Of the Swedes and Slowing Down

On a mid-morning break at work, I was strolling with my colleagues in the parking lot, enjoying the sunshine and sipping watery tea of the vending machine, when I chanced upon this one.

The first thing that came to my mind was Govinda's song Chashme par unke wiper. Such innovation!!! I mean, the weather generally is snowy here in winters, and tends to develop moisture on the outer surface of the headlights. I have seen people scrape snow off their cars using a small rubber shovel. So this is not a bad idea after all. And if not that, it sure does help in flicking off the dust and grime off the glass - ensuring a better illumination. Of course, it did not click on most cars, but what the heck? It's a gem of an idea. And who else thought about it, but Volvo, the Swedish auto giant.

And while I'm on Sweden, I came across this beautiful article, by way of forwards, and it made interesting reading. It's called the Slow Down Culture, and versions of this are splattered all over the web. Here goes -

It’s been 18 years since I joined Volvo, a Swedish company. Working for them has proven to be an interesting experience. Any project here takes 2 years to be finalized, even if the idea is simple and brilliant. It’s a rule.
Globalize processes have caused in us (all over the world) a general sense of searching for immediate results. Therefore, we have come to posses a need to see immediate results. This contrasts greatly with the slow movements of the Swedish. They, on the other hand, debate, debate, debate, hold x quantity of meetings and work with a slowdown scheme. At the end, this always yields better results.
Said in another words:
* Sweden is about the size of San Pablo, a state in Brazil.

* Sweden has 2 million inhabitants.

* Stockholm, has 500,000 people.

* Volvo, Escania, Ericsson, Electrolux are some of its renowned companies. Volvo supplies the NASA.
The first time I was in Sweden, one of my colleagues picked me up at the hotel every morning. It was September, bit cold and snowy. We would arrive early at the company and he would park far away from the entrance (2000 employees drive their car to work). The first day, I didn’t say anything, either the second or third. One morning I asked, “Do you have a fixed parking space? I’ve noticed we park far from the entrance even when there are no other cars in the lot.” To which he replied, “Since we’re here early we’ll have time to walk, and whoever gets in late will be late and need a place closer to the door. Don’t you think? Imagine my face.
Nowadays, there’s a movement in Europe name Slow Food. This movement establishes that people should eat and drink slowly, with enough time to taste their food, spend time with the family, friends, without rushing. Slow Food is against its counterpart: the spirit of Fast Food and what it stands for as a lifestyle. Slow Food is the basis for a bigger movement called Slow Europe, as mentioned by Business Week.
Basically, the movement questions the sense of “hurry” and “craziness” generated by globalization, fueled by the desire of “having in quantity” (life status) versus “having with quality”, “life quality” or the “quality of being”. French people, even though they work 35 hours per week, are more productive than Americans or British. Germans have established 28.8 hour workweeks and have seen their productivity been driven up by 20%. This slow attitude has brought forth the US’s attention, pupils of the fast and the “do it now!”.
This no-rush attitude doesn’t represent doing less or having a lower productivity. It means working and doing things with greater quality, productivity, perfection, with attention to detail and less stress. It means reestablishing family values, friends, free and leisure time. Taking the “now”, present and concrete, versus the “global”, undefined and anonymous. It means taking humans’ essential values, the simplicity of living.
It stands for a less coercive work environment, more happy, lighter and more productive where humans enjoy doing what they know best how to do. It’s time to stop and think on how companies need to develop serious quality with no-rush that will increase productivity and the quality of products and services, without losing the essence of spirit.
In the movie, Scent of a Woman, there’s a scene where Al Pacino asks a girl to dance and she replies, “I can’t, my boyfriend will be here any minute now”. To which Al responds, “A life is lived in an instant”. Then they dance to a tango.
Many of us live our lives running behind time, but we only reach it when we die of a heart attack or in a car accident rushing to be on time. Others are so anxious of living the future that they forget to live the present, which is the only time that truly exists. We all have equal time throughout the world. No one has more or less. The difference lies in how each one of us does with our time. We need to live each moment. As John Lennon said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”.
Congratulations for reading till the end of this message. There are many who will have stopped in the middle so as not to waste time in this globalize world.

Forget the blah-blah on slowing down - I know it's the truth, and we need to stop to smell the flowers - but what struck me the most in the whole article was the logic of parking. Its almost like thinking laterally!!! I won't be surprised if the reason for those headlight wipers is something more common and obvious than cleaning the lights.

Do not watch...

... Nehlle pe Dehlla (sic).

I dream of ...

... a lot of things, because I remember them in the half-awake moments when I pull the blanket tighter around me. But once I am fully awake, they have fully evaporated from my memory. Even so, there are a few which are clear, and come back to me when I’m day-dreaming while waiting or travelling.

The most common, of course, is the one where I fall off a cliff. But unlike her, I don’t develop wings, I just fall…I enjoy the breathless drop at some breakneck speed, and fall with a thud on my bed. This “thud” would usually be a sudden rolling over, accompanied by an awakening jerk. I hated this dream for the reason that it always woke me up half an hour before the alarm sounded – and it put me in a bad mood because the knowledge that the alarm would sound in 30 minutes would deprive me of any sleep lingering in my drowsy eyelids. Now though, the dream has stopped appearing – largely due to the fact that when I started falling, I would realise that it was close to half-an-hour before the alarm sounded, and I shut the alarm off even before it sounds…he he he!!!

