Uninvited.

Melvin: The mono-minute that someone gets that they need you, they threaten to walk out.

-As Good as it Gets.

Monsoon's over. And I don't live here anymore. Link to new page- http://autumnalmost.blogspot.com/ But the question is- What's up there???

She's Like the Rainbow.

It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.
- Abraham Lincoln

For some time now, I have been convinced that early morning (that's between day break and 7 AM) is definately the most beautiful part of the day. It is true of every season. I am fully awake, courtesy the nature of my work, and never rushed. In winter when the fog is lifting, the dark melts in with the day. And while the fog doesn't ever go away, at least when I am leaving the house, it hangs about like pristine white drops of steam, forming dew drops on my sleeve. In spring, well, need I say anything at all. The tree whose branches appear out of nowhere and alomst reach inside my room, whose boughs are laden with the yellow-red blossom, occassionally dropping a few inside, make up for a beautiful way to start the day. In summer, early morning is easily the best part of the day- the heat is not yet set, and while on my way to work, I take an occassional sling at the mangoes ripening on the trees, which line my row. The rains- actually, I have no single favorite part of the day in the rains, and so I guess early morning is as good as any. The sea is beautiful, as I go past Marine Drive, some times tranquil, some times fiesty. And autumn- there is hardly any such thing here, but whatever is exists, is quite quite nice- for, well some reason or the other.

The best thing about the morning is that the lights and sounds of a beautiful world, appear amplified, like never after. The waves at Marine Drive crashing against the dykes (not the ones which occupy them at nights), or the the colours of the pretty bough at my window, petals fallen on the road from the night before and not yet turned into a gooey black pigment by wheels of a world, in a mad rush to get God knows where. Whether I am on my way to work, or just returning from a night's debauchery, whether I am adequately rested, or struggling for sleep, early morning remains, my high point of the day. From there it is all downhill.

Of late, it has suddenly gotten sunny, for all the right reasons, and very soon, I believe Monsoon will be over. And I will have to move to another page- with a new name, a new address. That, later.

Now I shall attempt to complete the narrative. One of the problems associated with opening things up too early is that, you tend to get influenced by what others have to say (yes, Anonym). And when "Others" is a collective used for only one person, it is rude not to respond in kind. It no longer remains some thing of your own, but evolves slowly and belongs as much to the Others involved in the process. It is almost like a baby, forming inside you, but influenced by some one else, in a most significant manner. To say the least, like any one would, I am flattered by your fascination with me. Oh ho... now don't get all carried away. I don't think I mean every thing I write (No, I don't take myself too seriously...)

(contd.)

...

Narcissus will never forget the day Echo was returned (of course he didn't know it then). It was a Sunday, and he had been feeling so so lazy. The sun was out early. The bell rang- and an army walked in- of men armed with paint brushes and cans of distemper. Smelling of turpentine and sweat- remotely heady. Narcissus not quite, recovered from his previous night's debauchery balked at anything remotely intoxicating. He remembered, the appointment had been fixed weeks ago. Turning them away would mean a wait of another few weeks. And he had to get the job done before his parents came in. The house hadn't been painted in nearly 6 years. Of course, he had to send them away for a while, to be able to get his maid to set things up, so that they could work.

First, the house needed to be reorganized- furniture covered up, clothes bundled and since it was a good opportunity, he decided to get rid of some of the papers he seemed to accumulate around himslef- old magazines, newspapers with an interesting column or two. Bits and pieces of stuff written. Print outs of presentations (Pitchbooks- to use the right term). Railway and air plane tickets. Old business cards, collected over drinks at parties and which never found their way to the rolodesk at work. Client entertainment bills, never submitted for reimbursement. Basically, the debris of life. And then were were some other things- letters, scribbled notes, every thing else at once. An old scrabble set, gifted by Echo, its corners frayed, its twine now bare threads, appeared out of nowehere. While almost everything else ended up in a heap in an old Brittania carton, procured by the maid from the nearest grocers, these were filed away. Not given to sentiment under normal circumstances, Narcissus filed these away separately. He had read written somewhere, in a handwriting which remotely resembled his own (then an elegant slant, presently it was barely a scrawny scribble) which read:

In winter, when the fields are white,
I sing this song for your delight -

In spring, when woods are getting green,
I'll try and tell you what I mean.

In summer, when the days are long,
Perhaps you'll understand the song:

In autumn, when the leaves are brown,
Take pen and ink, and write it down.

He recognized it as a prelude to some thing he had written to Echo, so so long back. He paused, briefly, thought about the times they had, and got along with the task at hand. When most of the sorting, filing, bundling and dumping was done, he was still left with a sizeable bulk of things that, in spite of himself, he had no heart to throw away. These he set aside and sat down- at the bar, to read while the army of painters trooped in and went about their job like an army of ants. While sifting through notes and letters and scribblings of things that she loved so much, Narcissus could almost feel smell her, feel her, touch her. More than anything else, he was aware of his age. He found little curios- among them his proposal (written in jest and inspiration) which read-

Narcissus, the Prospector, inspired by:
Echo, the Prospect, has chosen
The following facts, for his vitae, such that
He may vie for the (much sought) maiden

Born `76, under the Archer’s sign
If it matters, the hospital clock chimed nine
Was heard to hum (Ta... Da...) the first tune at four
Yet wrote his first acrostic - ho, hum- only post 24

A Bachelor of machines, a master at heart(s)
Keeps a sound mind, wallet and scruples; Is smart
Employee of a bank; loves numbers, books, hills
Currently, his tastes reside in Seth and Wills

Looking for a lady similarly inclined
But will it suffice for this Real Find?

Although moved, he could not help noticing the almost trite and juvenile attempts at rhyming (aa-bb-cc). Among other things he noted a date and time which appeared on the corner of the note, 22nd December 2002, 8.15AM. It had been sent by internal post. How it had found its way back to him, he didn't remember. However, what he did remember was that Echo had not bothered to reply. It was time for breakfast.

Over eggs (fried in the lard from over cooked bacon), and cold cuts, and Darjeeling tea, a regulation Sunday breakfast, which often served as lunch, Narcissus toyed with the curios, and for the first time in a few years, sat down to play scrabble with himself. The board (now devoid of the cob like webs) had been a constant feature through their relationship, over which many fights had been won , and lost; over which many questions had been asked, and then sometimes, answered. For instance- "Will you marry me?" - answered - "In your dreams" or "I am considering it" and elsewhere "So, be nice to me, Mister" formed arduously, almost miraculously, with amazing dexterity, they both possed at the game once and with absolute disrespect for any rule ever written. Today as he tried to find his way about the cells, and sifted through the probablities of finding the right alphabets, as old ways found their way back, hope hung around thick like a poor boy outside a Christmas sale.

( to be continued...)

Anonym- I guess I have handled our protagonist with care- haven't I? Incidentally, since if I have often noted - you are quite wordly wise, what is the feminine for protagonist?

Weather With You

LYRICS

Walking 'round the room singing
Stormy Weather
at 57 Mt. Pleasant St.
Now it's the same room but everything's different
You can fight the sleep but not the dream

Things ain't cookin' in my kitchen
Strange affliction wash over me
Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire
Couldn't conquer the blue sky

There's a small boat made of china
Going nowhere on the mantlepiece
Do I lie like a loungeroom lizard
Or do I sing like a bird released

Everywhere you go you always take the weather with you

-Neil Finn/ Tim Finn

Late last night as we pulled in to Marine Drive, after a bit of a coming of age experience at Red Light, Tim remarked, - Beautiful weather. Indeed, as I looked out of the window, and saw the silhouetted sky line of Malabar Hill, I couldn't help agreeing. The sea was tranquil, the breeze soft and balmy. And there were promises of a clear morning sky all around. I smiled wistfully, thought of the above lines and knew what had caused the wind to change its mind. The afternoon's abrupt conversation has prompted RV to take the first flight to Bombay. Time is running out, but well, at least she is here. Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you.

Let me narrate a story.

Narcissus must be the biggest ass in the world to have passed up an opportunity to spend the evening (and probably his life) with the one woman in the world who'd drop almost everything to be with him. But thats the way it was. And to be honest, the things that really mattered, hadn't changed much. Echo is full of "good-looking-woman" vibes, though she claims ignorance of any such concept. But in the case of Narcissus there were no such instances. In fact, like most better looking woman- more intelligent man relationship, the equations were vastly lopsided- in Narcissus' favour. Forgotten, were the long lines of admirers, and frequent callers- the handsome, winsome men, all that mattered to Echo was Narcissus. To his credit, it was entirely reciprocal, but he was more inclined to stick to his idiosyncrasies, a lot more than Echo. She had given up so much in life, just to be around, and never mentioned a word. He had done so too, at various points of time, but well, gone on and on about it for weeks afterwards.

