taboo that is discrimination against women. Not only that, we’re extremely wary of it. Woe betide anyone who says, does or feels anything that may be even remotely regarded as sexist. So great is our fear of being branded chauvinist that now we don't mind discriminating against men just so everyone is clear that we're on the politically correct side. A simple case of reverse discrimination.

Not convinced? This entry will now go on to explore a few scenarios where the above issues come starkly into view.

Consider now the issue of women's reservation. The overwhelming claim, from women everywhere is that they're equal and should be treated as much. That our laws and people should recognise the strength of the Indian woman and let her compete on an equal footing with her fellow male. Fair enough, but then on what grounds can we justify 33% reservation for women in educational institutes, jobs and government? Reservation by definition identifies a particular group as weaker/less developed and caters to help them out. It is, in its very concept, an unequal idea. Equality entails competing fairly with the rules of the game same for everyone. Reservation involves making things unequally easy for one group at the expense of another.

If we are to go ahead with reservation for women (which it seems we will), we brand them as unequal for all eternity. Not only that, other kinds of reservation have shown us that when we set reservation for women at 33% we will ensure that their participation in the reserved spheres will never go beyond 33% . That our idealistic figure of an equal 50-50 will never be achieved. Yet, statistics have it that a majority of women are in favour of reservation. Why? Is the demand for equality or special treatment?

Let’s now go on to infidelity laws in our country. As of now, a woman in India cannot be criminally charged with infidelity/adultery. Not even as an accomplice to the crime! In all cases of infidelity the woman is regarded as a victim and a victim only (Am I the only one who finds this outrageous?). So recently some good soul decided this was unequal and pushed for making the law more equal, such that even women who committed adultery could be subjected to criminal proceedings. What happened next? Women's rights groups all over the country were suddenly up in arms against the proposed change. Their contention was that this wouldn't solve the issue of infidelity and extra-marital affairs.
Firstly, I don't see how a law against infidelity will not serve to deter offenders. Secondly, even if it doesn't, how about we go through we go ahead with it because it's the fair and equal thing to do. Equality, isn't that why these women's rights groups exist in the first place anyway?

Let's come to the issue of equal employment opportunity now. At my college we recently had placements and internship selections. One of my friends applied to a global oil giant for an internship. A little background: The institute we study in has a 5% female population. The oil major who was selecting students apparently has a "very healthy male-female ratio". During the selections, my friend (an excellent debater) took charge of his group discussion session and gave it direction, meaning and coherence. The only other person who spoke during the entire GD session was another guy. At the end of it all, it turned out my friend didn't make it. Two ladies who were also part of the group however, made the cut. Like I said before, these ladies spoke nothing. Confused, my friend approached the interviewers. Which is when he was told about the "very healthy male-female ratio" and how it was essential to the company to maintain this to avoid coming off as "unequal".
Now let's analyse what really happened here, despite the blatant claim of equality made by this oil giant.
The college has 5% women and 95% men. Let's assume the applicants were in a similar ratio. Now the oil giant wants an "equal" number of men and women. So let's say for every hundred applicants they select 2. One male and one female. Since 95 of these hundred are guys, 1 guy gets selected out of 95. That makes his selection probability 1.05%. In the women's category however, 1 woman gets selected out of the 5. So the selection probability for a woman is 20%. This, apparently, is equality. It doesn't take much to see the very plain reverse discrimination here. Forgive the men for feeling just a little discriminated against.

Now let's analyse what is perhaps more important than any of the issues above. The matter of general attitudes towards women. Most of us are comfortable with the idea that men will take care of women. That they need taking care of. This manifests itself in daily life all the time. For example, it is customary for the guy to pay if a couple is out on a date. As another, we allow a separate queue for women at reservation counters.We have seating reserved for women on buses. All very gentlemanly, all very polite. Yet it is this very presumption of the "inherent weakness of women" that causes us so much grief. When society agrees that women must be taken care of by men, then it automatically implies that women will hardly be allowed to compete equally with them. That they may receive the love and affection a child gets, but never the mutual respect of an equal. In a much worse scenario, each time a woman is abused/molested/raped, it is a reflection of society's feeling that women are somehow less than men. Do we really want this to continue despite our urgent desire for equality?

When we talk of any equality, we have to accept that it cannot co-exist with special treatment. Moreover, what everyone needs to understand is that if we hope to achieve real equality, we have to oppose inequality at each instance, even when it favours us.

In summary, India has to make a choice. The choice between giving women a special place in society and letting them remain unequal or letting them become equal and removing many of the privileges that they currently enjoy. Essentially, we need to ask ourselves if we're really ready for real equality for women, and men.