Another consistently appearing dream is the one where my daughter is ice-skating (or doing something similar, which requires her to glide on a smooth surface) and she wants me to come see her perform, but somehow I can’t seem to make it. And it so happens that at the end of her skating, she tends to fall, and I somehow come up from behind, grab her waist and we do a lap of the rink, to standing ovation. It leaves me with goose-pimples, and I don’t know what happens before, or what happens after that. I don’t even wake up then – I only remember in the morning that I dreamt about it.

And there are the ones where I dream about a lot of insignificant things in advance, as if a few friends are sitting and discussing some movie together. Or that we are gathered in some unknown place over a dinner. Much later, when we are actually discussing a movie or sitting at a friend's place, I remember that I had “been here” before – that the guys were wearing the same clothes; that we are talking on the same topic. It’s an uncanny sense of déjà vu. (In order to explain it better, I came across and ended up seeing Déjà vu, which is not that bad a movie, after all) But what I feel is explained to the T by this quote of Dickens – “We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and done before, in a remote time – of our having been surrounded, dim ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances – of our knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remember it!”

In the process I also learnt that when I feel that I was "there" before, it is a particular type of deja vu, known as deja vecu; that when I know that I'm falling and decide to get up, I'm actually undergoing what is known as lucid dreaming, and that jamais vu is the opposite, when you can't remember something despite knowing that you have been there - Like you know that you have seen that face somewhere, but don't know when and where!!! (Happens to us guys all the time :D) Some gyan, eh??!!! Shru, thanks for the tag, I didn't know these before.

More later... :D

Blood Diamond...

... is a diamond, which has been mined in a war zone, and sold to finance the military needs of an insurgent group.

What’s the story: In the late nineties, Sierra Leone is in midst of a civil war. Insurgents of the Revolutionary United Force (RUF) have swooped on the newly-found diamond mines in the country and are selling it to unscrupulous persons to finance their arms and ammunition. The government is trying hard to cut down on the smuggling of the country’s natural resources. And thousands are dying amidst the gunfire of these two warring factions.

Solomon Vendy (Djimon Hounsou) is a fisherman, who has been captured by the RUF and is made to search for diamonds. One day, he finds a huge diamond – of a size that no one has ever seen – and is caught by the captain of the RUF while trying to bury it. But before the captain can lay his hands on it, the government troops launch an attack, and arrest all of them. In all the gunfire and fighting, Solomon is separated from his family, and his son taken away to be a child-soldier. Danny Archer (Leonardo DiCaprio) is an ex-soldier from Rhodesia , who smuggles diamonds from Sierra Leone to Liberia , for his former commander, Colonel Coetzee. Caught while smuggling, he is now in prison. He is in desperate need to find something of value to bargain his life and way from Colonel Coetzee, for the diamonds which were confiscated when he was caught. Maddy Bowen (Jennifer Connelly) is a journalist covering the civil uprising in Sierra Leone , and is trying to find proof that the illegally flourishing diamond business is actually funding the war, and that the largest diamond corporation is actually buying these diamonds to hold the reins of an ugly game of demand and supply. However, she has no one who will go on the record to give her the details.

So when Danny overhears the conversation between Solomon and the RUF captain in prison, he realises that the huge diamond might as well be his ticket out of this situation. He strikes a two-way deal – with the Colonel to find the huge diamond as repayment for the diamonds which were confiscated while he was caught, and with Solomon to help find his family for the huge diamond. He gets himself and Solomon out of prison, and under the guise of a person genuinely helping a homeless man, he asks Maddy to help find his family. But when she finds out that he is actually a smuggler, Maddy refuses to help him until he goes on record and gives her the details for her story. Danny gets under immense pressure – with his commander prodding him for the diamond, Solomon prodding him for his family, and the RUF searching out Solomon. His only hope is Maddy, who can find Solomon’s family, and lead him towards the mines as members of her press convoy. Watch the movie to find out what happens next.

What’s good in it: Top of the line acting by Leonardo DiCaprio. He sports a look and feel not very different to the one in The Departed, and gets a good hold of the Krio. Watch out for his infectious rendering of “yeah yeah”, when he nods in agreement. Jennifer Connelly looks believable as the journalist. The narration is tight and the cinematography is excellent. All the gunfire, wildlife and war-torn rural Africa make it look like Tears Of The Sun but has been depicted better.

Reco: Once, most definitely. It would not have been nominated for the Oscars otherwise. Must-watch if you are a Leo fan.

Melody...

... is a first-time thing, like physical attraction, while lyrics are like real love, deep, true, like getting to know a person. Or so Sophie Fisher says in Music and Lyrics.

The Movie – Music and Lyrics is a sweet romance – a chick flick with an Awww!!!! climax on the lines of Notting Hill, About a Boy or more recently Love Actually. Alex Fletcher (Hugh Grant) is a star of a bygone era. His heydays are over, and after his band broke up, he has been singing his songs at retro clubs, and resigning to the fact that he is not in demand anymore. Sophie Fisher (Drew Barrymore) is a “plant-girl” who comes to water the plants in lieu of his usual help, who has taken sick. And when Cora Corman (a teen music sensation made out on the lines of Britney / Lindsay) chooses to do a show with him, he realises it would be his biggest break in the music industry ever since his band broke up. The flip side – he has to write a song in under two days, something he is not very proud of. The last time he wrote a song, he rhymed “you and me” with “autopsy”. So he decides to get a lyricist to do his song, but is left unimpressed with the given lyrics. And then he hears his “plant-girl” humming some words to his melodies. He fires his lyricist and sits with Sophie to write their song. And they start debating on music, lyrics, words, rhyme, and what not under the sun. How they write the song, and finish it up (with Sophie’s sob story, her star-struck elder sister, love and of course Cora and her karmic mixes thrown in) forms the rest of the story.