He had resisted meeting her parents for years, citing his discomfort with families, given his long abstinence from anything which remotely resembled kin. He had held on to his "nothing-matters-much, nothing-much-matters" attitude, even as Echo fumed and fretted in frustration. He refused to sign-up for Skype or buy a laptop when she moved overseas. He had almost always taken her for granted and reacted strongly if his assumptions in this respect had been proven otherwise. Echo still recalls the two months for which Narcissus had barely spoken a straight word, following one such incident. Narcissus now refuses to remember any such spell, but well... Let’s put it this way- he had always been difficult.

But overall, it was a beautiful relationship between two people, who for the casual observer of the human behaviour were considered absolute soul mates. Every time they went out together, they were quite a dish. Echo was definitely the most beautiful woman in any gathering, and Narcissus when he chose to be, had an electrifying presence in any party- either on the dance floor or through his wry sense of humour, which cut to shreds the most stoic of his subjects. When they danced, everything around them seemed to dissolve. It was almost as if nothing mattered but their togetherness, and the music to which they would sway heart and soul. It was as if they dancing in the hall in his house, alone, hand in hand, every step in tandem and every heart beat- synchronous. And when Narcissus was in no mood to socialize, Echo would read it instantly and drag him away to the nearest balcony, and they would be found, laughing, sharing jokes or most often singing out loud- over multiple drinks and cigarettes. However, in spite of the various illusions they harboured, they knew that they weren’t signed up for life, and never would be.

No one quite figured what went wrong, or even if anything went wrong at all, or when. But one fine day Echo decided to get married. And that day, that day- Narcissus cried and cried. Like Echo often had. Narcissus cried all night, and the following morning. And just kept mumbling some thing deliriously. Atferwards, he never ever brought up the subject, or had not shown any reaction when some one inadvertently mentioned it. Yes, there were those people. Echo went away, quietly, wondering what went wrong. Narcissus shrunk into his corner of the world, not bothering to find out- what happened to Echo, when she got married, to whom, or if at all. That she had decided, was enough. Somehow it was a blessing in disguise- he excelled professionally, scaling heights which none his age had ever achieved. He resumed work on his book and managed to finish it too, however choosing not to do anything with it afterwards. Echo moved to NYC, enrolled herself in a film course- something that she had always wanted to do, and some thing that Narcissus had always wished she would. But did little afterwards. She shot some small footages, and it always seemed to viewers that there was always this gaping Narcissus shaped void in all of them.

And then a few years later (he had lost count, and she had measured the time by days passed by), she was returned. Not like Estha, but in a very different way, returned.

(To be continued…)

Current favorite and almost appropriate, read last night:

At thirty-one when some are rich ...

by Philip Larkin
At thirty-one when some are rich

And others dead,I, being neither, have a job instead,

But come each evening back to a high room

Above deep gardenfuls of air, on which

Already has been laid an autumn bloom.

And here, instead of planning howI can best thrive,

How best win fame and money while alive,

I sit down, supper over, and begin

One of the letters of a kind I now

Feel most of my spare time is going in:

I mean, letters to women—no,

Not of the sort

The papers tell us get read out in court,

Leading directly to or from the bed.

Love-letters only in a sense: they owe

Too much elsewhere to come under that head.
Too much kindness, for a start;

I know, none better,

The eyelessness of days without a letter;

Too much to habit ('Stop? But why on earth...?')

:Too much to an unwillingness to part

With people wise enough to see my worth.

I'm kind, but not kinetic—don't

Enlist a word

Simply because its deed has been deferred;

Ends in themselves, my letters plot no change;

They carry nothing dutiable; they won't

Aspire, astound, establish or estrange.

Why write them, then? Are they in fact

Just compromise,

Amiable residue when each denies

The other's want? Or are they not so nice,

Stand-ins in each case simply for an act?

Mushrooms or virtue? or, toadstools or vice?

They taste the same. So summer ends,

And nights draw in.

Another evening wasted! I begin

Writing the envelope, and a bitter smoke

Of self-contempt, of boredom, too, ascends.

What use is an endearment and a joke?

===================================================================

A Decade of Decadence

A man can hide all things, excepting twain- That he is drunk, and that he is in love.

Antiphanes

Last night's debauchery and the acts which followed afterwards, must rank as one of the worst in a long and illustrious career as the house drunk for me. Not only did I get buzzed in about 5 pegs (I blame it on the empty stomach), in front of this PYT I have had an eye on for a long time, I left early- for no apparent reason, and ended up calling 3 women (absolutely out of bounds) asking whether they would marry me. I also dug up Tua's number from some old papers- quite commendable considering the relatively inebriated state- and called her up. Fuck knows why. The conversation was short and civil. As usual. With the customary promises of a longer chat some time soon. Fortunately, I stopped short of asking her as well. Then I called up my boss and cribbed to him about the world at large (aka 25th Hour), and then moaned about the (no) women in my life . Then I told him not to expect me at work today, because I was fed up of working for him. My boss to his credit, heard me patiently, and then asked me a single question- Was I getting married today?

I have had many embarrassing mornings after, but this morning is top of the charts. When my boss walked in to office and saw me steadily shrinking into my corner, he didn't even acknowledge my presence. Thankfully. He is the coolest dude I know. Actually, I don't think about that too much, because I have other bases covered as far as work is concerned. I sometimes wonder what Tua thinks of me though. Till recently, I only used to call / text her when drunk, and that too for no apparent reason. Or some times I would write these long long mails- on issues of probably no relevance to her. In return she would forward something or the other. I must say one thing though- in spite of the random manner in which I have gone about this thing, and after formally withdrawing her interests in me, she continues to react in the most civil manner. I guess it must be a fallout of a really good upbringing- or a lifetime's experience in handling drunks and pests.

Of the three, P's response irked me the most. Perhaps because it was the most accurate diagnosis. "Jayanta, you are spending too much time alone, or at best with people who matter least." And RV- in direct contrast had mentioned -"JD, you are a chronic case of nothing matters much, nothing much matters- and from here on, I refuse to take you seriously". Two women- one who's known me for little over three weeks and the other, well, claims to know me best.

Now for the regulation replies-

Dear Anonym:

Thanks for the compliments, though I must admit that you have been quite generous in this instance. The best things written on this page are other people's words.

I don't claim accuracy, or unbiasedness, or even possess the necessary education to speak with any degree of authority on the subject. In my case, my views are the sum total of our experiences. And while it is politic to be "accurate and unbiased", on my blog I reserve the right to remain as accurate as "an archer in a centrifuge". (Quite like the expression. Thanks!). Having said that, I might add, even here I prefer to refrain from commenting on any particular religion (let alone Judaism). I do have varied interests, but theology is not quite one of them. Indeed, my reference was entirely to the Jewish community, and not the religion they follow. Incidentally, did you know that Yiddish is a coarse, colloquial form of lingua franca, having its origins in German, as much as it has to Aramaic?

The reference to religion was some what an independent line of thought. But somehow one cannot think of Jews without having a lurking thought on the religion they follow- which is probably what led me to think along those lines. Surprisingly this time around and on this subject, I find myself nodding my head on most things you had to say. When I said unity, I tried to bring out the uniqueness of the concept of religion- as distinct from any other collection of people having similar thoughts.

Old Lady's Dream- It has nothing to do with Jews or even religion. But the connection is deeper, with something elsewhere on this page. And with some things that happened to me last week. Let it be...

While I respect your decision to remain anonymous, I think your usage of (very apt- I might say) idioms and phrases is a big big give away.

The One.

PS.
===========================================================
anonym (AN-uh-nim) noun
1. A false or assumed name.
2. An anonymous person or book.
[From French anonyme, from Latin anonymus, from Greek anonymos, from an- (not) + -onyma (name).]

=================================================================

T.O.

The Boiler Room
written by Ben Younger

(Sounding uncannily like our ol' friend Gordon Gekko, Jim Young (Ben Affleck) berates his young employees to no end, no mercy, no sale, no money. )

Jim Young: Goddammit, you fuckin' guys. I'm gonna keep this short, okay? You passed your sevens over a month ago. Seth's the only one that's opened the necessary forty accounts for his team leader. When I was a junior broker I did it in 26 days. Okay? You're not sendin' out press packets anymore. None of this Debbie the Time Life operator bullshit. So get on the phones, it's time to get to work. Get off your ass! Move around. Motion creates emotion. I remember one time I had this guy call me up, wanted to pitch me, right? Wanted to sell me stock. So I let him. I got every fuckin rebuttal outta this guy, kept him on the phone for an hour and a half. Towards the end I started askin him buying questions, like what's the firm minimum? That's a buying question, right there that guys gotta take me down. It's not like I asked him, what's your 800 number, that's fuckoff question. I was givin him a run and he blew it. Okay? To a question like what is the firm minimum, the answer is zero. You don't like the idea, don't pick up a single share. But this putz is tellin me you know, uhh, 100 shares? Wrong answer! No! You have to be closing all the time. And be aggressive, learn how to push! Talk to 'em. Ask 'em questions... ask 'em rhetorical questions, it doesn't matter, anything, just get a yes out of 'em. If you're drowning and I throw you a life jacket would you grab it? Yes! Good. Pick up 200 shares I won't let you down. Ask them how they'd like to see thirty, forty percent returns. What are they gonna say, no? Fuck you? I don't wanna see those returns. Stop laughing, it's not funny. If you can't learn how to close, you better start thinkin about another career. And I am deadly serious about that. Dead fuckin serious. And have your rebuttals ready, guy says call me tommorrow? Bullshit! Somebody tells you th-they money problems about buyin 200 shares is lying to you. You know what I say to that? I say, hey look, man, tell me you don't like my firm, tell me you don't like my idea, tell me you don't like my fuckin neck tie, but don't tell me you can't put together 2,500 bucks. And there is no such thing as a no-sell call. A sell is made on every call you make. Either you sell the client some stock, or he sells you on a reason he can't. Either way, a sell is made. The only question is: who's gonna close? You or him?! Now be relentless. That's it, I'm done.

