Friends at work

One of the questions on the annual employee satisfaction survey we have (when we have it) is 'Do you have a best friend at work?'. Sure, I have friends at work, but my answer to that question has always been no. It is because if you're 'best friends' with a colleague, it blurs the line that demarcates personal and professional relationships.

Back home in India, it is easy to maintain different networks. You have your friends from school, from college, from the neighbourhood, from work etc. They are all distinct social circles of which you're a part of for a period of time. It is therefore possible to leave your colleagues at office and go to movies with your friends. But when you're in a foreign land, where your only social circle is made up of your colleagues who don the role of friends after hours, it makes it very hard to identify where to draw the line. And because everyone is part of the same circle, you're always bumping into each other everywhere - from the shopping mall to the movie hall to the pub crawl - bringing about an odd sense of familiarity between two people that eventually leads them to understand each other profoundly, or one taking the other for granted.

It is all good when everything is ok, but when people fall out, it fosters an unhealthy atmosphere. Suddenly people are no longer willing to help. Hands are thrown up in the air. Questions met with shrugs. Greetings unacknowledged. Dirty linen washed in public. And other people notice and they talk. They probe. They wonder what may have gone wrong. It lingers on somewhere in the mind, popping up every now and then, killing the urge to work and crushing productivity levels.

Recently two colleagues of mine (who were good friends) fell out of each other's favour. I recalled all the times spent together, and then all the venom spit out now, and wondered if it was all worth the result. I mused if this could have been prevented if they were merely colleagues, and strangely it made sense. They would have probably gone their own ways, like they have now, but without the acrimony. And it would have worked out well for everyone.

The incident came as a loud wake-up call to me. In each of the people we know professionally, there is a colleague who knows us well and a friend who works with us. It is important that we differentiate the two and know whom to work and whom to play with. It reminded me of a line which I often use - 'Good fences make good neighbours'. When the fences are strong, all is well, but when you let the fences break down, you give them the power to hurt you.

And once hurt, the relationship will never be the same again.

About S and Love

Sometime back, I moved home. I moved out of the bachelor pad, and into a single BHK close to the office. The new place is a quiet little cosy place, which is tastefully decorated by the owner. I haven't had to bring much into it. It looks and feels so balanced in its minimalistic furniture that I don't want to bring anything and make the place cluttered. Recently, I bought a huge four door wardrobe from one of my colleagues who was returning to India for good. Him and me dismantled and brought it in our cars. I am yet to re-fit it again. The planks are just lying there, waiting to be fixed, but every other weekend, some thing or the other takes precedence.

Every night, after I return from office and fix myself some dinner, there is a lull before I actually go to sleep. If I turn the music down on the laptop, and keep the tall lamp in the corner glowing, it creates an introspective mood. It gives me time to think about S, about the fact that in less than a month, people will start referring to us as a single entity. It is not long before S joins me here and we start our own life. Sometimes, while the thought wanders aimlessly like this, the low music and the muted lighting creates a magical atmosphere and makes me miss her.

I think about how this will be a good time to start wooing her all over again. We have been together for almost eight years now. In these four years of being together and as many years of maintaining a long-distance relationship, some things have changed. For better, I would like to think. And then there are things that have not changed. She still laughs at my PJs. The good ones, that is. I hope it never changes. I think about how I used to wait my turn at telephone booths, and there used to be so much to talk about. I think about how I can call anytime I want now, and yet sometimes, there is nothing to talk about. But from then to now, the longing to hear my voice is still the same. I hope that never changes. I think about how her eyes sparkled on seeing me arrive at the bus-stand every morning. I recall the same sparkle when I was with her in January. I hope that never changes.

And then there are things which are revelations. I think about how, working in Bangalore, staying in PG's, she has become this independent woman I never knew. I think about how she gushes about her awards, and her shifts and deadlines and team-building and stuff, and I wonder, was this the same girl who did not write aptitude tests in college, because she was scared she would end up with the lowest scores. This in spite of the fact that the whole class copied her notes. I think about how, living in Bangalore, she has developed a 'taste'. I think about how she takes me all over Bangalore. I look with great interest as she darts back and forth through MG Road, holding my hand and leading me as though I were a child. In times like these, it is as if I am outside myself, leaning against a pole and watching her lead me as she weaves our way through traffic. I think about this and I smile. It must be the movies I watch. :D I think about how my excitement on seeing Shahrukh Khan and shaking hands with Amitabh Bachchan amused her. I think about how she chides me, for happily staying here, while she (poor soul!) is in India.

I think about how we will now be a single entity. How, should we attend any function alone, we will be asked why the other did not come. How, if we go out together, it will be acceptable. I will miss the risk and the guilt of making up reasons to go out and meet her. Somehow, the reality of the union is unreal. I want us to go back four years and live them together. I want to call her from office, and arrange to meet her at a multiplex, watch a movie, drop her and then go home. I want us to just hang out, see a sale, shop together. I want to cancel a day out with the boys to be with her. I want her to come over to my place on lazy Sunday afternoons, and to make us some tea, and go out to the terrace and talk about having to iron clothes for office the next day. I want to wait for her at the railway station on Friday evenings, so we could travel to Mysore together. Or by bike sometimes. I want to get up late on a weekend and realise I had to meet her at CCD, and make it double quick. I want my four years back.

And yet, I dream of us sitting together on the window sill on a rainy night, drinking hot tea, listening to the constant pattering of the raindrops on the glass. I dream of us washing the utensils and wiping them dry before going to bed. I dream of us in bed on warm balmy afternoons, too lazy to get up, talking about nothing in general. I dream of us sitting down and working out finances and homestead. I wonder if these will make up for the four years.

I have good colleagues at my job, I have more friends than I deserve, I am given more love in the family than anyone else, but I would still want those four years. You see, when it comes to love, I am greedy. I can never get enough. :P

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.

The perfect date

... is when, after all is done, the girl remembers the evening in the few moments before drifting off to sleep, and goes "Oooh !!!".

A very dear friend went to meet a prospective better-half sometime last week, but certainly didn't end up feeling the above. Which means, unless they lacked topics to speak on, and ended up feeling like Ross and Mike in Friends, the guy must have done something wrong. Because I believe that if an average guy does everything right, and speaks even half the amount he does when he is explaining a gadget to his gang, he has the potential to make the dinner work.

