2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
May 10, 2008 at 2:05 am · Filed under personal, photoblog
1940 HRS. The 37 degrees that the pilot promised prompted me to lose the jacketlike Provogue I wore over a thin, white cotton t-shirt. A hint of perspiration as I step out, for the first time in sixteen years, to meet the sultry capital. A huge airport, with lovely conveyor belts, excellent displays, and announcements going off in Hindi and English as opposed to the Kannada I am accustomed to. The baggage arrives on time, the support staff smiles, and even before you leave the airport, the city’s already invited you.
We drive out of the airport right into the road to Gurgaon and then to the central part of town. The roads are well lit, and I’m surprised at the lane-discipline being observed. Even more surprised to note that each and every driver out there has strapped his seat-belt. The traffic crawls like it does in the city I belong to, but it’s organized. Civilized. Back home in Bangalore, a four-wheeler will manufacture space meant for a two-wheeler in the midst of the winding snake of vehicles, and even as that happens, a rickshaw quietly sneaks in that one moment of driving genius or bastardisation, depending on which vehicle you’re sitting in. None of it here.
We’re now driving to the center, or should I say, The Center. Soon, buildings that otherwise seduced me in Bollywood reruns start to appear. Rashtrapathi Bhavan. The Parliament. Buildings I can’t put a name to. And then, finally, there it stands. India Gate, lit at night, rekindling memories of a certain Rakeysh Mehra movie that changed the way I think forever. And as the national strength of the nation carved into the structure looks at me, the goose bumps arrive. But the lights go out before I can click a snap, and though the gate now lurks in the dark concealing the pride in the night, the goose bumps refuse to leave.
Where the patriot met his nation. And when she smiled back at him, flaunting her grace, her might, and her beauty. And when he fell in love with her. Again.
Delhi, tonight.
April 6, 2008 at 8:27 pm · Filed under bollywood
I’m not blind - I admit, Kareena Kapoor is one of the hotter women I’ve seen out there, but whether that new firmly-toned body of hers really merits a tattoo on Saif Ali Khan’s hand - or any other part of his body - is questionable. I, for one, would have little space left on my relatively larger frame if I were to tattoo the names of the women I’ve loved, love, and will love in the foreseeable future.
But the question that’s eating me is this: is it just me, or are others too wondering if Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan have timed this just before the release of Tashan, where they both star together? Does a movie require painful body-art - and a love story attached to it - to gain traction? Isn’t the fact that Tashan is a Yash Raj production good enough for publicity? The very same Yash Raj who gave a movie like Chak De, and a movie flickshit like Jhoom Barabar Jhoom last year?
So, before we digress too much, tattoos. I’m all for it, I mean, what better way than to inscribe her name on a limb (or a rear) and dedicate it for the love of your life. But one must question the wisdom of Saif Ali Khan here. To begin with, Kareena Kapoor has demonstrated in her past relationships that she is as loyal to men as leaves are to trees in autumn. Not that Saif has the best track-record either, so considering these factors, a tattoo might just be going too far.
And please do consider that Bollywood is so seduced by numerology these days. If people do krazzy things, like make moviees - named Karzzzz - add ‘e’ in their names, then what’s the guarantee that the name won’t change? What if she takes a leaf out of SRK’s Darr performance and calls herself Kkkkareena? If they could do that to Kkusum, they could do it to her too, right?
While on the subject, I personally think the position of the tattoo is important. A tattoo on the hands, for instance, expresses support. A tattoo on the chest might reflect where the guy keeps his girl, in his heart. It might get interesting: a tattoo on the back would mean the girl is piggybacking on him, and a tattoo on any of the rears would mean, well, never mind.
Yesterday, I went to this store to get a new arrowhead that would sit in the old piercing, and I came across this guy who had a tattoo all over his neck that sprouted onto his back, of a snake. I’m starting to believe in this, really. I think in the rare event that I build a Godlike body for myself, I might actually end up tattooing a name on it. Atleast, I’d do it for the girl, and not for a movie.
So I’ve decided. I’m getting a tattoo done the day I get a great body and a steady girlfriend, both of which currently seem remote. While on the lookout for the girl, I’ll of course try my best to look for a North Indian, or a Maharastrian. No, Raj Thackeray hasn’t brainwashed me (yet) but atleast the names of the women in that part of India are short and sweet. Anu, Ria, Pooja. Come down south and you have Jayalakshmis to Bhanupriya, Bhagyashree or Bhanuwati. Or - gulp - Priyadarshini. To make that tattoo would, um, hurt.