Germania and the Germanians

(This post is a little old. It lay unpublished in the drafts for a while)

In almost two months amongst the Germanians, in Germania, what strikes me as most remarkable is that I still don't know a single complete sentence in Deutsch. Evidently, it's not really a language you can pick up by listening to people.
Does that mean much to me?
Well, I've reached the stage where I'm so used to people saying things I don't remotely understand, that I find it hard to notice when someone is addressing me even in English. So I would say that it does.

What's far more interesting than the Germans' Deutsch however, is their English, or Dinglish as many call it.
I understand that all Germanfolk learn English in school. At a level such that about all of them, can communicate at least in rudimentary English (except the ones who will later go on to work at travel desks, it seems). Most do better.

However, given their relative unfamiliarity with the English of regular use, the scope for unintended puns and unforeseen innuendo is boundless. This entry is about just a few such jewels.

Funnily enough, the colloquial word for "Goodbye" has "Choos" as its German equivalent. To add to this, the local Schwabish dialect has "ley" as a frequently used suffix. So in short, it was common for people to tell me to "choos ley" while parting. (In the hope that my blog may someday have an international readership, "choos ley" = suck it, in Hindi). In time I began to derive a sick sort of pleasure by responding in kind.

Take the case of the young hulk I happened to meet at the gym. I noticed he was lifting weights equal to a small truck. However he was using a lot of ten and twenty pound weights instead of a few heavier ones. Being in need of some light weights, i dragged a couple of heavier ones to where he was and asked him if he'd switch four tens each for my two forties.
Before anything else, his eyes went wide and popped outwards slightly. I wasn't alarmed. I'd seen that look before. It was the look of someone who was thrown into the world of Deutsch -English translation without warning. Regaining his composure he told me (accompanied by numerous meaningless hand gestures), "No no!! No....I'm climaxing!". Needless to say, he had no clue why I spent the next couple of minutes rolling on the floor.

This other time I wanted to put me a chair on my balcony and rest my tired workingboy legs in the fresh air. The balcony being a shared one, I casually asked the girl next door of she'd mind me putting out some furniture. Thrusting her head and neck backwards inexpleciably, she told me in a flurry of words "Because not, because not!!". A little confused, I decided it was probably best to abandon the idea altogether. Five minutes later there was a hurried knocking on my balcony door and from outside I could hear her screaming in explanation, "I mean 'of course not', not 'because not', I mean 'of course not'".

Apparently the potential for such unknown gaffes is not limited to the average German speaking person. It extends even to those who are in-charge of writing notices or printing signboards. At the laboratory where I worked, there hung a seemingly nondescript board over us all. On it were these words of profound wisdom: "Drawers may unclasp if rack is tilted". Every morning when I walked in there it took a lot on my part to resist the urge to scribble a little "Amen to that!" underneath it.
In a similar incident at the mall, an area was marked as "ränd central". No comment there really.

All in all, if you're one for language tourism, then Germany's the place to be.

Suddu's Adventures in Lokhandwala Market

When i was only about six months of age, my parents decided to go vegetarian. For a variety of reasons, health being primary among them. They decided, however, that I could eat anything I wanted and when I was old enough, I could make the veg/non-veg choice on my own.

The decision to quit all things non vegetarian was not an easy one for my Dad, by no means. You see, he grew up in a typical north Indian family, where "mutton-sundays"* and "kaleji-contests"** were as deeply woven into the local tradition as, say, marrying off one's sons for money or,say, losing one's entire life savings in a night of gambling.

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*Mutton sundays: A North Indian tradition invovling gorging on huge quantitites of delicious home made mutton for Sunday lunch. It was usually followed by a long and snory slumber session next to the family mutt, who would be stoned for the same reason.

Due to the security risk that the tradition created by putting entire cities to sleep, Mutton-Sundays were outlawed by the governments of Madhya Pradesh, UP and Bihar in 1979. However many towns in these states still secretly maintain the tradition but reduce the security risk by increasing the number of vegetarian policemen on duty on Sundays


**Kaleji-Contests: Annual contests in many North Indian states. They typically involved local stalwarts competing with each other to see who could eat more "Kaleji" (liver) before passing out. The Indian Health Journal (1982) found these contests to be the cause of 73% of heart disease cases in the states of Punjab, UP, Haryana and MP combined.

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To my Dad's credit, he never faltered in his resolution, not even once. To this day he is meat free since '87. But for years after he'd quit, he grieved over his irreversible loss.

In this torn state he did what any decent, God-fearing parent might. He lived his dream through me. That's right, I became his little race-horse. Or perhaps his race-pig.