====================================================================

I think that's the anthem of sales- some thing that every guy who makes a living by selling should know-

"And there is no such thing as a no-sell call. A sell is made on every call you make. Either you sell the client some stock, or he sells you on a reason he can't. Either way, a sell is made. The only question is: who's gonna close? You or him?! "

I guess the rest of it is a long walk to take for a sip of water.


I think the rains in Mumbai this time have gone on for a bit too long. Not just that, it has been definately a lot more intense. Last evening when I stepped out for a late evening smoke to our terrace, it was beautiful nonetheless. It was pouring, and the glow from the neons held suspended by a wispy raindrops, had this effect on the hazy purple sky. Quite beautiful. For instance, this morning the sea at Marine Drive was so remarkably tranquil, that it almost led me to believe that the rains were over- had I not known that it had pured relentlessly all night.

But yes, it really has gone on for too long. It is late Septmeber and it already people are preparing for November Rain. Even I lose patience every now and then. Being stuck in traffic in a cab which is so musty. The steely smells of the handlebars in trains, hangs about in the crowded compartment- in the palms and damp clothes of passengers- and remain till long afterwards. So much so, I have even thought of a name for the next blog I need to start once monsoon is over. I think I feel a bit like a river, some times meandering, some times bubbly. More so in this weather.

Ta... Da... No more for now... rest later.

====================================================================

The Old Lady's Dream

"I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it."- Mae West.

For some reason I have a strong fascination for the Jewish community. It is strange because I personally do not know any particular member of that community. That also perhaps is one of the reasons why - the overall impressions does not get clouded by individual characteristics.
Almost everything about them fascinates me. Staring with the evolution- the search for a land, the struggles, and the formation of Israel. Couple of things in particular, about Jews appeal to me. Jews are essentially a nomadic community at heart. In spite of finally finding a home in Israel, you will find most young Israelis travelling all over the world in search of various things (including Manali cream). They crowd the melas in Pushkar, the cottages outside Manali, beaches of Goa and I am sure, likewise elsewhere in the world. Many are chronic wanderlusts- spending years on the move, some times with intervening careers and education, once they are done with their compulsory military service. In fact the Jews from other countries, where they still hold on to their roots, are also compulsive travellers and have at any point of time dropped out of the regular world to back pack.

Jews have been immensely successful professionally in meritocracies. Jews occupied positions of power in pre-World War II Europe and Americas. They are definately amongst the richest communities on a per capita basis on the east coast, and in England. In the US they have held on to very lucrative strong holds despite stiff competition in areas such as law, politics, medicine and most importantly finance. Their astute mental skills and the dedication that they usually possess for the their vocation, and by consequence personal upliftment is exemplary. As a community, they are the pride and prejudice of the country. In spite of their fewer numbers, they have accomplished so much, that many a race will struggle to display similar wares even as their numbers are far higher, and they have been around for much much longer. However, in oppressive communities Jews are a failure. Look aty those in Russia- I haven't heard of any Russian Jew who has excelled while in Russia. In the face of oppression, Jews struggle and I guess spend most of their time justifying their meagre success more than anything else. They are a free minded folk, and can go any distance unless you put the fear of death in them.

Another possible reason for the fascination with Jews in general and Israel in particular is that it is the only nation state to have been formed in the world as we know it- i.e. recent times. Therefore it is a lot easier to understand the evolution- helped along by a number of books- both fiction and non-fiction, exchanges, internet forums etc. Understanding the concept of Aliyah- even from a prosperous life in the US, the Kibbutz, community living and growing up. The saga of turning a barren land- either deserts or swamps into a fertile prosperous hub, is some thing which excites and interests me beyond words. A country which despite everything, manages to run with a clockwork precision. Actually, according to me, the formation of the nation state of Israel is the most heroic and fundamental of accomplishments of the human race in the 20th century.

Which also brings me to the central theme of religion. People say many things about religion. One of the most striking aspect of religion is that it is fundamentally divisive. A person can never belong to two religions at the same time. He may subscribe to two sets of views- or even attend mass on Sundays and temple on Tuesdays (like many of mixed parentage here do), but he can never never be of more than one religion at any point of time. Religions can live in harmony or fight tooth and nails for decades, but they can never mix. East and West Germany can unite, some day by some stretch of imagination- North and South Korea, but two religions however intermingled can never ever unite. It is a far too fundamental concept. For those who believe, religion remains a life defining aspect. Without sounding disrespectful or trite, I might add that it is even more fundamental than sexual orientations (given that there are people who swing both ways). But why was I thinking of that???

Now to answer a few questions:
Well, I dance, and I dance quite well. And no, even though I have learnt some forms of westerns, my presence on the floor resembles everything at once. But probably when you said that you did not intend any allusion to the dance floor at all.

And I have no clue why people write on blogs. I am no expert on neo-classical cyber psychology. I guess one part of the reason is anonymity - a certain detachedness which has come to define our generation. For instance, there are times when I feel closer to the waiters at Toto's more than anyone else in Bombay. Which is when I write here. And then when I see comments which have allusions to some things which are beyond what the average Anonymous reader sees on this page, it explicably makes me cyurious.

And yes, much as I would love to, I can't write in diaries anymore.


====================================================================
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. -Harriet Beecher Stowe
==============================================================

Scent of a Woman.

Frank: Where's Daphne? Let's get her down here.

Charlie: She's in the back.

Frank: The tail's in the tail. Ha. Oh, but I still smell her. Women, what could you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fucking genius. The hair. They say that the hair is everything, you know? Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls, just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips, and when they touched yours were like the first swallow of wine you just crossed the desert. Legs, I don't care if they're Greek columns or second-hands Steinways, what's between them: passport to heaven. I need a drink. (pause: he drinks his whisky) Yes, Mr. Simms, there's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy. Are you listening to me, son? I'm giving out pearls here.

Charlie: I guess you really like women.

Frank: Above all things. A very, very distant second is a Ferrari. Charlie, give me your hand. This is just the start of your education, son.

The Start of an Education- Written by Bo Goldman, from a screenplay by Ruggero Maccari & Dino Risi, from a novel by Giovanni Arpino

I have this thing for films- almost everything about them actually. Like watching most movies and am the type likes almost every film I sit through- albeit the length and the quality of the duration varies. Dialogues (monologues), scenes, posters, catch phrases ("Ninotchka- Don't pronounce it- see it!)- every thing. You can say that I am afflicted by a particularly strong case of Matinee Mania. And the best part is that over the years I have perfected the art of procuring movie tickets. I don't remember a single incident wherein I went to watch a flick at a hall and got turned away from the box office - first day first show, every thing- no exceptions.

Saw a couple of films over the last few days. I think Salaam Namaste is fun. Even though the end is quite quite crappy. I had a minor snigger forming at the end, which vanished as soon as I saw the derisory look on my female friend's face. Never mind the rip off on 9 months, but there is always that Bollywood seasoning, which almost always seems to work- for me, I may add. Javed Jaffri is really cool, and the next day at work, everyone seemed to repeating the word "exactly"- not quite exactly the way he said it, and definately not to similar effect, but yes, it had that effect, even on cynical old traders.

Iqbal is really nice. Its effect on me was similar to that on reading The Village by the Sea. You know that every thing is going to work out at the end, but can't help feeling lousy in between. Never trust these arty type directors. Always wanting to break a few hearts for the sake of an extra star rating. Never mind the box office. But yes, Iqbal was nice.

I really don't like sneaky people. Creeping out of nowhere and posting comments on my page and getting me all worked up. Consider this-

"You dance well Mr.Dasgupta...next time, hold your partner tight."- Anonymous.

The first part is like saying God is great. Obvious. Anyone who's been around me can tell that. Unfortunately, most people who know about this page have never seen me dancing. They're not real people- most of them are from an old lady's dream. The next bit is quite a giveaway. I think I know who is Anonymous. But I am bugged- What's "next time"? What does this refer to?