Performance – Brilliant. Hugh Grant comes up tops!!! He carries his age well, and is extremely believable as a fading star. When he sings “Don’t write me off, just yet”, it almost seems he is referring to his acting career. His Elvis-esque thumkas and the POP after “Pop goes my heart” are lovable. (Dont miss this video at ANY cost). You see yourself doing the POP while coming out of the movie. Drew Barrymore excels as the bubbly sensitive girl, who has dreams to pursue, but develops jitters every time she finds the going getting tough. With her pouts and batting eyelashes, she develops sizzling chemistry with Hugh, making you forget the toughie she played in Charlie’s Angels. Sophie Fisher’s elder sister and her family, Cora and Alex’s manager provide timely humour. Music is awesome, lasting melodies with meaningful (and sometime laughable) lyrics justify the title to a T. Look out for the moment where Hugh dubs his song in his studio.

Reco – Once, most definitely. All the good reasons – Good looking stars, excellent chemistry, lilting music, genuine humour. Plus, it will gather you brownie points if you take your girlfriend along. Pity I had to watch it alone on V-Day.

Salaam-e-ishq...

... is a movie of a confused director. He wants to say something, but he loses all of it in the melee of his under-used overbearing cast. He takes six couples, and you wonder why. Your confusion is never set to rest, because even at the end of the movie, you are as huh as you were at the beginning. In his effort to fit in all the stories into one, Nikhil Advani loses out on the material.

There is hardly any story which has any palpable depth – in fact there are only five stories – the sixth is hardly a story. If I did not know Isha Koppikar and Sohail Khan were stars, I would have searched the whole screen trying to locate who is being shot there. Their story hardly has anything to do with the other five, nor is its slapstick comedy entertaining in its own right.

A quick performance analysis follows, and may have slight spoilers.

The story of John Abraham and Vidya Balan proves to be the only one with some substance and it aches when its superlative climax gets diluted in the typical shaadi-mandap-esque finale of the other stories. This story comes across as the only reason for which the movie has to be watched. Both John and Vidya excel in this sweet romance. Vidya has matured as an actress, and effortlessly moves from a bubbly mood to a poignant one.

Akshaye Khanna desperately tries to do an Aamir Khan of DCH, but fails miserably. As a "wants-love-not-marriage" guy, he churns out a performance which is a watered down version of Aamir at times, and Rahul Bose in PKSE. After Dor, Ayesha Takia has shown that she has a lot to offer, but Nikhil does not capitalise on it, and she is wasted.

Anil Kapoor gives out a couple of shockers in his role of a middle-aged guy with a successful career, perfect family but boring life. As the dutiful wife and mother-of-two, Juhi spins out a natural performance; it is high time she did something which requires her to “act”. For quite some time now, her characters have become an extension of her real life.

Govinda is old. Period. His comic timing, though, isn’t. His performance is not very different from Bhagam Bhag, and is predictable. His role of a simpleton, falling in love with a phoren maidum is unconvincing, and dull. The phoren-maidum is not too remarkable either. Age shows on Salman Khan too. His awry hair, and body language have nothing to offer. His vintage charm of Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam shows up in bits and pieces, but fails to clear the last mile. Priyanka Chopra is lack-lustre. Her name (Kkamini) and her mannerisms often confuse you into thinking it is actually Kareena onscreen and not Priyanka.

The less said about Isha and Sohail the better. They have a total of 3 scenes, none of which are original or remarkable. Half of their story runs, believe it or not, while the credits roll. Their story (or what is called one) is totally unconnected and runs parallel to the rest. I think it has been included in the movie just to satisfy a numerological need, and nothing else.

Music is not very catchy, the sole exception being the tune of the bagpipes which I intend to use as a ring tone. Camera work is superb, especially when John takes Vidya to his father’s house. Movie is too long, with too many characters playing touch-and-go. Much of the dialogues are takes on old songs, and there are a couple of spoofs as well.

Watch it if you have nothing else to do. Which is why I went in the first place :)

Busyness...

... in business has resulted in a hiatus in posting. It isn't only the volume of work you see. A lot of other things are happening, like arranging an intra-company badminton tournament, like discussing NRIness with old friends on IM, like receiving and seeing off colleagues, like arranging a conference call to discuss how to vacate the house in Pune, now that no one is there and such like.

Things, which did not allow me to do what I would want to - like writing about the trip to a small British Isle (Wight), or ordering free prints of the photos I took there, or reviewing Guru, or spell-checking the professor, or mentioning my new PDA phone (or its 2GB micro SD card or the bluetooth stereo headset or the 4GB pen drive), or putting in a word on the pass I have to the local multiplex, which gives me unlimited movies for 11 pounds a month.

And to boot, these guys have loaded up this new thing here, which requires me to login with my Gmail account - that's one less password to remember, but what the heck is Google upto? It is integrating everything left, right and center. It took over Youtube, and integrated it into Orkut. I can see them integrating Blogger too, and before you know it, you will be blogging on Orkut.

While this will convince you that I'm still active and Google has not mistakenly trashed my blog in the migration it is undertaking, I'm gonna take some time off and write a lot - most of it will be reviews ( I have been spending too much time on eBay :P ) - but I will also include travelogues and photos and movie-reviews (monthly pass, you see). For Guru, though, I will direct you to this exhaustive review here.

Stay tuned. Attuned.

Nando's...

… short for Fernando’s, is a Portuguese-themed chain of restaurants, which is famous for its peri-peri type of chicken.

Legend has it that when the Portuguese set out to India by sailing all along the African coast, they camped in a place near Mozambique. The sun, the sand and the tropical weather caught their fancy, and they set up base here. And to add to their pomp and gaiety, they developed a fancy for the local spice – pili-pili, which they called peri-peri.