Ever so often in my early years, he would take me out for an untimely meal and get me to sample some timeless declicacy that he happened to be feeling nostalgic about. He would sit with me as I ate it, savouring the aroma of his lost love. I was a good pig too. I sampled eagerly and ate well. Indeed, I even asked intelligent questions. He answered them right back, always.

When i look back, I can remember innumerable long chats with him at the local Chawla's-Chic-Inn or in the narrow south-ex lane that housed Qureshi's Kababs. The discussions were deep and solemn, and they always revolved around non-veg food. I would quiz, he would lecture. Things like, "How many different types of animals can be eaten Pop?", "Paa, have you ever tasted deer?" or "Does fish make you intelligent Papa?" formed the meat of our discussions.

It was on just one such occassion that I asked my Dad, "Whats the tastiest kind of meat you've ever had?"

His answer was prompt, without a second's hesitation. "Rabbit, of course," he declared, "just melts in your mouth."

"Wabbit!!!!", nine-year-old-me asked incredulously. "Where do you get wabbit???"

"Well, not at a restaurant or a pickup like you kids are used to. If you want something as delicious as rabbit, you have to go the jungles and get it yourself. It's a do-it-yourself kinda thing, just like anything else that's important in life."

What followed was a thirty minute discourse on a hunting trip my Dad's "Forest-ranger-uncle" had taken him on when he was eleven.

Apparently catching a rabbit wasn't such a big deal once you got to the depths of a jungle. All you had to do was park your truck with its headlights on and very soon a few rabbits, fascinated by the wonder that was the headlight, would come stare at them. What's more is that the headlights would throw them into a trance-like state and then it was the easiest thing to go and pick up one of them. Following this the rabbit was usually quickly converted to dinner. And if my Dad's taste-buds were to be trusted, a delicious one too.

Now, my Dad's a great guy. Honourable, honest, upright etc etc. But like any true Arora he's been guilty of stretching a story sometimes. I mean, any real Arora knows that the price of a good story is probably greater than a fib here or a lie there. The rabbit story may well have been one of these "slightly stretched" ones. Nine-year-old-me, of course, was oblivious to any of this and lapped up the story like a hungry cat.

Years passed by. I grew out of nine-year-old oblivion and started recognising my Dad's stories for what they were: interesting anecdotes often reworked in his head for effect. With time I began rigging stories of my own and gradually dismissed my Dad's stories as having no real truth in them. The rabbit story being one of them.

But I was wrong, and it took a Suddu to prove it to me.

Which, of course, brings us to the question of who Suddu is. Well, Suddu is a friend of mine in college.

And what is Suddu doing in this story?
A lot actually. Firstly, he looks like a rabbit (see picture for proof). Secondly, this is HIS story.



So we skip forward many years from the time I heard about how rabbits were supposed to be caught and we reach a point in Lokhandwala market where we find our Suddu driving his Mom and little brother home.


Like i said, Suddu looks like a rabbit, and as the story will prove, behaves like one too (It would not be even remotely inappropriate if you referred to him as Suddu McWabbit, Sudarshan "Bugs" Bhatija, Bunny, Carrot Boy etc etc etc) .

It was about 8 pm, a time when Lokhandwala market is at its busiest. Suddu was in the driver's seat and his brother in the passenger's. Suddu's Mom was in the back.

Suddenly out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Suddu's keen eye caught sight of two "really awesome headlights" (from here on the quotes indicate Suddu's exact words when he first told me the story).Indeed, just like my Daddy told me, Suddu (and his brother too) was completely enraptured by the sight of the lights. In the trance that he was, he completely forgot that he was driving (albeit at the 5km/h that Lokhandwala market allows at that time of the evening). His car kept sliding forward and as is often the case when drivers forget their car is moving, it hit the car ahead. In doing so, Suddu set off a chain of events that the residents of Lokhandwala now refer to as the "push".

Here's what happened.

Suddu's car hit a Qualis right ahead of him. The impact threw Suddu (and his brother) out of their trance. However it was too late to prevent the Qualis from jerking forward violently and hitting a Zen right ahead of it.

An auntie was driving the Zen.

Here's the thing about Lokhandwala aunties. They're atrocious drivers. I'm not being sexist, just honest. However, every once in a while there comes a time when they're involved in a car mishap where they're not at fault. At this point the aunties of Lokhandwala take on a whole new form. A violent, lethal and extremely self righteous form. A form that screams out revenge and sends a chill through anyone who ever dared question their ability to drive.

