Happiness is something we stumble upon on our own, Luck is something destiny makes us stumble upon when we are dumb enough to miss it.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Just a passing thought
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Adios Amigo!
26 is an age when people live, drink, party and may be date. 26 is not an age when people die. Especially when the "people" I am talking about are fit enough to explore Ladakh, jovial enough to burst fire-crackers and ambitious enough to switch jobs every 6 months (on an average).
I am talking of an ex-colleague and a good friend. By good I mean good enough to wake up at 4:00 am to ensure I got dropped off at bus terminal just in time to board an early morning service to Hrishikesh.
Not many people do this for others -- this, I have learned from personal experience. I owed you this one but not the way it turned out to be.If this is the way you want to wake friends up, SORRY, I am not game.
In one of my worst mornings ever, I got a call mid-slumber and from what I could make between persistent sobs on the other end was that this particular friend of mine was no more. (Is it mere co-incidence that last night my sign off status on facebook was 'Murphy have Mercy'.)
His best friend was on line with me. He was inconsolable and all I could utter was -- "This can't be true". It's strange how grief can turn the most verbose of us into complete taciturns. The guy on the other end was a complete wreck and I seemed to have lost my vocabulary. What could I have said when I myself felt as if someone just pulled ground from beneath my feet. How superfluous words can be at times!
My friend died of heart attack. He never smoked. He never boozeed.
I know dude, you would not be scrapping me or commenting on this anymore and I really regret not responding to yor scrap last night. Yet, I want to say this as our final goodbye that it was so much fun shooting Festive Specials and Fashion Weeks with you. You will be missed by all of us but that indefatigable spirit of yours, that always craved for adventure, will be cherished by all. Rest in Peace. Adios Amigo!!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Let's set our God free
Sometimes when Sun's nothing
but a golden spill
Long after it's set
on its way downhill,
In the luminance of
the magic hour,
My soul revels
in the cosmic shower.
When the wind caresses
the green grass blades,
The sound of the Universe
All but fades.
With my arms outstretched,
sometimes I lie,
Listening to the silence,
under the sky.
When the roof of the world
turns velvety dark,
And the stars arise
like mystery spark.
I close my eyes
and travel in time,
Till mind becomes
a state sublime.
It's at times like these
that the God I feel
is much more strong,
is much more real;
Than the one at the times of war
and the one whom religions put afar
Let's set our God free
Oh ye! let's set him free . . .
Monday, October 5, 2009
Of Blondies, Sultans and Puppy loves . . .
Sometimes simplest of the people teach us yet simpler lessons.
One of these days, I was waiting at a railway station. The wait was not for one of the perpetually 'running late' trains but for the infamously famous Mumbai downpour to stop. The bad part about Mumbai rain is that once it starts you can count on it to go on for at least a couple of hours. The good part is that you know in advance that you have at least two hours to kill/waste/utilise/daydream.
Unless of course you are feeling Don Quixotic and intend to take the onslaught of pouring cats and dogs. In my case, I decided otherwise (fringe benefit of becoming a freelancer). Once again, I decided to wear my favorite (read psychoanalytic) shoes.
My attention was caught by a group of ladies dressed in flamboyant fuchsias and greens. Clearly they belonged to the labour class. How beautiful their features looked set against a smooth dark complexion, how infectious their laughter sounded set against the noise of arriving/departing trains. Let me confess here, although, that the only pangs of jealousy I felt came from a little girl whose hair were a shade of shabby blonde. An effect I had spent 6000 bucks to attain a few years back. (my biggest faux pas ever, I admit.) Here, this girl's malnutritioned scalp has given her hair that look naturally. What a crude joke, I thought. The joke was on her dire poverty or my sheer stupidity or both, I can't say with certainty.
While I was pondering over how life is a great equaliser, a bunch of college kids came to stand within an earshot. (I swear I was not eavesdropping). As such the college bunch seemed to have no qualms about their presence being felt and noticed. The cutest part about them was that they were all speaking at the same time and this did not seem to hamper their communication with each other.
One of the girls, fashionably dressed in denim Capri's and graffiti T shirt, opened her umbrella. She was just about to move when one of her friends, of course a boy, magically appeared under her umbrella. Before others could protest the boy gave her a story about how he had forgotten his umbrella and needed to reach home urgently.
The two looked an Eastman color version of Raj Kapoor-Nargis in 'pyar hua, ikrar hua'. Few minutes later the same guy and same umbrella were walking back minus the girl. The umbrella was passed onto other needy friends as the guy mischievously took out his raincoat from his bag, much to the jeering and cheering of his friends. MENN! I thought but could not resist smiling at the kid and his puppy love romance.
The most important lesson of the day, however, came from a guy much younger. He could not have been more than 10 years old. He walked along the platform with an authority that comes only when you have been born and bred at such a place. He even stopped twice to impart instructions to elders who were apparently feeling lost at the station.
The little 'sultan of platform no. 10' walked up to me brimming with confidence and pointed to the parcel in my hand. I had bought roasted groundnuts to pass time while the rain lasts. Now let me clarify, the kid did NOT beg for it. He pointed towards the parcel as if it was always meant for him. I held his look for a few moments more than necessary only to see if he'll cast his eyes down. The kid did not even bat an eyelid. Such confidence, boy, I loved it. Suddenly it seemed that the kid had earned the parcel rightfully. I gave it to him merrily.