Allow me ... ahem ... to make a checklist which guys like him could go through before a date. (I seriously wish he reads this)

1. Get the timing right - As a guy, take initiative, and make the call. And time it well. Do not call her right in the morning, when she is still in a big rush to leave for office. All girls are in a rush, and she wouldn't have had a dream the previous night that you'd call. Do not call at night to fix up a date next evening. If you call her at nine, when she's at the dinner table with her parents, chances are she might agree half-heartedly or might not appreciate your "last-week's-email-forward's-santa-banta" PJs. Call in the evenings, when she is most likely be relaxed and ready to strike conversation.

2. Ask her preferences - Just because you like Chinese does not mean she has to eat chow-mein when she is getting to know you. Ask her what she likes, and whether there's a place she'd like to go. Personal experience tells me that all girls have a fave eat-out where they want to go. If she suggests one, there's nothing like it. If she doesn't and/or leaves you to make a decision, choose a quiet place which has a great ambience, and does not serve only one cuisine.

3. Offer to pick her up - Personal experience also tells me that nothing pisses a girl off like waiting alone in a public place. Now while it is perfectly okay that she agrees to come on her own, it still is chivalrous to offer. And in the rare case that you are late, for reasons beyond your control, she would be waiting at her house, touching up her make-up, rather than ruining it outside. If she insists on coming herself, then be punctual. Leave home an hour in advance, or if in Bangalore, two.

Great, now that the girl is ready, let's work on you.

4. Call the restaurant beforehand - Restaurants like it better if you inform them beforehand. This way, you can get a better table than when you walk in, and they will be more than ready to accomodate your requests. If you have been to the restaurant before, choose a cosy table far from the maddening crowd, and request it for the day. Ask for candles and/or flowers to be on the table. Girls love flowers.

5. Dress formally - While this is not a job interview and does not require ties, it does not mean that you can walk in in torn jeans and "Sepultura" T-shirts. Your dressing shows how much you respect a lady and look forward to meet her. Believe me, you wouldn't want to escort a lady to her table in faded jeans and floaters. We guys don't notice it, but girls do 'check us out', and this is not a day where you would want a 3-on-10. Wear a clean, ironed shirt. Do not go to a date straight from office, just because the restaurant is next door.

6. Smell good - Allright, I know, in hostels, you have proved that you can go without a bath for more than a month. There is no need of making it the first point in your resume. Take a bath before the date, use a deodorant and unless you sport a beard / moustache, shave. But please don't make the mistake of using a deo on your body, perfume on your clothes and after-shave on your face - all together, else the chef might just come out of the kitchen to park your car. Polish your shoes, carry a CLEAN handkerchief (yes, I know you forgot it. Your only hanky was in the pocket of your suit, which you bought when you went onsite).

7. Buy flowers - By that I don't mean the kanakambra in front of the Shiva temple. Buy roses, or carnations if you please, or have a combination of flowers with a few green stalks. Wrap them in shiny ribbons, and give them when you first see the girl, not "Oh!!! I had got these for you", when you drop her off.

8. Be courteous - Be polite. Remember your P's and Q's. Tell her she looks good (Tip: Even if she doesn't). Order her drinks/dishes to the waiter first, instead of going "A Bloody Mary for me, and you'll have ... ?". Say "My pleasure" or "Don't mention it" when she says "Thanks", instead of giving her a "Kya-aap-close-up-karte-hain" smile. Say "Please" and "Thank you" to the waiter, while he serves you. Tip the waiter well, at least a fifth of the bill in cash (preferably). Insist on paying, but if she does not agree (to the point of making a scene), then its perfectly okay to go dutch. If dutch, double the tip. (You don't know how she tips, do you?). This particular tip in life, thanks to this.

9. Be yourself - When you are meeting a girl, who would probably be your partner for life, it is imperative that you be yourself. Honest. Tell the truth, and be comfortable in your own skin. She's only a girl, and even if she's non-vegetarian, she won't eat you up. So, unless there are no butterflies on your plate, there is no reason why you should have any in your stomach. Have a nice dinner over a great conversation, and drop her home. No pretences, no false promises.

However, if you are not a gentleman, but a bachelor ogre with dirty long nails, an unshaven face and clothes which were washed before they were made into a shirt, then I would suggest you don't follow any of these, because you would end up giving a false impression. And it is not a good thing to start a relationship with a falsehood. You ought to be yourself, and not someone else. But then again, being yourself does not mean you can ignore personal hygiene and present yourself like a shabby chap. Come on, if you couldn't take care of yourself, what woman in her sane mind would expect you to take care of her?

10. Following up - is not going behind her wherever she goes. Following up is sending her a mail next day, that you enjoyed her company over the dinner and thanking her for her presence.

Now, if you are the gentleman you are, and have followed these tips, I don't see why the girl should not sit with her face cupped in her hands, and gaze starry-eyed into the distance. (Yash Chopra ke picture nahi dekhta kya?). This is in no way an exhaustive list, and are written with the assumption that the date in question would be fixed by parents of the 'daters', though it can be extended to hold good for EVERY date. You might get poked at by family peers for going all out like this for an unknown girl, but let me tell you, you might be the nth person the girl is meeting like this. We guys generally don't make much of it, but it is pretty hard on the girls. The least you can do is make it enjoyable for her.

Even if the match does not work out, at least a dinner will.

Familiarity

Have you ever wondered how the first time you meet a person, you make an impression of him in your mind, and as you start interacting with them, to the extent of back-slapping, how your impression changes. (It changes for the better or worse, depending on whether you are back-slapping or back-stabbing). How, the first time you are ready to ignore a particular trait as a discount in the persona, but a few months later, you can joke about the same trait.

My cousin runs an internet cafe in Mysore. He has a live-in hire, who looks after it because the cafe is open 24 hours. The fellow maintained the sanctity of the cafe for a month or so, then he was seen to be managing the cafe in shorts, or on a rare day, pajamas.

A guy joined my gym a few months back. He would gingerly walk about the men's room, waiting for everyone to leave the room before he changed for the shower. Today, he walks all over the men's room, sits in the steam room, dries his hair after a shower, all in his briefs, and with the towel over his shoulder. As it was becoming quite an embarassment to the shier gents in our gym, I once ask him why he did not wrap the towel across his waist. His answer - choD na yaar, apna hi gym hai...

It is not without reason they say familiarity breeds contempt.