The auntie in the Zen was no different. The moment the Qualis hit her car, she instinctively clasped her head in her hands and said "Oh crap!! Not again". Then a moment later, she realised that she hadn't suddenly hit the brakes. In fact she hadn't even hit the accelerator instead of the brakes. Indeed, she hadn't even lost track of the road because she was staring at herself in the mirror. Then the auntie, in a moment of inspiration, realised what aunties in Lokhandwala rarely get to realise: that it wasn't her fault.

Seconds later, the auntie pumped her fists, unsheathed her claws and stepped outside, raring for battle. Meanwhile the Qualis' driver and Suddu had both broken into a cold sweat. The Qualis' driver because the Qualis was a taxi and he would have to face the music from his boss. Suddu because the origins of the "push" could be traced back to him.


The auntie ran, enraged, towards the driver of the Qualis. For the next six minutes, the auntie growled, shrieked, hissed and threatened to gouge the driver's eyes out.
The driver tried answering back in his defence.

He tried telling her that it wasn't his fault. He tried telling her that the car right behind him had bumped into him. He tried telling her that he was probably worse off, since his car had been damaged from both ends.
He didn't succeed in telling her anything. In front of the raw fury of the auntie, all that came out his mouth were little timid squeaks of nothingness.


Suddu was watching all this from the confines of his car and was feeling more and more frightened by the second. However Suddu is a debater and even in this moment of crisis he came up with a logical argument to defend himself. He mentally framed what he would say when she got started with him.

Also, all this mayhem had completely stopped traffic in Lokhandwala market and numerous cars were honking non-stop, asking Suddu to move ahead.

Meanwhile, after six excruciating minutes under fire, the driver of the Qualis managed to extricate himself from the auntie's clutches and he sped towards Suddu's car. Suddu by now had a line ready to blurt out as soon as he was challenged. So when the driver ran towards him, Suddu rolled down his window about a micrometre and declared with a fake, watery smile: "Its all cool because we all have insurance".

Suddu had somehow hoped that would have been the end of it, and rolled back his window. Except the driver of the Qualis spoke no english and had no clue what Suddu was smiling about.

Suddu had been to England very shortly before this incident. Like any desi-munda, he had been impressed by the standards of traffic discipline and respect for the rules of the road there. Seeing how this little scuffle was blocking the traffic entirely, his civic sense was aroused and he rolled down the window a micrometre again to tell the driver that it was perhaps best they took this argument to the side of the road. When he told me this story, he said, "Dude, at least in England people have the decency to go to the side of the road and fight. Seriously dude."

Realising that they were obviously choking the traffic, all three parties decided to park at the side of the road and then get back to fighting.


Suddu, just back from England, waited as the two cars in front of him moved. As the Qualis in front of him moved left, a new emotion arose in Suddu's bosom. An emotion far deeper than civic sense. One that ran in his very veins. In his ancestors veins too. The same feeling that ran through the blood of anyone who ever had any connection with that part of our land that lay in current day Pakistan. It was more than a feeling, to tell you the truth. It was a voice. Yes, it was a voice, and this is what it told Suddu: "All this decency, civic sense, responsibility etc etc is crap, and you know it. Remember, you're a Sindhi. So get the hell out of here while you have the chance."

I'm not kidding, he actually heard that voice, or he would never have done what he did next. He saw the empty space in front of him and sped off, leaving the other two parties gaping.

Of course, there was this one problem. The fact that "speeding off" in Lokhandwala market basically means revving the engine till you reach a speed of 10km/h and then have to stop abruptly.

So Suddu and family should have been less surprised than they were when the Qualis' driver caught up with them on foot. He started cursing and created a racket banging on the car's windows. The mood inside Suddu's car was already volatile and an enraged guy chasing them, swearing while he was at it, tipped it beyond the edge.

Suddu's little brother could hold it back no longer, and began wailing uncontrollably. Suddu's Mom, meanwhile, started to get hysterical, and can you blame her. Luckily Suddu instinctively locked the doors of the car, and continued trying to force his way through traffic.

After a while, Suddu did manage to get out of Lokhandwala market and a little while after that Suddu and family reached their apartment complex.

Suddu's brother got out of the car teary eyed. Through his tears he noticed that the car's front number plate was missing. Suddu, hoping that it was the tears that were blocking his brother's vision, stepped up to check the plate and realised, with a great deal of disappointment, that the plate was indeed gone.

Suddu looked up at the sky and sighed. What a world, he thought, and what luck. Of all the things he could have accidentally left before he sped away so cheekily, he had managed to leave the one thing that could easily be traced back to him, his number plate.

With another sigh Suddu realised he would have to go back. He realised he would probably have to face a very angry driver and an even thirstier wildcat (aka the Lokhandwala Auntie). He submitted himself to fate. Leaving his mom and brother at home, Suddu solemnly drove back to the scene of crime.