I have half a mind to pick up the phone and ask the Suspect direct, but unfortunately I don't have her number- deleted as per an ancient ritual which requires you to erase all contact details of women you know little of, but for some reason end up sending obnoxious messages under the influence of alcohol at weird hours. However, I always have this feeling that I am going to run into her very soon, unintentionally and completely unprepared. We have to meet- we are not real. We are characters out of an old lady's dream, and we have to have to meet when she is on her death-bed. But you know, I wish that she'd call instead of leaving these missives on this page. Because of the extremely brief period of time I knew and in spite of the long time that has passed ever since, not a single day passes when I don't think of her. By the way, Ms. Suspect- this time around you got the Ellipsis right.

I hate forwards- can't stand them at all. (Please note that I am using the word hate here- an emotion I rarely am under the influence of) And I refuse to maintain any form of contacts with people who send me mails which say- please forward this message to 10 other people within the next 57 seconds or else your left ball will shrink to the size of a raisin. Or some such thing. It is easy dealing with such types- just block them out. But it is tougher dealing with people (mostly well meaning) who send forwards about everything under the sun. Forwards are so impersonal that I never ever bother to read them. If the subject line reads FW... I find it hard not to press the delete key. Sometimes with great resolve I manage to read, but then it is only because I want to read something, anything from the sender. But those are rare.

For June who loved this garden.
From Josephwho always sat beside her.

~ Queen's Garden, London.

Cool? Now go get that chick!!!

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."

Shall we dance, Mr. Dasgupta?

When he's good, he's very very good. But when he's mad, he's brilliant.



I know there are certain things that I should do right away with my life.

Let's start with the easiest- driving to work. Makes absolute sense. I save either the daily cab bill of 300 bucks or the sweaty and uncomfortable ride back home on a train. Moreover, I have always believed that I am a much more responsible drinker when I know that I need to get behind the wheel in the foreseeable future. And then I sometimes think that no one is ever going to marry a guy who owns a car but seldom drives- whatever the reason. Not that marriage is a huge priority. Now. I think I will start driving to work, as soon as I can get myself to concentrate on some thing for 3 minutes straight, either on my way to work (which is pretty early in my case- keeping my eyes open is a challenge) or on the way back, when I still have the sounds of the lines buzzing, the screens flasshing or the shouts across the dealing floor. But then those are all excuses- the bottom line is that I just don't possess an attention span of greater than 3 mins. What a pity. What a waste. May be I should get a driver.

Next, and again in order of ease is buying a house. I know that it makes economic sense. Absolute economic sense. Today I even calculated the rental yield ( a measure developed by no less than TWO) and it comes to 5%, which according to TWO is a borderline case. My excuses (reasons, actually) are three- Not enough money- which is not entirely true since I know I do have (or can generate with considerable ease) the available finances. I have done the math. Second, I think the entire act of buyin g a house will tie me down to this city and to this job. And as much as I love my job and I love the city, being tied down is just not me. Just not. Finally, I think buying a house has this entire responsible and somewhat coming of age feel about it. And that is not something that I want just now in my life. probably never, but definately not now. I think if i buy a house, except for the pressure of keeping up the mortgage payments, every other motivation is just going to disappear from my life (which at 28 is not a great thing to happen). Debateable, but when you are fighting with the man in the mirror, such debates are easily won.

Finally, getting married. Whew!!! Now that is the toughie. That's what has me completely foxed. The reasons why marriage is necessary. Slowly the people I'd like to hang out with are dropping off the bachelor cisrcuit, the women I'd like to ask ou are vanishing and those that are there are increasingly the people I don't want in my life. The wild parties are fewer by the year and quiet Saturday evenings watching a movie on DVD or reading a book are less rare. I still have invites for weekends out, but well not really the ones I would enjoy accepting. Connections happen, but more infrequently, and are often forced realizations. And chemistry comes up all too often. I need to get more organized, less reckless. I am making quite a bit of money, someone has to step and stem the bleed. Reasons enough. But in this case there are problems galore, and the biggest one is finding the right person. The women I like, don't like me. Well may be they like me, but no chemistry and hence no biology. The women I don't see myself marrying are almost always there, but what the heck. I think my attention span is getting shorter by the minute and my views more set. And if I set my mind on someone, getting it off is so much more difficult. AAnd the problem is that the more I sink into my world, the more difficult it gets to get out. And of course I like it a lot more. it is a nice world- the books, the movies, the drink and the occassional interesting and varied company.


And then at some level I keep thinking that I am blowing it all away. Esepcially after I saw 25th Hour. And that scene... Here's how it goes (Some might find the content distrubing):

When he's good, he's very very good. But when he's mad, he's brilliant. Up the creek without a paddle, Monty Brogan (Edward Norton) curses everything and everyone around him.
The 25th Hourwritten by David Benioff, from his novel

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants.
Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.

Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)

One of my favorites... Lost and Found after 6 years.

Sleeve Notes for "(What's The Story) Morning Glory?"

Coming down off the nova somewhere near the boiled egg that is the Royal Albert Hall, we watch Paul's sun crossed with John's star and hold ice cream hands. Someone slipped on a cassette as the one you wanted left with someone else but somehow it was cool because as the music filled the shadows, you heard a sound that was a million miles away from fakery and a step away from your heart.
Just like it always did, this sound puts the swagger back into your step, the rush into your blood, but somehow, and I don't know how, they had become deeper, wider, soulful, better at their craft, inspired by so many things like a world that is tilting who knows where and the applause they always knew was theirs but waited so impatiently to receive. Words cut you from all angles, backed up by a monumental sound that rises high, high and high to crash against your rocks and then changes, majestically and magically to soothe the wounds inside.
As you are dragged inside on this trip abandon, you hear a council estate singing its heart out, you hear the clink of loose change that is never enough to buy what you need, boredom and poverty, hours spent with a burnt out guitar, dirty pubs and cracked up pavements, violence and Iove, all rolled into one, and now all this.
At the end you flip over and start again because now you are not isolated. They have gone to work so that you can go home. High above the day turns pink and you feel your feet lift above the ground as new roads open up in front of you. In this town the jury is always rigged but the people know. They always know the truth. Believe. Belief. Beyond. Their morning glory.

P.H. in the summer of '95.

Bombay Rocks!!!

Last few days have been quite heavy on Bombay. A downpour lasting all of 24 hours and causing turmoil beyond belief. At 37 inches, on 26July2005, it ranked as the wettest day in the recorded history of the country, beating the earlier record held by the legendary Cherapunji, way back in 1910. But thats not all. There were about 100 lives lost, some under really pathetic circumstances and some under really freaky ones. People uprooted, hutments washed away, lives disrupted and courses changed.

I think I got off relatively easy. Left town at around 10, breezed through the first 10 of the 16 kms distance. And the rest, had to walk considering progress was agonizingly slow. It quite an experience, walking in a sea of people, nameless, faceless, Bandra bound- cracking jokes and laughing. Some time singing. It was not too bad. Bandra was pitch black, and the power lines were not in place till about 48 hours later, but otherwise it was quite ok, compared to what people otherwise had to go through. The next day also managed to get back to work, fruitlessly though. Had to walk again, part of the way, but it was ok. No complaints. But the scene the next day at Bandra was again quite something. Trains had begun running from Bandra, on to far flung places and there you could see people jumping off from buses, tempos, cabs and running in the general direction of the station. Thanked my stars. Cabbies refused to get to Bandra, because, most drivers had spent the night sleeping there. But again, I repeat, it was ok.

But there was something in all the madness- Shukla walking with me at night, and then leaving at day break to look for his wife. The guy walked about 10 kms, through some of the dirtiest parts of town, looking for Shweta and I can imagine how the union must've felt. Streams of messages on news channels, heart warming etc etc. I could feel a certain moistness welling up at some of them. Stories told and re-told. Anand walking from Sion to Powai, leaving his brand new and beloved car with a new driver. It must've broken his heart, but what the heck, home is home... and on a day like that - it is almost heaven. Anuj taking the first available flight back from Delhi, and how everyone started clapping when the pilot finally managed to land. On Tuesday Town was uncharacteristically crowded for a weeknight, bars were brimming, so were hotels, people slept in the lobby of the Taj, and movie halls all over Town hung the house-full sign. There was nothing purposeful to do and Bombayites made the most of the rare opportunity. But at some point of time people had to head home, and leave. What to do...

Phones were down, and that was the most irritating part of the entire thing. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. Insufficient power back-ups I am told. So callous, I must say. The kind of inconvenience it caused to people, and the stress of not being able to stay in touch was just too much. First they get us used to constant connectivity and then they take it all away when it is needed the most. Too bad. Orange was the worst, and I have half a mind to withdraw from their services. Hate it.