Well, atleast I don’t live in Colombo, if that’s some relief. Spare a thought for Chaminda Vaas’ lovelife’s name if she were to do such an absurd thing. With all due respect to her frame, I highly doubt if ‘Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas’ would fit.
Highly, highly, doubt it.
March 28, 2008 at 7:10 pm · Filed under fiction
To begin with, the last few days for him have seen a few paradigm shifts, well-aligned with the numbness we associated earlier.
For as long as I can remember, he has been driven by enthusiasm, motivation, and a perpetual appetite to live life to the fullest. For the first time ever in his short life, he now sees himself losing these very things that govern the way he lives. People talk about him being wiser than his years because of skill or experience. Someone suggested the other day that he is a lot more responsible than he ought to be as a result of events that have happened in his life. All that accounts to, and amounts to absolutely nothing. The only thing that’s kept him going and perhaps will is one word: attitude. He lives to win and wins to live. He wants to be excited throughout the day and night about anything he does, and most importantly, he is a die-hard optimist who considers himself sensible enough to bring in pragmatism wherever necessary. For him, pessimism equates to fatality. Until the recent past where he - and this comes as a shock as he admits it here - has simply lost interest in the things that excited him the most from cursing the strays in Bangalore to gulping down coke to table tennis, geeky studies and - shudder - writing.
To say that it’s taken a hit on his relationships with people is an understatement. But incidents have happened, people have changed, and people have either distanced themselves too much or gotten too close for comfort that it’s made him look into the mirror every single day and made him question, ‘why are you not yourself anymore?’.
But today, he didn’t ask that question. Simply because he didn’t need to. He wasn’t being someone else anymore. This is how he is now, and it’s here to stick.
The guy has gotten nastier, a lot more rude. Shallower. He’s not erratic, yet there’s a sense of unpredictability that comes along with him. At times he gets so evil that he perhaps doesn’t realize the impact. There have been formal, written apologies on blogs from people as a result of his anger or wrath, as he remains oblivious to the power he commands and influence he has over his friends and foes. But these aren’t the scary things about him.
The scariest bit, about this particular individual who places himself as the ideal pivot, a bridge amongst people, is his willingness to let go of things he held dearly. For instance, the people he loves, his family, his friends, the girl he’s bonkers about, close friendships, close associations with events, communities, things that he insisted he did for the cause. He’s reached this stage where he gives it up effortlessly and easily, without a hint of hesitation or regret. It’s rendered him lonely, and the best part is, he loves the seclusion. There have been instances where people have tried their best to penetrate through his iron-carpet of silence or humor, and they’ve all failed. Humor is a powerful weapon, but a better shield - and his humor, like Scorcese would put it, was savage, one that came out of a great deal of pain. Those who tried too hard or nearly made it through - he ignored them entirely for an eternity. His harshest punishment is the unsaid, the unspoken, the unwritten.
No longer is he a team player, a knot of sorts. He prides himself on his newfound love - solitude. The intent for the causes will come back. The associations should. The friendships might. The love won’t. The damage is irreparable. The cavity caused, unfathomable. And the future? Unpredictable.
March 15, 2008 at 11:39 pm · Filed under travelogue
It isn’t often that it happens. The odds of yours truly spending two days absent from the blogosphere are the same as that of PotUS bombing the right nation. Either ways, I kind of hibernated for a bit, after an all-hands meeting at the Pune office before we kicked off for what I’d been gearing up for. Oh, do allow me to digress for a bit as I wonder why it’s called all-hands when indeed all-limbs, rears and other vital organs also made it with the rest of the frame. Anyhow, we were moving out, and a 44-seater Volvo beckoned us before driving up to the Fariyas Resort at Lonavala.
Yippe-yip-yeah. STC had started, finally.
For those out there scratching their brains and rears figuring out what in Haysoos’ name STC is and why it gets to go on my blog, heck, I’m a PSG bloke and the STC is like a once-in-a-year event where I get to meet other PSG folks and chat. The STC is actually a Summer Technical Conference, but like most events in India, things get delayed so we conveniently rechristened it Spring Technical Conference, although I’m tempted to call it Summer after all with the blazing sun in Lonavala. For the record, the blasted TIBCO jackets we got at the end didn’t exactly do much to cool things down.