Such were the old settlers enamoured by Peri-peri that it finds its way into their menu, their food, and their way of life. They like to believe that ex’peri-peri’menting and ex’peri-peri’encing are the only way to live life. The cuisine here is mostly chicken - not surprising, because its best selling item is the chicken itself. They cook the chicken in a unique way, laying it flat on an open fire grill – much like our tandoor – which gives it a smoky taste when eaten.

You do get veggie items – but there is a limited choice – like the pitta, for example. A simple veggie pitta is not very different from our Big Mac when eaten. To the eyes, however it looks like the filling is enclosed in two thick chapattis and sealed all around. A typical veggie pitta, with chips and spicy rice, looks like this.


The food here goes very well with Sangria. Sangria is basically a light wine punch – a dominant red wine, which is then spiked with sweeteners like honey or orange juice, and has fruits in it. Subtle variations of fruit and sweeteners have given rise to a variety of drinks, but they are all called Sangria in general.

For more stories on the Peri-Peri Life and the legend of the Barcelos Cockerel, click here.

So you all...

... thought I was joking about the winter here? Take a look at the roads which take me to my office.

This is just as I step out of my door. Take a look at the swanky cars to the left. I gotta take a right where this road meets the intersection somewhere in the background.

This is the main road - the road in the foreground (white lines) is what I call a 'parking road' - its a kind of service road, which is used exclusively for parking. Notice the red lines - this means its a has a premium rate for parking - a pound an hour!!! Purple lines are 75p and green is free. But its never free - for parking, that is!!!

And, you remember I told you my desk was almost a corner one, and has a view of Jaipur, the Indian restaurant? Well, this is the view!!! And just in case the fog and the darkness make you gloomy, let me remind you, once in a while, we get some sunshine, and how we wish it lasts!!! Why? Take a look!!!

Notice the red car in the foreground - it is always in the same place. Proof of it is the fact that the two snaps above are spaced weeks apart. There are lots more to come, so stay glued...

I am a stickler...

...for correct spellings. If it’s a sunny day, and I’m feeling Godly, I may choose to forgive an occasional grammatical mistake, but I simply cannot stand wrong spellings. This, in spite of a Cambridge University study wchih pvores that you can raed and udnersnatd snetneecs if the frsit and lsat ltteers of the wrods are in palce. Only I know how difficult it was for me to write the above sentence – to convince myself to deliberately put the letters in the wrong places. But I digress. If I were not like this, I wouldn’t be the spellchecker for the professor, would I? Anyways.

GOOD DAY. This is KIRAN R PAWAR is This right time to talk to you? As you
are aware I am working with LIC, LIC is conducting a customer satisfaction
sarway. The corporation wants to know your views on Life Insurance
Mr. ________I want to meet you for about 15; minuets. Would you prefer That of come at 10am Saturday or nest day Sunday be more suitable? (your view :s are Important to us)
Thanking you
You finical friends
Kiran R. Pawar

And so began my autopsy of the ill-fated letter which dared to seek my mailbox with all its lacunae. And as if he were standing here in front of me, my friend starts asking -
Is this a good time to talk to you?
NO. Why is he going on?
As you are aware, I am working for LIC?
As YOU are obviously unaware, this is the first time I’m talking to you, so I’m not aware. Ok, now I’m aware. Now what?
The corporation wants to know your views on Life Insurance Mr.
What? Is this an interrogation, mister? Or is it like Mr._________, I want to meet you for 15; meet you for 15? You want 15 from me? 15 what? *Flabbergasted* Oh minuets? You want to meet me for 15 minuets? 15 dances and that too old style? Crazy hua kya? I’m no ‘Writh’ik Roshan, mind you.
Would you prefer that?
Prefer what? The dance?
Would you prefer that of come at 10am Saturday?
Any suggestions?
Or nest day Sunday be more suitable?
I thought Sunday was a rest day. Nest Day? What do we do? Go and nest? Or is it that on a “nest day be more suitable”, and other days be less suitable? Suitable for what? Nesting? Huh? And in the bracket he writes – your view :s are important to us. I have half a hunch the ‘:’ implies another meaning. Which view is he talking about? Sunday? Nesting? View? Whew!!!
You finical friends – Kiran R Pawar
Friends? I assume that the r is “or”. Which leads me to believe that there are two of them, both finical and intending to maintain an air of mystery. Oooh!!! Super. But then, who is the “this” pointer when they say in the first line “this is Kiran (or) Pawar”

And even though I spellcheck all the posts and comments for the professor, she does have an other side - she won this contest with this gem of an entry, you see. So as soon as I received this email, I sent it to her. Sometimes, it helps to know you have competition around.

Man wants...

... a telephone. He goes and checks the latest model and plans available. Man goes to the showroom and offers to pay upfront. Man is denied a phone because he does not have a PIN number for the debit card or a "paid utility bill, not older than three months" in his name.

Man goes to bank, demands a PIN for his debit card. Bank says PIN is despatched. Man says he has not received yet. Clerk checks and says it has been despatched to his permanent address in India.

Man wants to go out. It is so damn chilly outside that the very thought of "becoming a penguin" to go out puts him off. Man wants to go out of the city for new year. It rains. Man looks out of the window at 4 in the afternoon and wonders "Whither the sun?"

Man wants to charge his gadgets, but his round plugs won't go into the square holes. Man attempts to find a charger, but none in stock.

Man wishes everyone a happy, fun-filled and a satisfying year ahead and rolls off to sleep under the warmth of his blanket.

The chilly winds...