Blocked and Tackled

Block and Tackle is an interesting game played in university fests. It is a slightly different version of the normal debate, with the topics being a little lighter. Here, you don't have two people, one rooting for the motion, and the other ranting against it. A single person gets a topic, and for 3 minutes he starts speaking on it. His initial choice may be for or against the motion, but he has to keep it throughout.

Suppose a speaker starts speaking against reservations. This is his block position. He will continue speaking against reservations, until the judge calls out "Tackle", where he switches sides and starts speaking FOR reservations. Again when he is tackling it, if the judge calls out "Block", he switches back to his original stand, against reservations. Much fun comes when the speaker changes his stand when judges call out "Block" instead of "Tackle".

The winner is the one who had spoken on varied points, made their stands clear, and switched sides seamlessly. And did not switch sides, when judges called "Tackle" when they were already tackling the motion.

Shweta Jha was a clear winner. At our yearly fest, PESCO, she was an external candidate, who came along with Sudarshan Avadhany, from VVCE, Mysore. I had never seen anyone play B&T so seamlessly. It was obvious that a lot of effort and practise had gone into it. Her debates were something which I never missed, during the fest. Being busy with stage events like Dumbcharades and Mad-Ads, I never got a chance to congratulate her that evening, though I was in the front row, cheering at her every successful switch. Applauding at every relevant point she made in the debate.

I never knew her personally, but used to hear about her from friends. During the little I saw her on stage, she came across as a bubbly vivacious girl, with a ringing infectious laughter. She would laugh at every little mistake she or her teammate made, and the joy on her face was radiant. After PESCO, I heard a lot about her through Datta and Naveen (both VVCE) about her activities and wins in other tournaments, and VVCE's own fest, Vidyut.

It came as no surprise to me that she had carried across her enthusiasm to the workplace as well. Her colleague, Uppu Prasanna, remembers her as a, intelligent and a cheerful gal who took part in all group activities which involved making a lot of noise. A typical, fun-loving gal, who wanted to make the most of life.

Before fate blocked and tackled her life tragically.

On 10th of June, after hectic weeks of coding and stuff, Shweta and her colleagues went on a project party to Sivanasamudra, where, while playing in the water, she slipped on some rocks, and disappeared forever. By the time her colleagues recovered from the shock, it was too late.

When Naveen (ECE, PESCE, 2004) told me about this yesterday, we were silent for a long time. The mail he sent further mentioned that the body was found next day, badly mutilated due to all the rocks and debris it hit on its course. Prasanna, who wrote the stuff, further warns us, in such outing we hardly think of anything else but the moment. Before you enjoy like there's no tomorrow, do spare a thought for your parents, and the people who care for you. What will happen to them in case anything happens to YOU.

Like any other kid, Shweta's parents too had dreams and aspirations for her, they had a picture of their daughter's lively future. Her friends are inconsolable, and are yet to come out of the shock that encompasses them. It is hard for me to believe that the infectious laughter has been silenced forever. When it affects me, who saw her on stage for a couple of days, to this extent, I shudder to think of those who knew her better, as a close friend, as a classmate, as a colleague, as a relative...

Shweta Jha, Rest in Peace. May your ringing laughter illuminate your heavenly abode.

Bride and Prejudice???

I personally don't like putting up forwards here, as blogs, but when she sent it, I couldn't but resist putting it up.

Ah, lady, this is for you. And for you too, my dearest.

Here is a girl,
who is as much educated as you are;
who is earning almost as much as you do;
one, who has dreams and aspirations just as you have because she is as human as you are;

one, who has never entered the kitchen in her life just like you or your sister haven't, as she was busy in studies and competing in a system that gives no special concession to girls for their culinary achievements;
one, who has lived with and loved her parents and brothers and sisters, almost as much as you do for 20-25 years of her life;
one, who has bravely agreed to leave behind all that, her home, people who love her, to adopt your home, your family, your ways and even your family name;

one, who is somehow expected to be a master-chef from day #1, while you sleep oblivious to her predicament in her new circumstances, environment and that kitchen;
one, who is expected to make the tea, first thing in the morning and cook food at the end of the day, even if she is as tired as you are, maybe more, and yet never ever expected to complain;
to be a naukraani, a cook, a mother, a wife, even if she doesn't want to; and is learning just like you are as to what you want from her, and is clumsy and sloppy at times and knows that you won't like it if she is too demanding or if she learns faster than you;

one, who has her own set of friends, and that includes boys and even men at her workplace, too, those, who she knows from school days and yet is willing to put all that on the back-burners to avoid your irrational jealousy, unnecessary competition and your inherent insecurities;
yes, she can drink and dance just as well as you can, but won't, simply because you won't like it, even though you say otherwise;
one, who can be late from work once in a while when deadlines, just like yours, are to be met;

one, who is doing her level best and wants to make this most important relationship in her entire life a grand success, if you just help her some and trust her;

one, who just wants one thing from you - your unstinted support, your sensitivities and most importantly - your understanding and love.

Are you man enough to give it to her?

I, for one, am.

The beginning of the end

Anth ki shuruaat hamesha aise hi hoti hai...

We five came to Pune together, some twenty months back.

Literally, sitting in side-by-side compartments in the same bogie. It is another matter that three of us did not know the other two. Much amusement resulted when, after knowing each other and becoming a single family-like entity, three of us saw OURSELVES in the snaps which the other two had taken at the railway station.

Pune station saw me whipping out a cellphone and dialling a number to get the address of our hotel, while he went in half-pants to get a bottle of water, and another guy was writing down the address on a folded newspaper, and the other two were stretching their legs, which had become numb from the journey of 20 hours. Little did we know then, that we would forge such bonds with each other.

And even though two speak a bad dialect of Telugu, and one speaks Tamil, and two others, Kannada, the language was the first binding factor, which made us stay together. In the hotel accomodation, and then the company accomodation, and now in the flat we are currently in. And this has been a good reason why we don't miss Bangalore so much, because all the time, we speak in Kannada. A very close friend of mine, who visited us recently, went back happy saying that she got to speak in kannada for a full three days, which she seldom gets to do in Hyderabad.

Over time, we forged relationships with others here, and formed a boisterous group, exploring places around Pune every other weekend, to such an extent that if we think of going anywhere now, it would be a repeat. It was a tough time finding a table for lunch, because we all had to sit together. We were twelve: We five, the three of them, the symbol, the Goa-belle, the kudi-punjaban and Chechi. Others would join when we went on trips, and much fun would come.