Last Saturday I went about trying to buy a Scrabble set. Out of sheer laziness, and that I do not know many sports goods shops, I tried the few malls near my house which I knew had levels selling such things. Shopper's Stop had some thing they called Super Scrabble or some such thing - in a dazzling plasticky box- priced 700 bucks. And when I asked whether they had a regular board, they just looked at me with such disdain- Where's this guy come from!!! That look. I bet the guy at the shop has never ever played a single game of intellect in his life. And barely knows what Scrabble is. Probably only the barcode it goes by. Ridiculous. Which is why I like book shops. Most bookshops, at least the ones I frequent, often have some people at hand who are the regular bibliophiles. When you search for a book, they know where to find it, for they know that the The Diary of Anne Frank is non-fiction. They're people you can connect with.


The thing with this mall culture is that some how small essential low value items, which form the corner stone of our growing up years have gotten lost. Of the things available, nothing ever comes without a glam sham packaging, which in itself would ensure a 2% mark-up. And then the cost of establishment. That's why we need Mom and Pop stores.


I am losing hair. A fast receding hairline is what I would call it. And have noticed something else. That my hair is growing really fast these days. I think as a strand of hair realizes that it days are numbered, it tries to make th most of it. So while my hairline draws back, what remains grows longitudinally at an alarming pcae - about 2 cuts a month.

My aunt (and her husband) are celebrating their 50th marriage anniversary tomorrow. I feel like I am from a different planet altogether.

"Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise." ~ Alice Walker

Nice weekend. First Tua took time out from her prior engagement with a certain Mr. Potter to dine with me. The time was great- the food not so. I like what I see, I like what I hear.

And today is a good day. Just dealt the first of a kind trade. Happy.

~~ "Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia."~~ Charles Schultz.

Today, I called Ramya. Out of impulse. And was told that she has gone out of town. Her Ammu said, call her on the cell and I asked the number. She couldn't believe that I didn't have her number. Gave it anyway.

I remember the last spoken full sentence face to face- RV you are looking for something. And I am too old, to not know that I am not what you are looking for. And the last word. "Naaley." Tomorrow. Yes, dear, we used to do it too, to ourselves.

Who is it that matters at the middle of the night? Who is it that you want to speak to when you're smashed beyond redemption? When doses of hash sizzlers induce that purple haze, and a catharsis occurs and some eternal truth dawns- something that has eluded you for the last quarter of a century. And then who do you want to talk to? At least, I know.

Went for the mixer last night. It was a different experience. Fun in bits, at least while you were with people who were there for fun. Writers, creatives, journos etc. But then a lot of people (business men, builders, weight trainers, umbrella makers) were actually trying to do business. And I had nothing to offer them. It dawned upon me how difficult it is to do your own thing. Here I am, wake up each morning and walk into this swank office. If the comp doesn't work, just call IT and holler. If the coffee vending machine has run out of your particular concoction, again holler. Just get in do what you do best, make your money and run. Everything else is someone else's problem and your excuse. But would that work, otherwise? Someone tells me, go circulate, promote your bank. And I said, that's not what I am paid for. There are other who should be doing it, and are paid, according to me, way beyond what is required to do so. I felt somewhat bad (not quite the right expression), for some people who have to spend a Friday evening selling their wares to a person like me, who is just there to have a good time.

It is a novel concept. I help you with my contacts and hopefully at some point of time, you pay the favour forward and in due course it finds its way back to me. I could see that happening and so decided to offer my services (in terms of names) to a couple of people who came along. I left early. Very sleepy. Not feeling too Friday. But then Ram called and he, wouldn't take no for an answer. So twice yesterday I succumbed to this.

Just took a small break. Went out to buy the latest Harry Potter. So now I am going to sit and read the same. No sleeping in office today.

You can make out a person is new to room if you see pens lying around on his desk. Well I have a pen stand on my desk, which is usually filled with a clutch of fancy pens (the kinds you get when you sign papers for big deals- not all of them mine), which don't work. Last night, uncharacteristically, I left a pen in it which works. This morning, all the pens that don't work are still there, whereas the one that does is missing. According to Seinnfeld, there must be an alternate world into which pens disappear. Have you ever heard anyone saying- I've found a pen! ? I haven't.

Regular weekend today. But last night had a terrible fight with Atin. But thats ok. We've always fought a lot. But this time his girlfriend was around, and she took serious offence to everything (I wasn't even talking to her) that was happening and stomped away. Women ... I'll tell you- they're crazy. And the worst part is that they don't realize that some times their men need to be ... well, just boys.

I am finally going for that trek tomorrow. Should be good fun. Didn't go for any last year and just a couple the year before. Quite looking forward to it. Last night I went out with Sue. Good fun. It amazing, how we met last month after some 20 years and clicked instantly. I really like the Shack. It never lets you down. Always a good time there.

If missing me is hard to do...you should try missing you.

~ Who else.

A decent day at work. A very good week till date. I realized that I have grown so superstitious, that I take time out to decide which shirts not to wear to work and which train to take. on the way back- usually by road, which route to go by. I guess this business is so much about luck that at some point of time, one does turn superstitious. There is this really cool shirt I have that I haven't worn in the last two months because the last time I did wear it to work, I had this terrible terrible day. Got mothered.

Returned from Cal on Monday and frankly I am nauseated by the "You'll be next" line. Maa can't seem to talk about anything else. Which is why, I spent most of the time away from home, at Some Place Else. Monsoon is quite a menace in Cal. Its boring and frustrating. I like the rains here better. Much better. Actually, I think making it to Cal itself was a master stroke that I can never hope to repeat. Had been out drinking the night before, and in order to impress someone, I gulped two dozen pegs of bacardi in a space of 5 mins. And then went for a party. Woke up at 6.15 for a 6.50 AM flight. Fortunately I had gone off to sleep with my clothes and shoes on. Went to Cal in them. No luggage. The lady at the check-in tells me that the gates closed. There must've been something in my eyes or was it just..., well she let me in. I had to had to go, but the prospect of spending 12k for a full fare flight was too depressing. all through the flight I kept chewing Mentos, to supress the stink of alchol. But that doesn't quite work,does it? Mom kept wrinkling her little nose and Dad had this very "I don't approve this at all look" while I went about telling others of my serendipitous escape.

Angie surprises me often. And very often she surprises me a lot. Like the third time she told me that she had dreamt of me, I had to tell her to stop telling me about it. What to do. There are some things in life that you don't want, right? Some things are left just the way they are. I often say that I can predict women quite well. I am not as convinced anymore. So have changed my stance to one in which I know women at large quite well- but specific women - well that's still a mystery.

I am off for the day. Today I am quite drained. The blasts in London and the choppy markets thereafter, have left me completely drained. Just one more day left in the week, and I think it will be a perfect end. Oops... too early to say such a thing in my line of work.

Abbey's book comes out next week. Quite looking forward to it. Actually haven't read a good book in days. Hope this one is good. There is too much expectation around it. I think after reading this every one would want to go to XL. If people knew what they missed out on... But I guess any parent reading it, might have second thoughts about sending their kids there. I guess every one has good memories of their day's in B-School, but I somehow believe that XLers, more so. I mean I have such varied experiences, and so rich. Like someone was saying the other day- it is not about getting through it, its about being there. Its not about grades, its about the experience. And what an experience. Growing up over two years, as if the last twenty were worth nothing at all. And in my case the last twenty were worth quite a lot in isolation.

Chalo... too late in the evening to sit around and ramble. Got to go home. Actually have to that one pager, but I keep telling mself- I need to do it with a fresh mind.

"Love... is the rug they pull out from under you. Love is Lucy always lifting the football at the last second so that Charlie Brown falls on his ass. Love is something that everytime you believe in it, it goes away. Love is for suckers, and I'm not going to be a sucker ever again."

"Somehow, the conversation mentioned your name. And, someone asked if I knew you. Looking away I thought of all the times we had together; sharing laughter, tears, jokes and tons more. And then, without explanation you were gone. I looked to where they were waiting for an answer, and then said softly, 'Once...I thought I did.'"

~Louise Sybing

Was in Cal over the weekend. And went through those familiar rushes of nostalgia for a city I surprisingly know very little about. Was tempted to write, but frankly had no time. So I decided to post a letter I wrote during my last trip - when I was there for 15 odd days for my sister's wedding. Addressee was RV. Letter edited and republished with appropriate permissions.

=====================================================================

Calcutta,

January 8, 2005

Spent most of the day trying to get lost in the streets of Calcutta. However, after a few attempts, I realized that I was too much a townsfolk to get lost in any city in the world, let alone in one which speaks my mother tongue. The masterstroke of the day must be my fast asleep act- through which I managed to lose most of my extended family. By the time I rolled out of bed, everyone except Dad, had left for various things. True all the cars had gone too, but what the heck- I wouldn’t want to go look for parking in a place like this. Dad insisted that we have lunch together, so we went to Esplanade, to have Biryani at the legendary Aminia restaurant. Some time two years back a colleague of mine, on a visit to Cal had messaged from this very joint stating that he was having Biryani. Today, I returned the favour. With much glee, I might add since the hourly market updates that I receive by text message seemed to indicate a fairly brutal day at work.