Right, so we went off a tangent again. So, um, yeah, STC. ‘Twas fun, serious fun (if that means anything), especially the team building sessions by the HR consultants, and those silly little games that (damn-me) suddenly made shitloads of sense.
The most interesting part of the STC was a session by the Director of Sinhgad Institute of Management, Dr. George Judah, we figured out a lot of things we knew but perhaps still needed to be told. On the importance of the right-brain left-brain getting together, on how you treat people the way they want to be treated, on random yet focused stuff like not allowing things to affect you, etc. Being optimistic, and stuff around that. I’m probably downplaying it but it was a motivational talk and a half, and thanks to Parag who arranged it for us, it really did make a lot of sense, except the stroking but. When he first went, you ought to stroke your loved ones a bit more, I was like - hello? - until he mercifully clarified that ’stroke’ in the context hadn’t had much to do with sexuality. Like a verbal ‘I love you’ stroke, and so forth. Imagine calling up my girl and telling her, ’sweetheart, I wanna stroke you’. That’d be like Armageddon 2008.
So Dr. Judah is a fun guy, vocal, emotive and absurdly funny. The guy doesn’t tickle your funny bone, no-siree, he crushes it and shatters it to bits with his lovely little ‘Mrs. Judah’ jokes that are hilarious to hear. If you bump into him during your morning walk around the society he stays in, do drop in a hello or two, I’m sure you’ll get home smiling for the rest of your day. Oh, and he’s vegetarian and an ex-combat pilot, so think twice before you offer him a fried sausage unless you want a MiG’s missile up your rear.
And the biggest take-away from the STC? I’d love to be all pompous - modesty be damned - and say that it was the award, the ‘Best Team Player’ award, that PSG India gave me. Apparently the guys who picked me overlooked my rebellious attitude and affinity to the back-bench. Or I’m doing a good job of hiding it all from them. And if they read this, rest assured I ain’t getting ‘Best Team Player’ 2008-09 ;-)
No, the biggest take-away was the networking. And I don’t mean the women, there really weren’t any at the resort we were staying that’ll make my head turn twice (or for that matter, once) save a firang mom who looked like she smoked enough to give the Fariyas chimney a complex. No, not the women. I met up with the PSG folks and I can finally say that I ‘know’ them all. Which is cool, you know, considering I’ve been banished from the clan for a year. Also met up with an old colleague from the Bombay office and someone I’d never heard of before from the US who’s now in Bombay, and they’re both the kind of people I love to work with - sensible, smart, fun, and most important of all, zero attitude.
Ah, fuck it, who am I kidding anyway? It was the blasted award that I liked the best about the STC. Okay, was kidding.
Well, that’s that for now. Anyone who missed me while I was away, save your tears, I’m back. For those who didn’t, go blow yourself (up), and I’m back anyway.
Until next time, see you around folks.
- Sandy
P.S. I came absurdly close to being officially gang-raped by my team on Thursday night. I mean physically. I luckily escaped with minor injuries, seven bruises, a messed up t-shirt, a messed-up pair of jeans and a few minutes of my life I’d do well to forget. Worse, there’s a photograph of the aforementioned attempt at intercourse that made it to - you guessed right - my own bloody presentation. So much for corporate stringency, and guess what, I’m loving it :-)
March 3, 2008 at 12:15 am · Filed under fiction
Like every other part of Pune after midnight, even a hyperactive Koregaon Park curls in to bed and goes silent as the clock ticks time off the night. The roads get less busier, there are fewer people and the only life that roams the area past midnight are the strays.
- - -
He walked out of the third lane, with his backpack, puffing at a few David-Offs to keep warm. Reduced to a zombie. Stretching his arm out, he stopped the first rickshaw that came towards him, got into it, and asked the driver to make a U-turn and keep driving. Putting the meter into action, the rick sped off in the other direction, straight on.
Inside the rickshaw, he took the weapon out, and started to sharpen it.
‘Kuthey?’
Nothing. The rickshawaala repeated his question a couple of times, but the passenger had no response at all. He was still sharpening the knife, the fatal metal-meets-metal sound that rung loud in the darkness. By then, the rickshaw driver had enough, and looked back at Sam. He was arguing and abusing frantically now, but there was still no reply.
The driver finally gave up, flipped the meter back to its original position, and as it read ‘For Hire’, jerked his thumb, gesturing for the passenger to leave. It was the end of the ride.
But the knife had gone in.
The ride had ended a lot earlier.
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