As a group, we have covered forts (Sinhgad, Tapola-Pratapgarh), hill stations (Khandala, Lonavala, Karla Caves, Mahabaleshwar, Panchgani), beaches (Alibag, Murud-Janjira, Dive-Agar and Goa) and pilgrimages (Narayanpur Balaji, Baneshwar Ganpati, Shirdi Sai Baba). But all good things have to come to an end. And this I guess is the beginning of it.

The Goa-belle left to pursue higher studies. Her friend Varun got a transfer to Bangalore. One of those three went to California. Wedding bells are ringing for another one of those three. Kudi-Punjaban and "one of us" are in the UK. Today, we happened to sit at a very long table for snacks. And it reminded us of a time when twelve people actually sat across and cracked jokes. When we devoured plate after plate of whatever each one of us brought. When we actually checked what the others ate, so that we could bring something else, so as to not repeat a dish. When all of us ended up bringing the same dish, because nothing else was good.

I could almost hear the talk, the laughter, and the mirth. Like when we sat dining till the canteen lights went out. Like when we were the last to go out of a restaurant. Like when we saw to it that the girls went home, before walking back together. Like when ...

Omar Khayyam says in the Rubaiyat:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

And now, he has a got a call from another company, and its an offer he can't refuse. And if he goes by the 1st, as they want him to, it will leave just the three of us here.

And that will surely be the beginning of the end. Of a vivid, vibrant, colourful chapter in our lives.

Update: Links have been removed, because the linked persons had some reservations.

Fatal Fratricide

Pravin Mahajan: Poor brother of a rich, illustrious and media-loved icon of Indian politics, Pramod Mahajan. Moderately successful builder in Mumbai, and consultant to several companies of the likes of Reliance Infocomm. Drank occasionally. A caring father, a loving husband and yet, was the black sheep of the family. Was repeatedly slighted and ill treated by his more famous sibling, yet he adored his Pramod dada. Journo Sreevalsan Menon walks down the memory lane and remembers him as a technology hungry person who thought highly of his brother and praised him at every oppurtunity. Like all of us, he loved the good life. On April 22, he walked into his brother's bedroom and pumped three bullets into him at point-blank range.

Pramod Mahajan: The most lovable face of the BJP front runners. Aspired for the top post in 2014 elections. Has a coterie of people following his cellphone-and-laptop toting persona, but none have words of praise for him. Courts controversies like the pickle on his curd rice. Accused of brokering deals in the corridors of power. Leads a high profile life, which goes against the basic principles he learnt in the RSS. Accused of favouring Reliance during his tenure as the Communications minister in the NDA government. Found many-a-time dining and wining with media moguls and industry bigwigs. Was accused to have extra-marital relations with slain journalist Shivani Bhatnagar (in fact, Madhu Sharma, wife of RK Sharma, screamed all over the TV asking for the whereabouts of Pramod Mahajan at the time of Shivani's murder).

Like chalk and cheese, these two brothers' lives hardly match. One struggled to make ends meet and led a normal middle class life in Mumbai. The other led a high-profile life with multiple cellphones and plotted party tactics on laptops. One was a model neighbour (The next door lady went public on TV saying "Achche log they. Hamare liye to bahut hi achchey they.") The other was too busy for family (He asked his brother to meet him by taking appointments with his secretary). One always sang praises of his brother (Ask Sreevalsan Menon, about the trip to Germany). The other always slighted and ignored him (Pramod continued reading the paper after he saw Pravin, and allegedly mistook him to be a newspaper boy).

There was no property at stake, there were no ill feelings. Yet if a non-criminal like Pravin goes into his beloved brother's bedroom and shoots him down, it means there was a strong reason for him to get rid of Pramod. And look at the stoic replies he gives the police. That he was repeatedly mistreated by his brother, that he was ignored at family functions, that he had debts to clear and his brother didn't help him. Very normal reasons to pick a fight perhaps, but fail miserably as reasons for murder.

And he was mentally stable enough to give himself up and court arrest. Is he trying to hide something? Something big enough to kill his own brother, and then by giving himself up, diverting attention towards himself, and away from both the families. The media too, talks of only the brothers, and nothing about the families. It reeks of the feeling that Pravin wants to save his and his brother's families of an embarassment, much bigger than a brother-killed-brother saga.

Add this to the fact that the money from Pravin's consultancy (about Rs 70000 per month) was remitted to his wife Sarangi's account. And that Pramod Mahajan had acquired shares of a prominent company in his sister-in-law Sarangi's name. And that the police say that the murder was pre-meditated. Keeping in mind Pramod's high profile life, and the accusations in Shivani murder case, it puts a weird feeling in my mind.

Did Pramod Mahajan have an affair with his brother's wife Sarangi?

Love, Marriage and the Arrangements

Last weekend saw one of my friends attending a "groom-showing" ceremony. That's because she would be the bride in the equation. Somehow, this thing of "seeing" a bride/groom intrigues me no end. There is the tingling feeling of whom you may meet, whether the chemistry would be instant, or would fizz out like a half-opened can of beer.

I listened with keen interest as she kept on telling me details of their conversation, just the two of them. It was like the first date, only that this was a kind of family-arranged "blind" date. Breaking the ice, the hesitation, the urge to show your dry humor once the other person drops his/her guard, the deliberate need to make the other person feel comfortable...all this makes you kinda ecstatic. Its also true that you are put off if the other person is not responsive enough, but still...the quest to find a topic on which you can speak on and on, the exchanging of phone numbers, the talking late into nights...seems like a dream, but I have seen many such arranged blind dates flourish and blossom beautifully.

But there is the flip side too. What happens when there is a mismatch? What happens when all the late night talks and tingle were just the initial excitement, where you had this guard on, and after marriage, you drop your guard, to find a different person altogether? Then, you are too late to back out as well, and you resort to compromise. I am not against compromise, nor am I suggesting that relationships be damned at a drop of a hat, without taking the effort to make them work, but there is only so much you can do.

Take for example, what the man of few words says. Three years of bliss, would you want to throw it away. Three years of understanding each other, aligning yourself, and honing yourself, with the objective of spending all your life with the partner of your choice...would you want to throw it away, without making it work? I refrain from advising or suggesting anything to that couple, but I do think that when you feel you have made your choice, when you like a person so much that you want to spend your life with him/her, then caste, creed and all such things don't really matter. And for those to whom it matters, they have to realise that its a conscious decision you have made, and for all you are worth, your decision needs to be respected.