Lunch out of the way, I made sure that I was left to myself. Packed off Dad to the hotel and instantly made off to pacing up and down Esplanade. Lit a cigarette, my first of the day, and set about soaking in Calcutta. As nicotine delivers new energy I realize that Esplanade is very crowded at this time of the day, and probably at most. Since bumping in to smelly people is not to my personal taste, I decided to move to better locations. Decided to move to Park Street- which over the last two days, I have realized is much more to my liking. One annoying thing about this city is that traffic is far nosier than anywhere else. This is part because it is disorderly and hence people have to honk more, and the second that most forms of transport- public and private are quite antiquated and hence much noisier. Buses with clanging tinplate bodies, ambassadors dating back to the sixties- honking their crazy analog horns, hand drawn rickshaws, with their smart ringing bells and just a plethora of hugely amplified other city noises. A bit too noisy, a bit too distracting for my liking on a vacation of sorts.
The taxi drive to Park Street is interesting. The cab driver has figured that I am new to the city. May be it is the way I am looking at the mass of people or may be its just that I chose to take the cab from the wrong side of the road. He swerves left after a U-turn and instantly launches into a "See my City" spiel- ending quite sordidly. He stops the car just ahead of the Park Hotel, where a pretty girl is standing on the footpath. He tells me that the woman is soliciting and then without waiting for me to react, starts to broker a deal. Thankfully, I have calculated the exact fare and tender the cash, quite enjoying the conversation between the two. The girl is pretty, and evidently available. But I am in no mood and she goes away swearing at the cabbie, seeing that I have already exited the cab and walked away from the other side.
After a bit of walking up and then down, since I am unable to cross the road right away, I reach the other side. I sit at the Barista, opposite the Park and order my usual- a cup of tea. I seat myself next to the pavement and watch the world go by in the streets of Calcutta. Make a few calls and then my eyes fall on that girl- still standing there. Quite a pretty girl, I must admit. And a very foul mouth to that. Then leave the place and head to Dalhousie. Park Street which had been conveniently one way, till then, suddenly turns the tide and now is going the opposite direction. So I now walk a bit in the general direction of Dalhousie and then take a cab as soon the traffic is aligned with my desired direction. Caught up with Rungta by design (pleasant) and Ajay (by accident- not so much, though very cordial).
Running into Ajay by surprise gave me a glimpse of how it can be working in Calcutta. I had actually stopped by at a restaurant near the main office for a nibble and there I saw him sitting with another person, deeply engrossed in a cricket match, least concerned about the food. I walked across and then he told me that it was his second lunch of the day, just to watch a bit of the match. The guy across the table was the manager of the main branch. He too seemed least perturbed by the fact that any order took forever to execute and that it just happened to be a Monday afternoon. In the midst of the shouting and yelling, the person and Ajay both seemed to lament the fact their employer had yet again started to sack people, which incidentally, did not seem to have any impact on how they chose to spend their Monday afternoon. Suddenly, in a moment of awe inspiration, the person across the table, waved to the waiter and asked for the bill. Ajay said that he’d been out for lunch for the last two hours and well, it was time to head to work. My watch reads 4:15PM.
After this I decided to head back to Park Street. I window-shop for a bit before entering the Oxford bookstore that you are so fond of. The first thing that strikes me is the heady fragrance of incense and damp wood. What would I do if you weren’t around to show the way. Here I notice a very beautiful Bengali lady with a foreigner. She stands in front of a stack of Lonely Planet, obviously deciding on the best one for him. The tourist has long hair and is very unkempt, the lady is very good looking and extremely well dressed. Quite an odd couple. I step out and start to walk down the road. The pretty girl of the morning has now disappeared, hopefully meaningfully. I go back to the Barista across the road and watch the world go by over Darjeeling tea and newspapers. Tia calls. Informs that she is in Calcutta tomorrow. Would like to catch up. I say sure. It is amazing how this girl and I have gotten friendly only after campus, in spite of never having lived in the same city. People read between the lines and some times I do too, but what the heck, life is worth a lot more.
It is getting dark outside and I realize that I am not yet that familiar with the bearings of the road after night falls. So decide to step out and head home. Stop at Musicworld- a largish shop just next to Flurry’s. One thing about Calcutta is that absolutely not one shop attendant tries to come forward to help or question otherwise. Works quite well with me. I want to go into Flurry’s but it is just not the sitting alone kind of place. From the outside, I can make out that even the smallest table seats four. So I decided to just walk by and stop by later when I am with some more people. There is no dearth of people on this trip. I guess the more difficult thing is in losing them.
Later at night I sat down for dinner with my extended family. I realized, and this is some thing I think you should know, that my extended family is really quite rustic. Very vocal about their views, very suburban in their outlook on most things. And very, very stubborn. In their company my Dad, I notice wears a completely different hat. He is almost unrecognizable in their midst- speaking their dialect and is just a little noisier than usual. For a minute the first thought that occurs to me is that if I were to introduce you to this gathering, what would the reactions be like- on both sides. Probably, you would be politely quiet, and they a bit too lost for words. I realize that even I don’t really feel completely at ease here. Then I realized that the possibility was one in a billion and very, very avoidable, to really start thinking about. Another thing about my extended family that strikes me is how my parents go on and on about how we are so close and how I must be really fond of my cousins. Now, much as I appreciate the fact that I have first cousins who I am supposed to be fond of, I also find that the fondness part is not that easy. The two who are constantly around are about ten years younger to me. This is the first time I have seen them in the last twelve years and there is no way that I can see any thing of common interest to us. The two who are not, are out of this place most of the time on their own pursuits. I just can’t see how my parents can expect me to be fond of people of whom I have very bleak, if any recollections. May be they are right, but what really gets my goat is the fact that they keep harping about it from time to time. They keep saying it is so great that we are so close to each other and it makes me sick. Some times I just feel like telling them to shut up but just endure it, thinking that it’s the last time. It is nauseatingly sweet- this whole family drama and I really regret that I am here this early. I just don’t get it- how can my parents expect me-me of all people to feel chummy with someone I haven’t seen and only randomly spoken to in the last twelve years. Sometimes, through one of these ordeals, I just feel like telling everyone "GET REAL- IT’S THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY- IMMEDIATE FAMILY AS A CONCEPT IS THREATENED- WHY ARE YOU GLOATING ABOUT SOMETHING THAT AT BEST IS A MUSEUM ANTIQUE AND IN ALL LIKELIHOOD DOESN’T EVEN EXIST ANYMORE." I have the choicest words available. I am sure you can imagine all the sarcastic statements just brewing inside me, waiting to explode. Whenever I am in here I am reminded of the wonderful life I have, alone, in Bombay. And I curse myself for inflicting this upon myself.
Otherwise everything is quite okay. Don’t worry- I am behaving myself quite well- as per your instructions. There are things that I disagree with. I mean things which concern the marriage. (The ""You'll be next"s by the dozen!!!) I don’t quite agree with my Dad- and hate Mom for putting me in this situation. But because of all the things that she (and you) has told me prior to my coming here, I decide to shut up and let Dad do things his way. I know there are so many things that I would have done differently. But I think of my Mom (and you) and what she’s told and then think that "What the hell, if I ever get married, I’ll get to do it my way in any case." May be you should be here- you'd be impressed.

Lastly, I read a poem somewhere... it is for you-

When I was young

I saw colour in everything

I grew up one evening

When I discovered that colour on Butterfly's wings

comes off when you rub too hard.

love, j

On some positions, Cowardice asks the question, "Is it safe?" Expediency asks the question, "Is it politic?" And Vanity comes along and asks the question, "Is it popular?" But Conscience asks the question, "Is it right?" And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but one must do it because Conscience tells him it is right.

MLK.
O B L is a taxi driver in Kolkatta nee Calcutta.

Just returned from a trip to Calcutta and am completely convinced of the ways and means of willfully losing oneself in that city. I don't think that Calcutta remains a megapolis anymore. Its just so dull and decaying, especially for someone like me, living in the glitz and glam of Bombay. But then there is just so much that lies beneath, in the underbelly of the city that a trip there remains a most amazing experience.