He parked some distance away and sneaked out of the car. Silently peeing his pants, he figured it was best to scout the area before returning directly to where the "push" had begun. He observed from afar that the Zen seemed to have left the area. That was good, definitely good. He also noticed that the Qualis was still there but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Suddu decided to observe from the other side, to see if the driver was inside the car. So he approached from the other side and realised that the driver wasn't in the car either. However, there was someone in the back seat. This hitherto unseen character was staring out of the window listlessly.

Suddu wondered if this person had caught a look at him during the "push". Probably not, thought Suddu. Suddu had been in his car all along and so had this person, making it virtually impossible for the two to have seen each other.
However, Suddu thought it was important to "establish this beyond any reasonable doubt" before making contact with the person.

So Suddu decided to "play it cool". He walked by the Qualis a couple of times, whistling loudly and tunelessly, so as to "seem unsuspicious".

When the person in the car showed no signs of recognition, he approached him cautiously. "Bad hit eh?", Suddu asked him.

"Yeah, some bastard rammed into us from behind" was the reply. Suddu flinched a little, but continued to "play it cool".

"Oh that's bad, that's bad", said Suddu, "You managed to catch a look at his plates?"


"No. The sunabitch drove off before we could do much. Wouldn't mind wringing his neck if I saw him though. I'm getting late for my flight and now the taxi driver has gone to get another vehicle, all 'cause of that bastard."

Suddu felt distinctly dizzy on hearing this, but still, he knew he couldn't show it. He tried a fake laugh, "Oh, Oh hoho, hoho....I don't think he'll be coming here again. Hoho, Oh hoho."

The man looked at Suddu, slightly worried if all was well with this talkative stranger.

At this point Suddu realised that if he stayed any longer, his cover would be blown. Besides, the driver of the Qualis wasn't going to be away forever. So Suddu politely said goodbye to the man in the car and thanked God that he had no clue of his car's number.

Of course, the plates were still missing. Suddu thought of investing a few minutes in their search, just in case the Qualis' driver found them on his return. He walked around the spot where his car would have been, trying to act casual while searching for his plates. No sooner had he started looking than a "typical Lokhandwala dude" came up to him.
"Duuuude!! Aren't you the guy who slammed his car into that Qualis up ahead?? Awesome dude, awesome. Look here I picked up your number plate as a souvenir. I guess you want them now don't you? Here you go...", and he held out Suddu's license plate.

Suddu, overcome by emotion, hugged the "typical Lokhandwala dude" and gave him the most rabbity smile in his repertoire.

That's how it happened.

That's how I realised how my father's stories were more than just entertaining exaggerations.

That's how I came to acknowledge the wisdom of experience.

That's how I learnt that if you'r headlights are awesome enough and you keep them on long enough, the rabbits will come, they always do.

All thanks to Suddu McRabbit.

Moments of our lives-The dethroning of Spiderman

There are some incidents in life which remain forever etched, in minute and graphic detail, in one’s memory. The following is exactly one such memory, and I can only be thankful, that this etching is a happy one, because they’re not only something that each friend I have absolutely has to hear, they’re also something of a rarity. Most people who I want to tell this to have already heard it, but they’ll agree it deserves a text version. I’m reasonably sure this text won’t do it justice, not entirely anyway, but something tells me that it can’t hurt to try.

The memory is from when we found ourselves in the ‘thirteenth’ in that magical city they call Kota. Like any other evening I found myself at my desk poring over some obscure factorisation or figuring out some evil equation of trajectory. As was almost customary, I would take my breaks on the 2M1 terrace, my dwelling, hang out, gather point etcetera etcetera. The view was what made it special. It overlooked the Jhulelal temple on one side, the joggers’ park on another, the gay-lane on yet another and was situated at the crossroads of five illustrious lanes, each of which, in that sleepy village of a town, deserves a story of its own.

Now one would assume, that a thoroughly taxed mind, would take its rest when it was given to it. But no sir, it worked in quite the opposite way. It was in those moments of supposed rest on that fateful terrace that all of us had brainwaves that were quite remarkably, almost ingeniously idiotic.

So as I casually stared upon the world from the eye of that terrace, my mind drifted from the gay lane to the Shubhi store with its wealth of rubbish and slowly across the Mayukh residence, now bare of its lively residents of yesteryears. From there it almost automatically swam to the home of the Jhulelal and into the narrow lane-of-crime and slowly fixated itself, of all things, upon the ledge right under my terrace and the joggers’ park wall near it.