You may give me the argument that in an Indian context, a person marries a family, and not an individual. If you have such close ties with your family, why don't they give your decision the respect it deserves? Why don't they realise that while you searched out your partner, you have thought about them as well. Because for all the times they have been there for you, and made you the man/woman you are, you obviously would see to it that your partner respects and cares for them, along with you.

I am not saying love marriages always work out. All I'm saying is, in love, you can see where it is going. Consider twins. One falls in love, while the other "sees" a boy/girl and gets engaged. Both carry on for three months, getting to know their respective partners. Then, if the first finds that the partner is diametrically opposite to her/his persona, (s)he always has the chance to finish it, and back out with no hard feelings. No strings attached (pun unintended). The other is stuck with his/her polar opposite for life. (I of course, am not implying that things dont work out if the other person is totally opposite. In fact, its a good thing, helps understand each other better)

Here again, you may argue that the second one may have had a fruitful relationship, in spite of all the differences, due to compromises made. Point taken, but there are innumerable examples always. There are love marriages which ended in splitsville. And there are love marriages which worked out beautifully. And there are arranged marriages which worked out beautifully. And there are arranged marriages which were broken in court. And there are love marriages which got the consent of elders and became love-cum-arranged marriages. And there are live-ins. And there are couples who live separately. And extra-maritals. And on and on and on.

Compromises are made everywhere. There are voluntary compromises, which you do, to prevent a relationship going bad . There are frown-on-the-face compromises which you do, to prevent a bad relationship from going worse. There are things you do because your loved one wants you to. Similarly there are things you dont do because your loved one does not want you to. There are women who chuck their job, to look after the child. There are men, who tend the house when the wife is working (Arshad Warsi's is a notable example. He tended his child for two years, without a job, when they felt Maria Goretti's job was more important).

All said and done, things work out if you want them to. And it may take a lot of convincing, and groundwork before commitment. And love marriages give you an excellent platform. I know girls who want to be in a relationship, but are shackled by parental rules. I know girls who have honestly told the family about their plans ahead. Love marriages provide you with a chance to understand each other completely before committing yourself for life. I know for a fact (girls have told me in interesting discussions) that girls are more comfortable going to bed with someone they know, and trust their love and life with, than being undressed by a person they met a week, a month or even three months before.

I am not drawing this discussion to sex without reason. I believe that any relationship founded on sex is not strong enough. What if the guy has some expectations, and the girl, in her apprehensions (she's already naked with a stranger-of-three-months) does not live up to it. Will it not affect their relationship. Is it worth losing a lifetime of sleep over one night of staying awake? Marriage is not just about being good in bed. I believe that sex comes at the culmination of a relationship. The topmost level. The zenith. It gives you complete freedom, and an exulting feeling when your partner is someone whom you love, whom you care for, whom you can trust your life with, for whose happiness you will give up the world.

And this is where arranged marriages tend to falter (Remember, I'm not saying they fail). More often than not, they start with a compromise. And fare for the better or worse.

After a lot of detours and interesting roadblocks (read thought-blocks), I come to the same point where I was. One of my friends attended a "groom-seeing" ceremony last weekend. And both sides have "OK"ed it. The dates have not yet been finalised, but two more people are bidding farewell to their singlehood this season. Happy Married Life. *Raises glass*

Farewell

Today again we were playing Reply-All, and the topic was on the snap taken on the weekend Shanthi left.

The first thing I noticed about Shan when I met her was her hair. Long, strong and silky. I have used the same words in orkut as well, but I will let that be. The ultimate buggable creature, Shan was the best person to try your dry humour on. Good soul that she was, she never took it to heart. Which made us raise the bar higher and higher.

The first of those started when she accompanied us to Mahabaleshwar, and was doing a Rajnikanth sitting in the front seat. From the road to the Narayanpur temple, to the cliffs of Mahabaleshwar and Panchgani, I bugged her no end. That was the start of a beautiful relationship, which parted ways a couple of weeks back.

Mahabaleshwar to Shirdi to Dive Agar to Goa to Khandala-Lonavala, we had so much fun. Like the time when we always teased her about her college where there is gender discrimination, even in college buses (girls sit on left side, boys sit on right side ... girls dont wear trousers, boys dont wear t-shirts ... girls boys dont talk, or you fail in the exams) ... like the time when we hitched a ride in Goa, and her eyes went wide as she said "Lorry?"... like the time when we walked back from Senapati Bapat road after devouring pizzas...

Like the time we teased her about her innumerable "boyfriends" here ... like the time her mom served her a few more dosas when she tried to say "no" in kannada ... like the time she said she would lose weight by walking, and it rained on the day she decided to walk ... like the time we splashed her name all over the office, and in the newsletter on her birthday during the annual pre-bash ... like the time when Ayhay sang a song for her in the canteen ... like the time when she applied mehndi on Sushma's hands...

Putting mehndi was one thing she did superbly, every two-three weeks her room mates used to show their hands "See, Shan put this...".

At times giving you gyan(She's Sun certified Java, mind you), at times dumber than the "dumbest blonde joke ever", she was one heck of a person to be with. She had this rickety old laptop, which would run only on AC, nevertheless it was our only means to watch movie after movie (only one movie...number of times...thanks to Beryle) on innumerable weekend afternoons. It also helped Gokul to study for his Interwoven test. Stupid gal took it with her, even though it was adding 4 kgs to her already heavily overweight luggage.

A constant companion in our pizza outings, Shan always comes when we talk of US. And with Shan comes McKinsey. And her Vince mama. And her meeting with the Pope. And the awesome plum (read rum) cakes she got from Pondy.

Chechi will miss her for the time she spent with her, Gokul will remember her for the fellow LT she was, Vidya and Beryle will remember her for obvious reasons, and the rest of us will remember her for the person she was. A nice friend, a warm hearted lovable girl who never hurt anybody, Shan left Pune two weeks back for "green"er pastures in the US. And I wish her goodluck, and hope our paths cross again in the future.

Blank Noise Project and Women's Day

I came across this Blank Noise Project via a link from other blogs. When I read about Annie's street harassment, and Hema's single-girl-on-a-train post, I can only say "SORRY" for being a part of the "male" society which left a scar on their persona. I know it doesn't help, but there is only so much we can do. I have been in such situations before, and when you say all this, I can only say "I agree" and hang my head in shame.