For instance, the absolute gastronomic delights which the city offers. The best biryani of the world at Aminia and the most delicious sweets at any corner joint. Rolls at Bedouin, or anywhere else. Sweets for 4 cost 39 rupees. Biryani for three costs 99, Chicken roll for 15.
For instance the deep culutral roots- some thing that Delhi doesn't even contend for and something that Bombay still seeks.
For instance being approached by pimps- twice, while your sister stands right next to you, being offered college girls at 1500 rupees, and being scolded by sis for sending out all the wrong signals. Wondering why I didn't read body language books.
For instance being tempted by the above, just to see what is like in this city of lost dreams.
For instance coming across the warmest people in the world. And for confusing warmth with nosiness- as is often our wont
For instance the slow idyllic boat ride on the Hooghly, early morning as a polluted smog crings to the water (water that is, water that was), but makes the sunrise seem like a psychedelic purpley-orange haze- perhaps remnants from the night before
For instance spotting a palatial house by the Hooghly, which having gracefully aged, is now begining to decay
For instance having the temerity to ask its possible price and knowing that it is not entirely unaffordable
For instance realizing that Some place Else... is as good an old English pub as any, and the people noisy in just the right way. And the music... oh the music is brilliant, unblemished and completely mind blowing!
For instance knowing that one doesn't always have to do just the right thing and say just the right words, in a place like this.
For instance being driven around in a taxi cab by a driver who looks like O B L. And who has a sticker just above the rear view mirror, hand written, in Arabic, and reads- Humare liye Allah hi bas hai. Think about- isn't it all that matters?
For instance being able to indulge in such fantasies and feel happy about the fact the world's most wanted man is actually at your beck and call. You can actually make him drive you to the nearest police station, without any one bothering.



And lastly, for realizing that while all this is really nice, unless we do some thing about it, this city will be lost, to time and its ruthless hands- knowing that there is only a fine line which separates the ageing and the decaying- and that its time that someone did something about it.

We are the middle children of history. Doing jobs we don't like so that we can buy things we don't need. We have no great war, no Great Depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're slowly learning this fact. And we're very, very pissed off.

Daniel Boone- Fight Club


Its difficult to say why I am writing this at 10 AM in the morning, while the market is open and all that, but well here it is.

Yesterday was terrible. I made a dozen prices. Exactly. And not a single materialized into anything. Quoted across benchmarks, currencies, options, swaps, even bonds. I don't think there was any product class or currency pair that I did not quote on, and yet there was no money made. No deal done. Really distrubing. I guess it was one of those days. Very very depressing. Today starts off at the same note. Made a few prices. Waiting for deals to happen.

I am absolutely fascinated by Financial Markets (note the case). I guess you can't to this job unless you are in love with it. There are times when I am going off to sleep and the sounds of lines buzzing (JD 92!!!), prices being shouted out (10 Dollar Yen!!!) just keep ringing in my head. Like last night. And I thought I was going mad. But this morning I came into work and told the same to Thakur- and he says even after ten odd years in this line of work, he too goes through the same. Remarkable. I guess the saying that a trader needs to wake up every morning feeling good enough to eat a whole bull is true. And that one about a trader being a man's man- THat one I particularly like. Really, there's no job like this one- the stress, the panic, the excitement, the thrill. THe sheer joy of markets moving and money being made. The depression of the markets moving again (this time against you) and losing money. Nothing quite like it to do for a living. On some days I have no nails left. On others when I leave for home I feel so tired- from all the shouting, the jumping around, the stress which completely drains the fucks out of you... Sam made a particularly astute observation the other day. Under stress humans discharge a lot of static. The more the stress the higher the frequency. And you can almost feel it in this room. 30 odd supercharged individuals, stressed beyond belief and each time someone brushes past, you feel that small static charge on your sleeve, or at finger tips. Last night when some one asked a trader for a price and he made a 5 pipper, the sales guy shouted "Go home!!!" instead of the usual mine, yours or pass. Such is the passion, the thrill, the excitement.


Hey... lines buzzing again. THis time for me and just heard the familiar- "JD 92 for you!!!". Bye.

It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor relations. Dickens.

Hello... I am back. What a conicidence. That's exactly the subject line of the mail from Tua this received seconds later. This coincidence thing is absolutely groovy!!! Don't be misled. Today's post has little to do with greatness and absolutely nothing with relations. Probably just poor relations at work- which probably explains the dry day.

Offensive language ahead. Reader discretion recommended.

Monsoon has Bombay by its balls now. Quite literally. Garments take forever to dry, undergarments more so. Hence. Bad one. I admit. Am not an umbrella person at all. Actually, hardly use one. When asked often don't give a reason. But the true reason, is well this- What's the down side of not carrying an umbrella? Probably you'll get wet. And then thats not too bad actually. Or you'll have to step into some sort of a covered area and will be late. Don't really bother too much about being late for anything at all. Why hurry, I am supposed to be working in any case, right? Compare all of this against the stress of having to remember to carry it all the time and pick it up from whereever you are when moving.


Am trying to plan my holiday for the year. Cannot seem to decide what to do. Options are- and they're not pulled out of thin air. A week off in Paris (damages around 100k). Not do anything in particular. Sit around, eat and drink. Monmarte etc. Just chill in late Parisian autumn. Sounds awesome. Affordable if stretched. Cons- well. The prospect of spending another week in Paris, alone, can throw its own set of complication. Last time, I was younger, hopeful and better looking. This time around ageing, absolutely single and well... bored.

The other alternative was suggested by Shweta. Her in laws are in Bhutan and she suggests that I go spend my holidays there. Which is exactly what she did. September apparently is an awesome time of the year to visit.They stay in the middle of some forest outside Thimpu where her pop-in-law is making a dam. It is a beautiful place - I have seen the snaps. Absolute wilderness and classic lower Himalayan beauty. And once you are out of the construction area and in the wilderness, there is absolutely nothing and no one. Now that's something that straight up my alley. Damages- not entirely accounted for. Could be around 70k. Acco, alcohol, nourishments and conveyance taken care of. It sounds very promising and is comepletely my kind of getaway. Am really very tempted about this one. And here I want to go absolutely on my own.

Other plans lay by the wayside. Was planning a week in Shantiniketan. Khuku Pishi has a house there and said I could use it. Ma's there for a week right now. And tells me that I'd love the place. Huge place with ponds and all that. Two rooms full of books. Right now frogs croak by the night. But some how I feel that 3 trips to Cal and nearby in a year would be too much.I am there this weekend as well. And it really is too close to city life. So I decided against it.

Man is the only animal that blushes, or even needs to.

~ Mark Twain

This is the second post for today. There are such days in my life too. And they just kill me. Not much work in office and the lovely weather outside. Very tempted to just skip work. But ...

Made a bit of money in the morning and reached a minor milestone. The euphoria lasted about for about an hour, the lethargy, is still not over. So did nothing at all for the rest of the day. But then lethargy has this sapping effect on me. Brewing discon tent and all that. Decided to leave as soon as markets shut. Which they now have. And am ready to leave, but just after a bit of blogging.

Nothing of note today, but it still felt good to have reached that milestone. Boss came up and shook hands, ex-Boss sent a mail from Indonesia, saying, well, Good job... am sure will do better next quarter. That actually did it for me. There's no end to this race, really none. You run and you run, to catch up the Sun but its sinking....

Ma is begining to worry me now. I am sure she feels exactly the same way about me. Initially I put the blame on her current state of inactivity after Di's wedding, and when Di called to say that she's expecting, I thought, well, that takes care of a few things for about a year or so. But that was not to be.

Gotta rush now... more later.

Unrequited Love.

RESTAURANT: Bombay Talkie, New York City
ON THE MENU AS: Unrequited Love
PREPARATION: 2½ ounces of gin, a half-ounce of sugar syrup infused overnight with saffron, and 1½ ounces of sweet lime juice; shaken with ice.
PRICE: $10

Also,

Affections lent, never returned. Oft forgotten (harmless), sometimes not (toxicity- high).

Prologue

Not that today's post has anything to do with love. The only reason why it is here is because- I woke up this morning, mouthing the phrase "Ramya and me". I don't know if it was love, but if it was it certainly wasn't (?) unrequited. And then that mail was in my box. From Sibia in NYC. The drink he had last night. In NYC. Seemingly unconnected yet to me vaguely so. NYC, Love, possibly unrequited.

Prologue Ends

Last night Ghosh called. Actually, lets call her Tua. Reasons later. Which was quite a surprise. Had gotten home late from a client do. Bowling, booze. No babes. Then had a paan to shut up a particularly insistent guy. That did it. As I walked back home, I realized that I was definately going to be sick. But I had underestimated my cosntitution. Years of abuse have given me guts of steel. Ahem.

So renewed, and brimming with confidence over my digestive capacities, I decided to call Tua. No response. Then a particularly teary Mom called. And instantly figured that I had been out drinking on a week day. Weekends are ok (after much consternation), but weekdays??? (Have you forgotten your roots, your culture, which family you come from? Your dad seldom drinks and your grandad probably didn't know such stuff existed... so on). So teary eyed Mom, blamed this bachanaialian turn of events in my life to ... well any guesses? Single state of mind and body (?).