... of England seem to have the sharpest bite of them all. A week into the UK and I already feel the woollen I have will hopelessly fail to insulate me – when I am outside, that is. In the inside of the house, the office, and the mall I visit in between walking from one to the other, there are heaters working tirelessly to make the people feel warm and cozy.

The walk to the office is a pleasant one – early in the morning, thanks to a disciplined colleague who works smart – the shops in the mall are just about opening as we walk past them, the heavenly smell of cookies and bread emanates from the brunch shop, a couple of people nod a silent “Good Morning”, as we walk the entire diagonal length of the mall, window shopping the huge stores, brandishing their merchandise at a re-worked price for Christmas.

One desk beside me, the large glass windows (or should I say walls) stretch themselves over the parking lot, and beyond it, one can see a palatial structure with a dome – that’s the Indian restaurant, Jaipur – the closest to authentic Indian food you get around Milton Keynes comes from these kitchens, they say. One can also see the traffic emerging out of the railway station, which is just in front of the office building. The cars, I won’t even talk about them – BMWs are driven as taxis. More land is allotted to the parking lot than the actual office space. The sun, when it shines, bounces off the glass windows, and reflects off the shiny roofs of the cars below.

Outside, the leaves have bid goodbye to the trees, and those which have managed to hold fast have turned a rusty brown. People walk around hugging their dark overcoats tighter around themselves. You can’t make out who is smoking unless you look at their hands and find a cigarette between their fingers. The landscape outside has a touch of wilderness with all the brown and the earth. Even so, the guy next door, scraping frozen dew off his car windows, brings hope that it might be a white Christmas after all.

Westward Ho !!!

The lights below were as if someone was holding a mesh of golden beads, shining away in all their glory. Wait, was that the Sayyaji Rao Road meeting Urs Road at KR Circle?

It was indeed one road meeting another at a roundabout, but from 2000 ft above the ground, you would not know for sure. For, the first illuminated aerial view of the city of London reminded me of my own Mysore, decked up for Dasara.

I'm in the UK now, on company assignment. I arrived over the weekend, and have settled well, thank you. Work might not permit me to blog on company time, but I do have unsupervised internet access at home, so Shru, the comments shall freely flow now...

Firsts list

How many of you have a first-list - the first job, the first bike, the first house, the first kiss...you get the drift? Like Dr.Bhalerao says to Roy in Bluffmaster - tumhe kitne din yaad hain?, I have a mental "to-do" list, which I like to "Mark as Done" with a punch in the air, as and when I reach there. Some of my firsts have been highly fulfilling, like my laptop, which left me on cloud nineteen, or my first big splurge - 16k of hard-earned money on a cellphone. I still remember the feeling when I gingerly gave my card for swiping, wondering whether it was worth it.

Some of them were long overdue, like my bike. My bike was not the first vehicle I rode - I had a second-hand Hero Puch before, and an old family Luna before that, and hand-me-down cycles even before. My bike was not the first vehicle I bought - I bought a Scooty for dad before the bike. And so, the joy that MY bike was bought of my own money was overshadowed by a "Oh, you bought a bike? So what?" feeling. Nevertheless, I celebrate every small acquisition in my long list of "must-haves" I have been listing since college days. Some items on the list have been re-prioritised, some new items have gatecrashed and some items have been obfuscated.

And I remember each of these firsts - the offer letter - which was like a million prayers answered, the first big splurge - with the fear of repayment, the first salary (again, technically, the first salary was Rs.880, for a part-time job as a sales canvasser for Deccan Herald, which was joyfully spent on steaming idli-vada-sambar or set dosas for a whole month), the ride from the bike showroom to the office, the wide-eyed stare into the shining blackness of the laptop screen, the awe at the credit-card sized digital camera, which is smaller than my cellphone, the first of those stolen kisses (ever wondered how the sweetest of kisses are those that are stolen), the first of those innumerable whoops of joy at something finally working out, the first (and all) of those reunions of college friends and many many more....

Some time back, I struck one more entry off my list - I bought my first suit. And while I was it, I made it even more memorable by making it two.

bewDon ka woh aDDa

You ask me where I was all these days? I tell you I was at the bar. You gawk?

So I was hopping here and there, bored and yawning, and I came across this cozy bar via Adi.

(This takes our score to 2-1 in his favour. How you ask? Like Adi carries my post on Mysore here - Adi 1 - Viky 0, Like I beat him for the GOLD on this post - 1-1)

I'm lucky to generally have some spare time in office, which I book under "Non-project Activity". Much of this is reading blogs, checking out gadget reviews, drawing up comparison sheets to help friends buy some goods, checking my account balance in the hope that some good samaritan may have transferred some money, reading trivia on sports or film stars on Wikipedia - the stuff. I always enjoy posts of Indian students and professionals living abroad - their life, the kind of things they come across, the slight fear of being alone in a distant, unfamiliar environment, the tingling excitement of explaining your native habits and culture - you know, the works. I keep coming back and read them, often discuss anecdotes of the scores of NRI blogs I read, but none were so captivating that I had to reschedule the other NPAs. After Thought Raker and Waiter Rant, this was one blog which beckoned me to keep coming back.

And I'm left with the same feeling which I had after Waiter Rant. It's like finishing a good book. Like one of my trainers said - I'm sad that you have never read Harry Potter, but I'm also happily jealous, because you can experience the joy of reading them for the first time, while I can't. When you finish lapping up all the archived stuff, you are glad, but there is this hunger for more. Hunger, which will not satiate at one post. Which is why I read the waiter once in four-five weeks, when there is enough on my plate. I thought I'd never find anything which would feed my hunger for short-storyesque prose like ThoughtRaker, but I found Waiter Rant. I thought the same about Waiter Rant, but found Sayeshaz.