There was this time when I was teaching my cousin to ride a bicycle, sitting on the carrier behind, and guys from the street behind passed filthy comments. "Teaching her to ride ... from the behind". My cousin was probably too young to understand it, or may be she did, and kept quiet. I wanted to thrash the imbeciles, but there was nothing I could do. I was all of 15 then, and these were men almost my uncle's age.

Then there was the guy who stretched his legs under the seat and tried to play with the feet of a female friend I was travelling with. She promptly stomped on his toes, and knowing her, I'm sure he would have bled if he wasn't in shoes.

2004 passed-out engineering graduates in and around Bangalore will remember their Oracle walk-in. Not for the jobs they got or missed. Girls will remember that day, not for the physical bruises in the melee, not for the material losses like cellphones, spectacles and slippers, but for the hundreds of hands which pinched their behind, for the unknown hands that felt them up. Guys I know to be born lechers, boasted about it. They had already stripped the girl in their mind. The lecherous stares, the eyes which stealthily go 'downtown', even as a girl is being introduced, the hands which never let go of a handshake until the girl makes it all-too-limp. I wonder what they get by two seconds of female flesh contact. I am reminded of Shobhaa De's article in The Week, where she writes about lecherous men in Mumbai locals fantasising about their daily dose - two bottoms pinched, one breast cupped, two minutes of rubbing against a sleeveless hand, one toe against a waxed leg...

Personally, I am all for girls to be independent. I applaud it when they stand up for their rights. I encourage them when they strive to be self-sufficient. I appreciate it when they break the "male bastions". I congratulated a very close friend when she fought her way and made a guy get up from the ladies seat, because she was uncomfortable standing in the back of the bus with other guys. People really close to me know how I feel about it.

But, there are also times when I have myself escorted female friends out of a park when people passed comments because we sat together. I have hung my head, tongue tied, while walking together on the beach at night. I have let them drag me out of situations where the guy walking with a chip on his shoulder. Like Rajesh, my inaction at times makes me feel I'm an accomplice. I am unable to say anything when a female friend drags me away from a potential situation saying, "We have learnt to live with it."

Why? Why have you learnt to live with it?

zigzackly makes an interesting point when he draws a comparison on harassment. Is it harassment when a guy asks a gal out? Most definitely no. Then is it the lack of polish that maked the difference? Roadside romeos seeking a chance also do the same, but in a rude, crude manner. And what would you call the polished ones, who send flowers and candy repeatedly, and won't take no for an answer?

The problem is in differentiating these. These are grey areas which cant be shackled into black and white squares. Nobody is born a gentleman. Gentlemanly qualities are acquired. Respect for women in imbibed. Chivalry needs to be developed. And which is why this post finds its place in the blogspace. Even if one person in my miniscule readership reads this post and the links, and turns a wee bit better, I am vindicated. Slowly but surely, the cat calls will stop, and a day will dawn where men will respect a woman's privacy, dignity and grace. And until then, we will have to keep moving the wheel, and improving ourselves and those around us.

To all those women I love, I respect, I care for and share my tears and laughter with, have a great Womens Day.

QnR: Partyspeak

A party for R is a all-night all-guys drinking spree, unless otherwise specified. When the guys meet, they are greeting each other, backslapping and pulling each other's legs. Every one speaks in a common language. Before drinks that is. Afterwards, you can start counting the languages. Every damn thing comes out, and is discussed at length. From the first crush to the last heartbreak, everything is revisited. College life comes out, vivid as ever, memories are refreshed, jokes cracked, a detailed analysis is done vis a vis life then, and it is agreed that life was much more fun then, and another round is served. So on it goes into the night.

The morning after, friendships are at an alltime high. Should Q call anyone "R didnt come home last night", half a dozen friends would vouch that he was with them the last night. And then half a dozen calls would go to R's cell, saying Q had called. And R would have a tough time saying all seven of them were together, catching up on life at a eighth person's house.

Conversations with his male friends are over in less than a minute. He can convey a hundred things in "Yes, Ok...No not that, the other one. Yep. U bet. Thats on me, yes. Sure, Bye". The others understand too. When he says "nothing", there is no need to ask "You sure?". God forbid you walk away saying OK, when she says "Nothing". With girls everything is the opposite. Nothing always means there is something. She is not fine when she says "Fine". A Maybe is most definitely a Yes, and a "Thanks a lot" is absolutely no thanks.

QnR: May I take you out for dinner?

He will eat anything anywhere.

Whether it is a chai at a footpath hotel or sushi in a suburban deli, he will not fuss too much. In the rare case that he doesnt like anything, he will just not eat it. Take her out on a treat -- "The guy put his hand in the jug, how can you drink from it" at the footpath, "The plate has something on it, lets go somewhere else" at the chat center, "The service is so late, has he gone to grow the cereals?" at the restaurant, "The prices are so high, I can make better manchurian at home", at the suburban deli, "The food is so oily" at the bhajia stall, "The cup is dirty" at the tea stall.

He is like "Kya naatak hai yaar, we guys have been doing these things for so many years before we met you gals...zinda nahi hain kya?"

QnR: Shopping et al

No matter what you do, he gets his clothes dirty in half a working day. And he is not overly bothered about it. A shirt will be worn as long as the deo does its job and it will be washed only when it becomes unwearable. I will not write about jeans. Finding an ironed shirt is an impossible task in the room. Announce a client visit or a crucial interview at short notice, and he will either wear a friend's clean shirt or buy a new one. Shoes are polished only once on the day of wearing. Any dust that the left shoe accumulates after the polish will see the calf portion of the right trouser and vice versa. Canvas shoes are never washed and are made to undergo the ultimate test of quality and endurance.

Two sets of shoes are enough for him. She, in contrast, is always short of footwear. Every dress should have a matching footwear and every footwear will have a matching dress. In fact she has only two problems: 1. Too less clothes to wear. 2. Too less wardrobe space.

He is generally clear-headed while shopping. A trip to buy a pair of trousers will end in just that. He knows the cut, the type, the fabric, and all he has to do is go to the store, pick the stuff, pay the bill and outta there. She will spend half a day (lunch included) to buy a single top, when she had actually come looking for a skirt, which someone in her parlour said was on sale.