In his heyday as a moron, Karan Girdhani had been known to jump right off the terrace and onto the ledge, from where he would then leap onto the joggers’ park wall from where he would descend and effectively, completely eliminate the stairs in this flight to the ground floor.

This story is based in Karan Girdhani’s heyday as a moron.

That is not to say that he was any dumber than the rest of us, but that he was the only one who had, up until this point, attempted this foolishly dangerous stunt. Even he had to admit that he was lucky to have gotten away with his limbs intact. With these thoughts in mind I began to ponder upon the useless question of whether there was a less risky way of getting down off the terrace and into the lane below. Quite naturally, it never occurred to me that the strong stone staircase that was used to move from floor to floor fit this description perfectly.

Looking at the ledge, it seemed to me that one could climb off the terrace onto the ledge, then lower himself into a hanging position on the ledge and then gently release one’s grip on the ledge to find oneself in the lane below. A far more graceful solution than Karan’s and also infinitely less risky. Now considering I’m a bit of what in my parts would be referred to as a “phattu” and what in your parts may be referred to as a “pipsqueak” and which in yet other parts may be referred to as a “beseengh kee gai”, I wasn’t going to be the first to try out this brainchild of a wayward academic break.

As usual the gang gathered for dinner at our usual dinner haunt. I looked around the table, they were all there, all those who in this story form the “we”, except Saurav, who always ate at home and always without onions.

The lights at the mess were always dim to keep the insects out. In the long shadows of that dimly lit mess, the demented scientist of my academic breaks found his lab rats.

After dinner we passed the lane-of-crime over which the ledge hung and I casually suggested my low risk staircase evasion plan to the others. Bored and deprived souls that they were, almost immediately, Karan and Satpal (of Dabba Khel fame) wanted to have a go at it.

Saurav, who always ate at home and always without onions, also happened to be a resident of 2M1, in fact he lived next door from me.

Now Saurav, well he’s no ordinary guy and he often makes me wonder if man derives his sanity completely from onions. He’s a little, whatdoyoucallit, nuts. There was this one time when I told him some fantastic Sunny Deol style story complete with shotguns, broken jaws and a police chase. I also conveniently added our 75 yr old landlord as the hero of this fairy tale and Saurav, with his eyes nearly popping out of his head, lapped it up like a thirsty cat. In the excitement that followed this ridiculous narration, Saurav ran amok through the rooms of 2M1 and in a wave of adrenaline, nearly threw me off the, by now well known, terrace.

Days later when I summoned up the courage to tell him that the story wasn’t exactly completely true, or even slightly, it broke his heart and he didn’t speak to me for almost a week.

To his credit, he has a heart of gold and is now one of my closest pals.

So back to that fateful day, as Karan and Satpal made their way up to the terrace, Saurav got wind that something was up, something that he for one, was certainly not going to miss. So Saurav, always easily excited, completely abandoned his onion free meal and raced headlong to be the first to get off that ledge. I’ve been told that in U.P. and M.P., where life is pretty much first come first serve and which is where Satpal, Saurav and Karan hailed from, it’s quite valid to wrestle one another to be the first to get just about anywhere. So that’s exactly what Karan and Saurav engaged themselves in while Satpal attempted to descend in the low risk manner described earlier.

In an ungraceful and rather uncomfortable way, Satpal dropped off onto the ledge, managed somewhat to get into a vague hanging position before he fell, rather than released himself, into the lane below. The attempt was theoretically a success but it certainly made the stairs look like an attractive proposition. Satpal was bruised and embarrassed. He wanted another go at it. All this while we could hear Saurav yelling to break free. Satpal went up again to restrain Saurav (which was no mean feat) while Karan attempted the same challenge.

As Satpal went up yet again the yelling grew louder and we could hear the sure sounds of a scuffle with all the requisite expletives in place.

Up on the terrace, Saurav had just managed to break free and his mind started racing at the speed of a Sunny Deol flick. Racing from the stairs to the ledge, he devised a plan which characterises his school of thinking. He decided, moving at the velocity at which he was, he’d jump right off the terrace, then as he moved through the air he would turn around, raise his arms, lock onto the ledge with both hands as he fell past it and then comfortably release himself into the waiting lane-of-crime.

All in one fluid motion, in one moment of glory, to one rapturous, never ending applause.
Indeed, in Saurav’s mind, Spiderman had already been dethroned.

The following few moments form a large part of what remains etched in the memory of all those involved.

Saurav, following his plan, raced like the wind and reached the edge of the terrace. Like a gazelle, he leapt over the terrace railing, making it seem insignificant. In mid air he rotated with the flair of a magician performing a well practiced trick. Preparing himself to descend upon the world of mortals, he raised his arms in anticipation and prepared his hands to lock onto the ledge. And by Jove, he even managed to grab it but by with what is commonly called “just one hand” and in a moment where I’m sure he was thoroughly confused about this mishap, he landed squarely on his butt.