Which prompted me to tweak Hariharan's ghazal and put it as my debut comment on her bar - "maikade band karein laakh zamane waale, shehar mein kam nahin blogon se pilane waale".

Trains

When I have written about buses, can trains be left behind?

I always had a special connection with trains, as can be seen in my comment on this post. I have literally woken up to the loud trumpeting horn of the Mysore-Nanjangud train, waiting for its signal to enter the Ashokapuram station. I clearly remember Thatha taking me up to the roof years ago, to show me the trains. Those were cherished moments - every year, a visit to Mysore would mean looking at the trains from Ajji mane mhaaDi. Later, when I came to stay there, and the house underwent a lot of renovation, I was to take my little cousins up the stairs and show them the trains when they acted cranky.

While in school, we would go to play cricket in a place called the "woodyard". On my way back, I would walk along the tracks, wondering how they could stack the stones in neat oblong mounds.
I would walk along until I reached the station, which had a workshop attached to it. This was enough to fuel my curiosity, and I have seen probably all kinds of engines and bogies there were at that point of time.

Later, as dad kept moving around, I got to travel a lot in trains - long distance trains to Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana and Delhi. I loved those journeys - the looking up your name on reservation charts, the securing of suitcases under the seats, and wondering who might be in the seat next to you, the removing of shoes and climbing up to the upper berth (I got to see a lot of people who climbed into the upper berth and then put their shoes on top of the fan there. I found it utterly disgusting, but I guess they must have lost more shoes than I have stepped into, so I'll let that be), the slow rocking of the train, the switching off of the lights, and the drifting off to the best sleep ever. I always sleep well on trains. Better than I sleep in buses or aeroplanes, or at home. It must be the rocking, or the heavenly smell of countryside, or maybe, the distinctive smell of the cold metal and rexine.

Sometimes, in late evenings when dinner would be served and wrapped up, and I had finished my book or my batteries, I would go and sit on the footboard. Yes, mom, I know you forbade me to stand there. Which is why I didn't. I just sat. I sat and watched the countryside whizz by. I sat and enjoyed the change of sound as the train went over a bridge. I sat and counted the number of bogies as the train went around a bend. I sat and let the wind mess up my hair, I watched the distant light of a lone house in the dark fields. I watched the headlights of the vehicles lined up to let my train pass, I waved back at the small kids waving me goodbye. I took deep breaths of the night air, and at the first sign of drowsiness, I went back to my berth.

Sometimes, I would wake up early to the first call of "tea-choy", "chaya-chaya" or "ness-coffy sir", and a paper-cup in hand, would watch the dawn break across rural India. Trust me, there is nothing more beautiful or divine than watching the sun rise over the misty horizon, lighting up the hitherto dark countryside. The chill in the air stings your face as you sit on the footboard, sipping the hot tea and feasting your eyes on the emerging greenery. Dawn breaks early in rural areas, or rather, it seems to, and you have to be up really early to catch this. An hour later maybe, all you get is morning squatters on the outside, and people wanting to freshen up on the inside. I always used this time to go back to my berth, recall all the sights and drift back to sleep.

The night is always mysterious and fascinating, you never know how it passes. On a train, it is passing the day that is the more difficult part. Like everyone of us, I always hoped that I would meet (atleast) one interesting person of the opposite sex, who would make the journey interesting - but no !!! It either happens in the movies, or to Chetan Bhagat. My sister got such company once, though, and they ended up talking about a story I had started to write, and made fun of the characters. I sulked and never finished the story.

How could one write about a long distance journey and not mention the eunuchs who came clapping by. First I used to look away - outside the window, or into the newspaper or magazine. Later, a sense of "what the duck" took over, and I used to look them in the eye and ask them to go away. The first time I did this, I was like - Wow, it works!!! Hah!!! It's not that I am against helping or anything, but rather, I subscribe to the view that giving them money would encourage them to do it more. It is like purchasing ivory or leather goods - the more you do it, the more it spreads. The only way of stopping it is to refuse them. The only exception I make is for kids. I can't stand them begging saying they haven't eaten for days. And no, I don't give them money. I make sure that they are fed.

Not just trains, as a kid, I was intrigued by stations as well. The nearest station (the one with the workshop) was in visible distance of our house. As kids, we used to go there often and play hide-and-seek in the bogies there. This catered to just one local line, so there was not much of a station there, in fact. Later, when I began visiting dad, he would explain to me the types of stations - there are stations which make their cities famous - like Wadi, or Guntakal, or Bhusawal - these are crucial junctions for the Railways, and they are, by far, the only claim to fame for these cities. Then there are stations which are famous for the food there - like Agra, for its petha, or Mathura, for its peda. And then there are the cities of the erstwhile Presidencies - Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata - since the railway stations here were among the earliest ones set up by the British, their main platforms are unidirectional, like airports - the train comes onto the platform, then backs out to the loop line, and then goes to the main line before chugging out.

I remember how I would stand in the queue at the reservation counter, with 2-3 reservation forms in hand along with the student concession form, for the most convenient train, book the ticket, and count days for the journeys. Things have since changed and the last time I booked a ticket, all I did was call an agent from my extension and give him the train number, and the tickets were delivered next day. Trust me, it was no fun at all.

Trains. They are not just a medium of transport in India. They are a way of life. Like The Think says, you shouldn't write any other word in the same line you write "train".

The race

There was a race at Mohali yesterday.

The spectators were trying to leave the stadium before Aussies finished the game.
The Aussies were trying to finish the game before the spectators left the stadium.