He can finish shopping gifts for three weddings, two birthday parties, a social gathering and a thanksgiving in a single trip of one hour. She needs to be taken seven times, to seven different shops to search seven gifts and shortlist one for each occasion. Each gift has to be different and of a different price range. God, she even starts rating the recipients, "He is more close to me ya, I cant give him this.", "Arre, Seema is also giving him the same thing, ya". He goes "God, give them anything yaar, the wedding couple will be more interested in their honeymoon, they wont sit and compare who gave what." Then he cracks this joke which goes "Men will pay Rs.200 for something they really need, even if it costs only Rs.100. Women will pay Rs.100 for a Rs.200 item which they do not need, but just because it is on sale."

QnR: Life in General

She is Q. Because she is always asking "Kyon". He is R. Because he is explaining it to her, "Aw, its not like that", "Aw, it works like this".

Someone had asked me once, why only Q and R? Why not something else. Well, Someone, now you know.

He is generally messy, and comfortable in his own mess. He can live in absolute harmony with his remote, laptop, mobile, chargers, wallet, watch, bike keys, towel, tracks, yesterday's shirt, jeans, belt, specs and newspaper all lying on his bed. He can give you money, answer a call, watch TV, put two chargers in the socket and switch them on with a flick of the rolled up newspaper, all with the slightest movements of his body. He can find his things in the mess, wherever they are. The worst case is he may have to yank the bedspread down, and he will definitely get the laundry receipt he was looking for.

She is cleanliness personified. God forbid her cleaning out his room and bring some order into his life. He will go out and call her from the PCO to find out where his mobile is, and for two days he will be on the mobile, asking her where the other things are. "Q, where is my charger?", "Q, there was this recharge coupon near the pillow, where did you keep it?", "Where are my bike keys, yaar, why do you keep miss-placing things?". "It is there only, R, just look around" will only get "It is not anywhere near the bed" in response.

The bedspread may not have been changed for two weeks at a stretch, but he can never see the dirt on it. In extreme circumstances, he resorts to reverse engineering, and the thing is taken care of for 2 more weeks. This goes on until Q comes and gives him a earful, or some other person of the other sex comes and explicitly spells it out "CHANGE THE BED SPREADS".

Ask him about it, and he will only say "Boys will be boys, Oh oh Oh oh Oh oh...".
There is more.

More on Thatha

Continued from here.

Thatha had latent humor. He would inject humor into dead serious situations, and still keep his face straight. Like the time when the couple next door bought an outdated nth-hand Maruti (The ones called Dolphins) and he went and asked him whether it was a new one. And when the neighbour said yes, my thatha had the cheek to ask him, "but the registration number does not seem new".

The second time Thatha had scolded me was when I was behaving very pally-pally with my uncle, not keeping in mind the age difference. He was very matter-of-fact this time and came straight to the point without much beating around the bush and things. It was around this time, that I learnt the Ambassador, and was permitted to take it around the city. But when I returned, Thatha would be standing at the gate, to remind me to park the vehicle inside the garage. I have this habit of leaving the vehicle in front of the gate, so that I can be off, as soon as I hear my friends' vehicles in the distance. But Thatha would always see to it that vehicles were parked inside.

Thatha had this insatiable hunger for technology. In his later years, it was the mobile phone which caught his fancy, and he would ask me on and on about how they function. He would listen with rapt attention the stuff about networks, towers, billing, SMS and whatever stuff I dished out to him. He would devour the newspaper for new terminologies and refer them to me, for clarification. Once, he wanted to know the difference between 'web' and 'cyber'. He had seen it in one of these internet parlours.

Internet was one thing that got him hooked. He was amazed at how fast the news travelled, and he followed the Iraq war entirely on internet. He would open accounts, and ask me the funda behind the secret question thing. He would mail me and check on phone whether I received the mail. He was passionate about computers. He joined the tutorial next door on how to assemble a computer. Hardware stuff basically. He wasnt interested in software. So poor thing, he skipped the classes on software installations. Everytime Windows gave him a problem, he would just hit format *.*, and come back to me for having the OS installed again. He loved XP and its colours. Google Earth was another favourite of his. He would look up all the places where US had bombed Iraq.

He was ill for most of his later years, the reason being, he would always stand near the front door, and take in all the dust and smoke. Come autumn, and he would take a broom and start sweeping away all the leaves. He never listened to anyone, and if he felt like it, he would take the vehicle and go roaming, exploring new suburbs of the city, at 11:30 forenoon. He also became a bit stubborn. He would keep quiet when the doctor was around, and as soon as he left, he would pester the nurse to write a discharge sheet. Sometimes when we had asked the doctor to tell him that he needed bedrest, he would act very active, and read the paper, walk around his ward, and make us look like fools.

He was so happy when I got my job, and when I filed up all the documents of the house, vehicles and other things. He was very ill when the house-warming was done, and he just came to attend the final chants of the puja. He maintained regular contact over email, while I was here in Pune. Once he would mail from one account, and then from the other. He was impressed by the way cellphones clicked the photos, and transferred them over the internet from person to person. When I left for Pune after the house-warming, he asked me to bring along the datacable, so that he could learn how to transfer the files from cellphone to computer. Sadly, he never got to learn it.

Thatha died last Diwali. I was the last one to see his face. Grandma, Mom, Dad, my uncle, everyone was holding their emotions, somehow. I got the feeling they were postponing the imminent, minute by minute until I arrived. The moment I stepped into the hall, loud sobs broke out all over. Mom was clinging to me, Dad had closed his eyes, and my palm was hurting in his hands as he tried hard to take control over himself. Thatha was lying there, his face serene, almost as if he was just there in a deep sleep. He was sleeping, yes, but he would never wake up from it.

May God rest his noble soul in eternal peace.

Thatha

Roll in a Retired Superintendent of Customs and Central Excise, a lover of all things mechanical, a technology freak, a hardware student, a card-player who played every Sunday evening, a WILLS patron (as long as it sponsored the Indian Team), a smoker who quit, a man with impeccable English, a person who thought all government jobs could be taken care by flawless correspondence, a stubborn man and a stick-to-basics-rest-will-be-fine personality together, and you may somehow be close to what my maternal grandfather was.