Now let me paint the scene for you. Anvesh, Munnu, Swami and I were on the ground floor while Satpal and Karan were on the terrace. Saurav of course, was in mid air. The group on the ground was reasonably oblivious to what was happening, considering how quickly it happened. In an instant, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash and something landed in the lane beside me. In a village with no flying objects (apart from Saurav), and at about 8.30 in the evening, birds and planes were hardly a possibility. Before we’d even turned to where Saurav landed, we knew what had happened.

The wall of the joggers’ park had sharp spiked railings, Saurav missed them by a hair’s width. In a land of motorcyclists who don’t believe in looking ahead while riding, he’d also been extremely lucky no one was riding in the lane-of-crime as he descended upon it. Of all the places one could have landed, he landed on his butt. And surprisingly enough, he was still in one piece.

When he looked up for the first time, the look on his face…ahh, I’d give anything to see it again, just once. I have never, and I mean never, seen a more profound amalgam of so many different emotions on one face, all at the same time. The bitch of it is that I probably never will again either. There was pain, I think that arose in the behind of his anatomy. There was confusion, which like I said charactersises his school of thought. There was humiliation, which is obvious. There was distress, partly from being on your ass in the middle of a narrow lane and partly from blindness, because his glasses were missing. I could see surprise and wondered if it was surprise at having missed the ledge or surprise at being alive. Also, most importantly and something I’d drink to, if I drank, there was the hint of a smile. That was the cue for the rest of us, and the next few minutes were lost in tedious, side splitting, blinding laughter.

Saurav’s only views on the issue, made public by him hours later, were, “yaar yeh josh kisi din jaan ley lega”.

As if that wasn’t enough for the evening, plenty more unfolded, but that’s a different story.

P.S. Now i'm absolutely sure i haven't done justice to the story, but considering the laughs i had just reliving the whole thing, i think it was worth the while.

random fiction

Rummaging through the ancient files on my computer, i chanced upon this, something i wrote years back in school. Given the age of this computer, it would have been lost soon, so i decided to put it somewhere safer, as a memory.



It was one of those Sunday mornings, when the sun is out, the land is green and the mind of a young boy, at its freshest and most imaginative, pushes his body to go out and enjoy itself. It is on one such immortal Sunday morning that I found myself in a dilemma as to whether I should go for a swim with my friends or whether I should start working on the patch of loose soil in the eastern end of the garden, something I had been dying to do for months. As I pondered over this difficult question, there were a series of knocks on the front door. The knocks sounded like the hooves of a horse that is perhaps not feeling very well in the stomach. Judging by that, it was certainly my uncle Ravi. Large and rubicund, he stormed into the house like a dangerous, yet well-meaning, elephant. I must say my mother looked rather relieved when he finally seated himself on the sofa. She is always a little concerned about the crystals.

Uncle Ravi, it may be mentioned, is always upon some “venture”. The success of these ventures, unfortunately, is not as considerable as their number. But he keeps on trying, which is heartening. I was sure that we would soon get to know what his current venture was. Why, we might even receive the “high honour” of playing some role towards its fulfillment. Soon enough, we discovered that Uncle Ravi was “shipping” cash for a well-known bank from town to town. One must remember that this story is a few years old and at the time cash flow was still tedious and time consuming and Any-Time-Money machines were virtually unheard of. So, by “shipping” cash out to the bank’s widely dispersed costumers, he hoped to make cash transactions faster and popularize the bank. One might say that this was not a task to be performed by one man, but Uncle Ravi was not a man who thought much of such trivial arguments. As I soon came to know, Uncle Ravi was going on one such trip that day. It being a Sunday, he felt that by delivering money on a holiday, he would be able to show off a shining example of his bank’s efficient customer service.

“Look here sonny boy,” he said to me “there’s a lonely stretch on the road that I’m heading for, and I’m carrying a lot of money with me, fifty thousand to be exact. I wouldn’t mind having a strong young lad with me.”

I nearly blushed at his praise, but at the same time realised that Uncle Ravi, being as large as he was, couldn’t really have meant that. He was probably just looking for company, and I was more than willing to comply. Going on a long drive on a lonely country road certainly made swimming or gardening seem hollow.

Soon I found myself in a taxicab heading north along a beautiful stretch of golden yellow cornfields. Uncle Ravi once had a car, but his stint as a professional motor-racer had made short work of his automobile. That was why he now generally moved around in a taxicab.