There's a background. Two days back, I had a rare weekday visitors- Sharma and wife in tow. And while we planned a Sunday trek (more on that too!!! Later), Mom happened to call. And asked what I was up to. And I replied. And she burst into tears!!! Even Vikram is married. I wondered - So what's wrong with that- musn't have been very difficult, considering that he had women latching on to him from every available appendage, while we were in college. But that appeared Ma was apparently depressed. Kya karein!!! What to do???

So after Ma's call of yesterday, suitably sobered, but still quite sick (stomach churning, mouth sickly sweet from diet coke and meetha paan), I decided that Tua is never going to call me (probably doesn't like the way I look or the shoes I wear. Perhaps my nose is too oily, or that i don't do something substantial for a living, could be anything, na?) , so Ma... I shall have to take my wares elsewhere. And when such a heavy weight descends, such responsibility, I have found that the best solution is to sleep. Watched a movie for a bit (can't recall which one) and then slumber took over. Woken again by the phone ringing- and braced myself for another verbal offensive from Mom. But surprise surprise... Its Tua. Well, the call progressed. Quite well. And it was almost as if we'd left a conversation mid way last night and just, well, carried on from there. That's the thing with Sags- they are so predictably unpredictable that people around are often seen pulling their hair out in anguish. One is enough, but two is deifnately not good company. Points discussed included relative merits of Greece and Portugal as regards the earning potential of expat Indians, my view on the Euro and then INR (Idid warn her that my I often don't share market views with people who I don't expect will have reciprocal levels of interest), monsoons and weekends out of town.

Tua is nice, but she is also out of town, this weekend.

Epilogue

So why the switch from surname to pet name? First I told her about her being on my blog. And residing there as a certain Ghosh. Her reaction had only a hint of remorse - not at being here, but at the choice of names. And then we had an exchange of e-mails on bengali pet names- which she was quite excited about, and mentioned that she while she quite agreed with the predicament, she felt that she was blessed with a particularly nice one. Hence Tua.The first rule of sales, if it doesn't cost anything, just play to please. Applies.

The trek- Well we have this club in office which organises treks in the Sahyadris during the monsoons. My favorite destination is Garbhett. It is this table top plateau near Matehran which is lashed by rain or surrounded by mist for most of monsoon. But this year Garbhett has been pushed back. And I really wanted to go. So have rounded up 11 people for the same- this Sunday. There is a problem- which is men. We have only two men and 9 women and am trying very hard to find security in male numbers.

Was it yesterday, or the day before? Early morning drizzle, even the few drops of particulate matter, settled by the precipitation of the night before, mitigates the lethargy that accompanies the daily act of stepping out to work. I am often told that I keep insane hours at work since I usually leave before seven. Can't help it- early morning is the best part of the day for me.

As much as I find rains quite refreshing, I still cannot get over the slight discomfort of not having Ramya around me anymore. The prospect of it is annoying, the fact that her departure is of a permanent nature- well, is a morbid thought. As we always kept telling each other- of all the seasons spent together, the three monsoons, will be the most memorable. And in absentia- the most arduous.

Well, having done my early morning mulling over her absence, I get into the industrious act of making tea and breakfast. A bottle of Venky's pickled chicken, recently acquired, saves the day. Maggi, I figured, tastes delicious with this garnish. Now, its not as if I don't like Maggi. But after about 11 years away from home - no family- and by consequence no real operational kitchen, I guess I am allowed a bit of despondency as far as the consumption of Maggi is concerned. So Maggi it was with stale pickled chicken, and a cup of Darjeeling tea. I feel particularly energetic today and direct the same towards doing up the house. First I sweep the floor. Florin, my maid watches in the background. I am very particular about a clean floor, as I often go about the house barefeet. Then the books are dusted and laundry set out. The rain seems to have stopped and a lovely breeze blows outside, windows are opened, curtains pulled back. The air-conditioner has been switched of f some timeback. While settling things into their places from where they have been uprooted through the week, I come across some music which I have not played in some time. A particularly fond GNR collection, it is played with no holds barred as far as volume goes- the way it should be played. Notes of Novemebr Rain fill the air (almost appropriate) while I read the Times of India- which seems to say that monsoon is yet to come, but the agony of the same has set in. Delayed trains, overflowing manholes, civic repair projects caught unaware. Such a cynical view of things. Sunday is the only day of the week when I read the Times. Probably only because there isn't the option of the Business Standard. Of course, as someone pointed out recently, it is probably because of the matrimonials section.

This "someone" is a girl I recently met through a matrimonial site. Having spent the lastdecade and a half doing things that matter by myself, I decided that marriage should be no exception. So while my parents pursue the search for their duaghter-in-law with vigour, i do so too, but quite dormantly. Sometimes, in a bout of great enthusiasm and energy, I go through the lisiting at various portals and respond. Some times some people reply. Often it never gets beyond the e-mail stage, and some times beyond a telephone conversations. Rarely do I get to meet someone.

I met Ghosh through a matrimonial post. I had written, she had replied, in the affirmative. More importantly, she was in Bombay and that too a resident of Bandra. In an intricately wired world, I am the outcast who believes that there is nothing like physical proximity to kick start a relationship. So somehow, we got our ship to take-off. A few late night phone calls in which we both discovered common tastes - in music and films, and the decor of our respective houses- among other things. Also discovered was a string of unusual coincidences in events in our lives and in preferences towards life in general. But were these going to be the corner stone of some thing more concrete in the near future? Time would tell. Now, cyncically viewd it seems that it is only natural that that two persons whove spent an additive time of about 50 years on this planet would eventually find things in commen, howeverdiscrete they might be as individuals. Eventually, we did meet, but not after saying many times over, that a meeting could spoil everything. I was particulalry fray-nerved that evening after choppy day at work, so dinner plans were scuttled and we decided to meet for dessert. There was nothing of note there. Just two people meeting, as countless do, to see if things can happen. While these meetings can swing both ways, this particular one did not seem to have a definite direction, as yet.

What followed surprised me a bit. There had been no hint of disinterest from either side. Though my pre-occupation could have indicated otherwise, I am sure of what I felt. Nothing strong, but not nothing at least. But suddenly, she dropped off my radar and vice-versa. I did make a few phone calls, and a couple of customary messages, but there was no response, except for promises of returned calls. While I never ever return calls myself, this time around, I seemed to have met my match. This went on for two weeks, after which, I quite easily, gave up. There had been nothing of note, and then life is a bit busy when you are 28 and running. But what was disturbing is my attitude to the entire episode. This this could've gone on to better things is certain. That I couldn't get over her initial reluctance or lethargy is surprising. May be she really didn't like me after all. ANd i was too busy to be bothered. May be she is window shopping- like me, without purpose, with bewilderment. In either case, there is little I believed that there was little I could do about it. And did nothing.

So, to continue from where we left a while back. I guess the last bit isn't actually as annoying. The thought that troubles me more, and that's only because it goes much deeper than just one-off with someone. Now Ghosh, I have figured is quite like me. Generally likeable and often liked- I would think. We were also born under the same sign of the sun, the Archer. Randomly misunderstood, instantly forgiven. Get the drift?

Now the problem is that it seems that we are stepping on each others' toes too early and too often. And in a fashion that's not quite common. I remotely recall a conversation wherein, she exclaimed in response to something I said or did- "You can't be saying that- Its my line!!!"

Now, that brings me to why I find that PNG thing disturbing. Normally, I am the one who never bothers to returns calls, or even type messages. Excuses range from being busy to just being lazy. I reserve the right to turn the plans an evening out upside down at a drop of a hat, saying I am pooped. Not that it's done on any particular intention- there is none at all, as any one who knows me well would tell you. I am sure it does annoy them, but the blame it on the Archer and move one. But this time- I am kind of at the receiving end. And if not for my heightened enthusiasm with respect to marriage at this point of time, I would have broadly ignored the turn of events. But, but... not returning calls, is my prerogative, not replying to messages, saying that well- I'm too lazy to type (and phone calls are damn cheap, in any case)- is my birth right. Changing plans, and moods without notice, is my way. And some one doing this to me is actually stepping on my toes!!! And if this continues, I can see where this is head- nowhere.

Now the deeper issue. I have always believed that a person's long term partner (often wife) should broadly be of the same type. Makes it easier to get along, especially for the likes of me, who'll never be bothered to cross too many bridges to be the understanding variety. So it is better if like marries like and so on. But this particular incident and my experiences with RV, now force me to rethink. With RV, I broadly got nowhere. Neither did she. But at least for better or for worse, she is married- or I think about to be. I am not sure whether that's good. But at that time, i wrote it off as a chance event, whcih probably was an exception to my rule. This time around as well things don't seem to be going anywhere. Not that I am apathetic. Quite believe that this might turn out to be a good thing after all. But some how, to get over the initial reluctance, and getting on is just too daunting. If the other end was taking initiative, I would have gone along with. Which broadly shakes, not really - may be just stirs, my belief in types. Get the drift? Not really. But I am bored with this now- so more tomorrow.l