Given the brat that I was in school, and I was away from my parents, my grandfather was the person I was initially afraid of. There have been only two times in the eleven odd years I spent with him, that he admonished me. The first was when I bunked school with 10 other friends, and went to play cricket the whole day (like Swami and his friends in Malgudi Days). He had slapped me right in front of my teacher, and my glasses had gone for a toss. That night he had checked on my glasses when I was pretending to be asleep, and years later, he asked me forgiveness for it. He gave me a golden rule then : "Men forget all the yap you give them, but never an insult". He had made a point by insulting me there, in front of everyone, because I would remember the insult till the last day of my life, and with the insult, I would remember the lesson learnt.

It was fun with Thatha, during school days, he was the one who would sign my report cards, and there was one time, where to control my brat-ness, he had asked my class-teacher to mark "No complaints" and the date on a small notebook, which he would periodically review. This book was maintained for about 2 months, before everyone grew out of it. It was while cleaning my cycle, that Thatha and I would really get into the groove. He was the total D-I-Y guy, there was nothing in the house which could not be ripped apart using the tools in his bag. From snippers to soldering irons, he had them all. He taught me how to clean the cycle, repair its brakes, rechain the pedals to the wheel and fix a dynamo to the whole thing. He would even take a test ride and tell me whats wrong and where.

It was on his old scooter that I graduated to geared vehicles. The scooter would barely give 25 kmpl, but he would diligently write down the reading on the garage wall, and calculate the mileage everytime he filled in gas. He would open the scooter up every Sunday, much to the wrath of my grandmother, who had a hard time calling him in for breakfast and lunch. The best part was he would call for coffee and sit in the garage, while she would look all over the house for him. And when he finally got it, it was cold, and was sent for re-heating. My thatha would often send me on small trips to the local store to get him his quota of Wills cigarettes. There was a time when we were going on a trip, and he had got a 20's pack, because he was not sure whether he would get them on the roadside. He eventually quit smoking, but it was too late by then.

Every family occasion was a time for him to recount his old tale, of when he had a Morris, which was started by spinning a pedal wheel in front of the bonnet. He had gone to KRS along with the family, and while he was going uphill, all the petrol in the car tilted towards the bottom of the angled tank, causing no petrol to flow into the engine. And how they had to walk back and get more gas, till the time the car could start in its inclined position.

Much later we had a Padmini in our garage, which Thatha would polish every Sunday, with a generous amount of WAXPOL. He cleaned it religiously and would never let my uncle drive it, for the reason that it belonged to another uncle of mine, and my Thatha was not the one to be in a position to answer unwanted questions. My uncle had actually sulked for some time, because Thatha had not allowed him to drive on the way to Bangalore. By the time I was in a position to drive those machines, Thatha had become quite frail, though you could never go on his external appearance.

Continued here.

How do you mend a broken heart?

How often do you actually realise that you have broken a heart? How do you cope with the knowledge that every word you spoke was making an incision, every action of yours was sawing away on an innocent heart? How do you cope with the fact that you could be so heartless? How do you get out of the lousy feeling, which makes your stomach churn its guts out?

For the first time in life, I made an other heart bleed, and I cringe at it, more so because of the fact that nothing in my power....nothing I say, nothing I do, will make it up to her. For the first time in life, I was so myopic to my own actions, never saw where it was going. For the first time in life, I want to say all the SORRY I can, even though it will not make an iota of difference to the damage done.

For the first time in life, I have been guilty of nurturing an undefinable relationship, and bringing it down in the worst possible manner, of extending hands to build castles in her heart, and then demolishing them with the same ones. For the first time in life, I am ready to do anything to make her feel better, to help her get over the trauma, but I'm tied down with the helplessness that I was the one who made her go through this in the first place.

For the first time in life, I hate myself. I hate myself for having broken a heart, for having made her cry, for having given reason for her to drift away, for throwing away the crystal I had in my hands, for watching it break it to a hundred pieces, for the knowledge that nothing I do can put it up the way it was before, for gashing an existing wound, for bringing back the pain, for giving wings to a placid heart and bringing it down when it started to fly.

I just wanted to be someone she can say she shares so much in common with. I just wanted to be nice, to care for her as a good friend, to be around for her, to hear her agony, to provide her a shoulder to cry on, to share her joys, to listen to her laugh, to console her in her sorrow, to wipe her tears away, you know, just to be the thing good friends are made of.

But, now I know I can't. Because now the sorrow has been caused by me, the tears flow because of me, and I only want that one chance. To wipe away the tears which flowed on account of me, to make her laugh away the sorrow which I caused her. I want her to talk to me, about all those things which we have put off for another day. I want her to know, that I dont want to lose her, what with all the things we have in common. We came up with something in common, even the last time I spoke to her.

I want her to know that I will be there for her, even though it is highly unlikely that she will ever ask me anything consciously. I want her to know that my utter thoughtlessness was not intentional. I want her to know that the lines were not blurred deliberately. It was only that there was a difference in where we drew the lines. I kept my line in sight, and was totally unaware that my feet were stomping, making undefinable patterns, on what was left of hers. And when I backed off, it was too late. My eyes, which were so mindful of my line, could only see the blurred remains of footprints: awry, trodden, shambled, irreparable. I want to redraw those lines, but this time, the two will be together. I just want her to give me another chance, as she said she would.

I have fallen in my own eyes, and there is nothing that makes a man more ashamed. She may forgive me, after her wounds have healed, but it will be a long time before I can get this lousy feeling out of my gut, before I can look myself in the eye.

LOST

I have a friend. But lately, she's kinda drifting apart.
I know her for long. But I feel she's miles out of my reach.
I talk to her often. But we rarely go beyond pleasantries.

She is definitely not the one I knew before. We used to talk about everything under the sun, but now the talks are silent, the silence is killing. We could end it and go our ways, but then, we could also make it work, if she only speaks.

I am the kind of guy who likes to look at the lighter side of things, and she was one who acknowledged the efforts. Nowadays, nothing has any effect on her. She flares up for the flimsiest of reasons, she argues on the relevancy of my jokes. She explains the real meaning of a phrase when I have woven a joke around it.

This can go on until we both reach our boiling points, and one day, it will fall apart. I dont want to take it up with her, because she will either say "Nothing" or will classify it "Personal", which means there are no more discussions on it. I just dont want it to end with such stupidity that we can't even laugh about it five years down the lane.

Is it something I did? Or said? I dont know. One more face in the mind, is on the verge of fading away. One more photo will go down the memory lanes with LOST stamped on it.

John Abraham in Jism..."rishtey hamesha buri tarah hi khatam hote hain, ya phir khatam hi nahi hote."