The driver of our cab was a young man of about twenty-five. He seemed eager to make conversation. Uncle Ravi, who was sitting next to me in the back seat, casually pulled out his wallet to check his cash. Now there is something about Uncle Ravi that I must tell you. He rarely remembers to carry his money with him. It is not as though he were cheap, though that is the impression some people get. It is as though his fertile mind is to full of his ingenious ideas to be bothered with things so trivial as remembering to carry some money with him. I should have anticipated this and reminded him. But now it was too late. Uncle Ravi was looking at his empty wallet with look of pure amazement. He couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten to bring some money along this time.

The young, jaunty driver sensed something was not right.

“Anything amiss, sir, ?” he asked in a friendly sort of way.

“Amiss? Certainly not, young man.” Said Uncle Ravi, quickly changing his expression. “It’s a pleasure to ride on these country roads, undisturbed by all the hustle-bustle, traffic and pollution of the city.”

“You’re dead right there, sir,” said the driver. “I worked at a tannery in the city for a year sir, and I was beginning to get quite rich sir, but was never happy, ‘cos there’s money in the city sir, but there ain’t no peace there. I moved to the country about a year back and now I’m a happy man.”

“You should be, with a nice little car like this. Its got the feel of the old times in it.” said Uncle Ravi.

“Yes sir, she’s a little old and bit rusty but she hums along just as well as those fancy new cars,” said the proud owner of the taxicab.

“Would you, by any chance, be willing to sell this little jalopy?” inquired Uncle Ravi.

“That depends on what you would be willing to part with sir,” came the prompt reply.

“Would fifty thousand be fine with you?” Uncle Ravi asked nonchalantly.

The driver tried hard to mask a look of extreme surprise but I could see he wasn’t finding that very easy. The previous Sunday he had found an old man who ha reluctantly agreed to pay him fifteen thousand because he wanted the engine as an antique for his automobile museum. The driver was ready to dispose of it as soon as he found an alternative employment. Now he was being offered thirty five thousand more for the same piece of junk. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Fine, er…I…I mean,” he stuttered, “ yes ,I think that should be fine sir,” he said finally.

“Very well then, here’s the money,” said Uncle Ravi, handing him the bag full of the money that was to be delivered to the bank’s customer.

The driver took a peek inside the bag, saw enough to please him, and continued driving.

“She’s yours, sir,” he said loudly.
Uncle Ravi merely smiled.

I didn’t have any inkling as to what was happening, but knowing Uncle Ravi, it was certainly some ingenious scheme to get us out of paying the taxicab’s bill.

Sometime later in the afternoon, Uncle Ravi spoke again.

“Young man, the car’s been making a strange sound for the past half hour. I don’t think I want to buy it. I’d like my money back,” he said.

A look of dismay crossed the driver’s face.
“But sir, she’s a nice little thing, just like you said, she and you, they’re made for each other sir, she’s just fine,” he cried out in despair.

“All that was before I heard these strange noises. Now I think I’ve got a raw deal. I’ll take my money back, thank you very much,” was Uncle Ravi’s firm response.

“No, sir I don’t want to buy it. It’s yours. I don’t want to buy it. I’ve got nothing to do with it,” the driver said, almost triumphantly.

Uncle Ravi quickly brought out a tattered old book from his pocket. I could read the words “The Indian Penal Code” on the cover. What in the world was going on?

“Here it is, section twenty eight, clause two,” said Uncle Ravi. He then read out the words of the clause, “objects sold, if returned within twenty four hours of sale, in the same condition as when sold, must receive full and complete repayment from the person they have been bought from. (This clause does not include articles of an edible nature. For list of articles, see clause three).”

The driver, who could read, knew he was beaten and handed back the bag of money to Uncle Ravi.

We soon reached our destination. Uncle Ravi got out of the car and started to walk away without paying.

“My payment sir,” shouted the driver from behind him.

“Payment?” said Uncle Ravi, “surely, you don’t expect me to pay for a ride in my own car.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” asked the driver, who was unable to understand anything.

“Look here, my dear fellow,” Uncle Ravi began explaining, “when I was in that taxicab, I bought it, so it was mine. Now you can’t really expect me to pay you for that, can you? I was in my car.”
With that, Uncle Ravi walked away.

It was evening and Uncle Ravi had just come to the end of his story. Everyone was laughing.

“But we were right legally, weren’t we, uncle?” I asked.

“Son, that’s a very old copy of the Penal Code I had there. That law was abolished in 1966.”

“So shouldn’t you pay back the poor driver now?” I asked.

“I’ve already done that son, I like to keep a clean conscience,” he said somberly.

I joined in the laughter.