The Indian team lingered on till both left. Ask them who won.

Teachers of a different kind

All through our life we learn from teachers. And then as we stumble along, we get other people from whom we learn - friends, colleagues, mentors, apprentices. Me? I have learnt from room-mates.

The first is a guy who has the cleanest heart and the simplest mind one could have. A thought with an ulterior motive will probably never germinate in his mind. A guy who maintains a birthday calendar and wishes everyone at the stroke of twelve. He can never say NO, and hence is often found doing someone else's dirty work. He sees joy in the smallest of things - a simple meal of rice, a hit Telugu movie, a boundary in a cricket match - almost to the point of being child-like. He is often moody - sometimes revelling in little things of joy, sometimes going into a thinking mode and becoming silent, sometimes thinking about work and related stuff - which has led to us dubbing him senti, but nonetheless, he has great character. Oh, and yes, he is a wonderful cook, and he is insistent on keeping the kitchen clean - a bit Monica-esque.

He is our local interest-free loan bank, he always manages to arrange money when any of us is facing the crunch. From him, I have learnt to save money for a rainy day. From him I have realised that I want to be in a position where I can lend money at short notice. (Oh basically that means I want to have surplus money, and not just make ends meet). I have also learnt to take life seriously, to plan for the family. He does not do anything special - just the things a son would do, or a big brother would do for a kid sister - but for a guy like me who has not stayed with his parents for the last 13 years, it sure seems great.

As much as I have learnt to take life seriously from the first, I have learnt to let go from the second. In all the two years I have been with him, I have seen him lose his temper only once. A miniature version of him would look like the toy in the song - "aaDisi noDu, beeLisi noDu". He even rocks the same way when he laughs, holding his stomach. He takes everything in his stride - the only thing that comes out is a hearty resounding laugh. He is a master of parodising songs - he will twist the lyrics to his whims and fancies, and sings as if the bathroom is soundproofed. He has a strange obsession to puffed rice. He has this knack of conjuring up recipes with puffed rice. He will soak them and use them as a substitute for rice in chitranna. He will chop tomatoes and make tomato-puri in minutes. As a cook, he is second only to the first above (and that's because the rest of us would not be able to tell the difference between saarina-puDi and huLi-puDi)

His best quality is the ability to laugh at himself. He is invariably the butt of our jokes - we create and laugh at a joke on him, in front of him, and all he does is laugh with us. Every waking hour, he is poked fun at. We have poked fun of probably everything he does - his eating, his sleeping, his talking, his clothing and accessories, his hair, his voice - anyone else would perhaps been offended, given us a piece of his mind and changed rooms. But not him. He is a punching bag. He will take all your blows and never hit back. These two qualities of his, I would like to take back with me.

While the second taught me to let go, the third showed me how. Funny to the core, this guy is almost like Chandler, in dishing out one-liners and puns. He finds joy in the antics of Homer and Bart. I will perhaps, take back the most from this guy. Even though I knew him for years before he became my room-mate, I cashed in only in the last couple of years. Coming from a no-cable, no-loud-music background which, like the typical Indian Middle Class, favoured marks over runs or goals, I never had varied interests in English music, or movies, or sports. I imbibed most of my decent knowledge of sports and music from him. He explains to me, even today, in great detail, the different genres of music - and the best in those genres. He is an amazing database of statistics and reels them off the cuff. He points out to me, the intricacies of football and tennis. He tells the most inspiring anecdotes of sportsmen and musicians. Some of the best movies I have seen have been his recommendations. He has, arguably, the most impeccable dressing sense among the non-celebrities I know.

I shall probably remember him most for introducing me to Friends. I have since become a fan, something I share with another person close to my heart, and I have spent nights watching season after season on my laptop.

My fourth roomie is no longer a room-mate in the physical sense, he sold his girl and moved out five days short of completing two full years with us. The conversations are more on phones and reply-alls now. This guy is fiercely close to his parents and shares with me, a love for Mysore. Along with my third roomie, he has also helped in increasing my repertoire of english music. They always had topics to talk on, and I have picked up a lot of things being a silent observer to their conversations on music and sports.

Though we are all close-knit, there is a tangible closeness among some of us. Like the first and second are often dubbed "brothers" because of similar backgrounds, similar families, and a similar tongue of speech. But we are all equally fond of the fourth. A thing he mentioned to me in the days before he left will be the lesson I take back from him - that good fences make good neighbours.

So there you stand introduced to my four room-mates, who have shared time, space and life with me, over these two years. Not everyone is fortunate enough to get such roomies - I have friends who have room-mates for reasons purely financial, I know of people who are not happy with their room-mates - but in my room-mates I've got teachers of a different kind.

Guys, I know you will read it sometime now - no, I was not feeling senti (though I bet I made some of you senti). It's just that we're all kinda drifting apart, what with two of us here, two in UK and one in Bangalore, and with the possibility of living under the same roof again getting farther and farther away, I realised I have never thanked you guys. Hence this post, to thank you for being there, for making our stay in Pune that much more comfortable, for weaving together strands of your life into the fabric of mine.

Happy Diwali

So its Diwali, a time for the whole family to come together and rejoice. A time when sons return home to be with their parents, a time when daughters get busy helping their mothers set the sweets aside, a time when kids light up crackers all over the place.

I remember, as kids, we used to heap together all the crackers our numerous aunts and uncles got from their Lions and Rotary Clubs, and from various cheeTi vyavaharas. Two days before, we used to spread all the crackers on a newspaper, and put them in the sun to dry, so that they would burst in a bang, and not just sputter in front of the neighbours.

I don't really know when I began to appreciate Diwali more as a festival of lights than sound, even though over years, Diwali has become just the opposite. I guess we just miss what has left us.

Like Thatha, for example.

I'm in Mysore this Diwali, like every year, but for Thatha's annual ceremony.

I've been very busy for some time now, and there are other updates as soon as I return to Pune, but till then, wish you a happy Diwali...

The journey of 40 kms ...

... begins with a bus.

Those who know me know I love travelling. Now, you know too. :D Alright, it was a dud joke.

Anyway, I have no special preference for the modes of travel, but somehow I had never had special affinity for buses. When my dad was in Andhra, we used to come to Mysore for the annual summer vacation. My tiny brain (at that time) registered very little of those journeys. I remember that before I fell asleep, the bus went in a long straight road which had eucalyptus trees on both sides, which gave way to dry fields bordered with parthenium and other thorny shrubs, and by the time I woke up, the bus would be descending a big jaaro banDe. Any guesses what the jaaro banDe was? Well, I'll let you Bangaloreans guess this, before I give the answer in the comments section. Muhahahaha. In any case, that was all I remember of those bus journeys.

Or bus-journeys in general. Until I joined engineering.

I have travelled in buses for the entire four years of my engineering, from Mysore to Mandya. The normal red ones - whose conductors allowed us in without a whimper; the special red ones, which claimed to be interstate buses, but whose conductors surreptitiously changed the board as soon as they entered Mandya from Bangalore - these conductors had to be fought against, because they barred us students to attract instead, passengers who would pay for their tickets; and the real interstate ones - in which students were not allowed - we have on occasion paid on these buses - sometimes in cash, sometimes in sheepish smiles.

The first year, it was all so new. And fun. Counting the number of hand-rails and pillars, walking up and down the aisle in the name of getting ragged, magnanimously allowing a bus to pull away because the seats were bad (yeah, I used to "drop" buses until I was late for an early class one day), flashing the bus-pass into the face of the conductor like it was the ID of a vigilance officer - you name it I had done it.

By the second year, it had become routine. The big gang of "fresher friends" had broken up into small groups - branch wise, class-wise and time-table-wise. We now had a specific bus to catch - Ghati Subramanya - because it had a lady conductor. And also because it made the 40 km distance 15 minutes earlier than the other buses, which took an hour. And those 45 mins were pure bliss. That particular bus was superbly maintained. Save for the occasional brake to save the stray dog from its suicidal death, it was pretty much a jerkless journey.

We didn't care about the buses by third year. We didn't care about the classes either. So we waited in the bus-stop, "dropping" bus after bus, until the whole "travelling" strength of our class assembled, and then we all crammed into the same bus. Unless of course, the lecturer who was supposed to take the class saw us waiting there. Yes, our lecturers travelled from Mysore, too. We would generously offer the seats in front to the normal passengers and occupy the last seats. And let the antics begin. We had more fun there, anyway. How many days we forced the government (forced the government??? $%&*%$* Ah!!! Youth power!!!) to run buses from Mysore to Mandya, without a single ticket collection. Yes - A bus full of hooligans, singing their way along. God forbid a fresher getting a bus like that in his first sem.

This was the year we enjoyed the most, I guess. The bus-stand had almost become our home. I even had a newspaper-wallah, who would hand me the paper at 7, when I came in and I would settle his accounts weekly. Till 7-15, we would scan the paper, waiting for the class to assemble. Yes, here. Our class assembled in the bus-stand. And then board any bus which had the last seat empty. We would reach Mandya by 8-15, catch an auto to the college a mile away, and storm into the canteen for a tea. We walked in the first year, enjoying the superb weather, but then, who wants to get all sweaty and tired before a class. An auto preserved the early morning drowsiness, which proved helpful in the class. ;)

The return journeys were more fun - in fact. It was the Mandya bus-stand that saw us wait more. Mysore was a terminus. We always got seats. But in Mandya, we had to wait for the buses which came from Bangalore. No sooner did a bus come in did the great collegian huddles run into a frenzy, throwing bags and hankies around. Usurping the whole last seat was the general aim. There have been times where the bus took just a bag, and the owner collected it from the cycle-stand. We all invariably parked at the Wellington Stand on Irwin Road, and the owner recognised almost everybody by face. I sometimes wonder about the life of these people - every year, they get a different set of people, and they establish a close relationship with everyone of them who chooses to say Hi to them. Amazing how tough bonds can become, even though they involve only saying Hi twice a day for four years.

Yes, four years. The final year was mostly of nostalgia. We had made sure we had only one theory subject for the final semester, so there was no need to come to college. Yet, once or twice a week, we found ourselves gathering in the bus-stand. We've taken photos inside the bus, making people wonder whether we had seen buses before. In these four years, I have memories of sitting in EVERY seat of the bus there is. So much so, we have an online group here.

It was a blissful time, and it appeased the travel-bug in me, so I have nothing to complain of. Even the seats - they taught me to appreciate the kind of seats we now have in Volvos. It can't get worse than having a mishmash of a plywood sheet, a threadbare cushion and a rexin cover bouncing aorund in the last row for a seat, does it? Now, I hear the college has employed buses to pick up students from the highway - from where we used to take an auto - and I wonder whether the kids now have as much fun as we had cramming five-six people into one auto and haggling with him for the fare.

I have no special preference for modes of travel - as long as the "travel" is there. I like to bike around - remind me to make a post of how we rode down to Mulshi on bikes - and drive cars, but I enjoy them more when I'm the one in the driver's seat. But now, I have an opinion of buses. I love them. And all the more because they take me to Bangalore in 16 hours flat. The train takes twenty.