A 10 year old taught me a simple lesson. When we want something from God, we need not cry and beg as if we don't deserve it. Just walk up to the old man/woman up there and tell them exactly what we want. Chances are He/She will grant it to us much more readily and merrily. AMEN!!
One of these days, I was waiting at a railway station. The wait was not for one of the perpetually 'running late' trains but for the infamously famous Mumbai downpour to stop. The bad part about Mumbai rain is that once it starts you can count on it to go on for at least a couple of hours. The good part is that you know in advance that you have at least two hours to kill/waste/utilise/daydream.
Unless of course you are feeling Don Quixotic and intend to take the onslaught of pouring cats and dogs. In my case, I decided otherwise (fringe benefit of becoming a freelancer). Once again, I decided to wear my favorite (read psychoanalytic) shoes.
My attention was caught by a group of ladies dressed in flamboyant fuchsias and greens. Clearly they belonged to the labour class. How beautiful their features looked set against a smooth dark complexion, how infectious their laughter sounded set against the noise of arriving/departing trains. Let me confess here, although, that the only pangs of jealousy I felt came from a little girl whose hair were a shade of shabby blonde. An effect I had spent 6000 bucks to attain a few years back. (my biggest faux pas ever, I admit.) Here, this girl's malnutritioned scalp has given her hair that look naturally. What a crude joke, I thought. The joke was on her dire poverty or my sheer stupidity or both, I can't say with certainty.
While I was pondering over how life is a great equaliser, a bunch of college kids came to stand within an earshot. (I swear I was not eavesdropping). As such the college bunch seemed to have no qualms about their presence being felt and noticed. The cutest part about them was that they were all speaking at the same time and this did not seem to hamper their communication with each other.
One of the girls, fashionably dressed in denim Capri's and graffiti T shirt, opened her umbrella. She was just about to move when one of her friends, of course a boy, magically appeared under her umbrella. Before others could protest the boy gave her a story about how he had forgotten his umbrella and needed to reach home urgently.
The two looked an Eastman color version of Raj Kapoor-Nargis in 'pyar hua, ikrar hua'. Few minutes later the same guy and same umbrella were walking back minus the girl. The umbrella was passed onto other needy friends as the guy mischievously took out his raincoat from his bag, much to the jeering and cheering of his friends. MENN! I thought but could not resist smiling at the kid and his puppy love romance.
The most important lesson of the day, however, came from a guy much younger. He could not have been more than 10 years old. He walked along the platform with an authority that comes only when you have been born and bred at such a place. He even stopped twice to impart instructions to elders who were apparently feeling lost at the station.
The little 'sultan of platform no. 10' walked up to me brimming with confidence and pointed to the parcel in my hand. I had bought roasted groundnuts to pass time while the rain lasts. Now let me clarify, the kid did NOT beg for it. He pointed towards the parcel as if it was always meant for him. I held his look for a few moments more than necessary only to see if he'll cast his eyes down. The kid did not even bat an eyelid. Such confidence, boy, I loved it. Suddenly it seemed that the kid had earned the parcel rightfully. I gave it to him merrily.
A 10 year old taught me a simple lesson. When we want something from God, we need not cry and beg as if we don't deserve it. Just walk up to the old man/woman up there and tell them exactly what we want. Chances are He/She will grant it to us much more readily and merrily. AMEN!!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
LITTER, litter everywhere, Urban India STINKS!!!
Yes, the limerick is a modified version of the Water, water rhyme. Before we dive into that rubble, though, I want you to sample these separate incidents.
KANPUR: I take an overnight train from Delhi to Kanpur. Early in the morning, I am woken up by the sound of a particularly inquisitive kid. You know how it is with those pre-nursery ones. He has an endless ammunition of 'W's -- what, when, where, hoW. His father bats around patiently with -- Have we reached Kanpur, When will we reach Kanpur, and then the kid hurls a googly at dad -- How would I know we have reached Kanpur?
To this, the father answers matter-of-factly, "You'll know you have reached Kanpur when we spot filthy pigs on either side of the railway tracks." The man draws suppressed giggles and nods of endorsement from his co-passengers and sure as hell, there they are. As the tracks start multiplying we spot ... 2,3,4, . . .8,9,10... numerous pigs pigging out (literally) on a sumptuous diet of litter and waste. All this amongst people in various stages of sleeping, waking, bathing.
NEW DELHI: Being a Lifestyle Correspondent, my work takes me to the Taj's, Maurya's and Hyatt's of the city much more often than my humble salary could otherwise afford. I pass instructions to my driver to take us to The Oberoi's for a shoot.
"What, we'll have to eat at The Oberoi's today," the man is visibly irritated. Wondering if he's missing home food, just like me, I ask him to bear with 'outside food' for the day."No, no Madam," he declares, "it's not the outside food, just that I prefer the lunch buffet at The Graaaaand!"
Such selective display of gastronomical preferences leaves me flabbergasted for a while. I try to offer him an olive branch . .. well, errr . . . Lays chips. In two quick munches he finishes the carb-laden diet. Then with the swiftness of an acrobat that pack is tossed, heaven forbid, right in the middle of the expressway."What was that. . ." I start to protest.
"Madam, now don't start your lecture on road cleanliness (such audacity, I miss in drivers elsewhere). Have you ever thought how many people will become jobless if we stop littering?"
That was a knock-out punch. I didn't even realise what hit me. The, how do you say it, Graaaand Finale'. A voice in my mind told me you can't buy that logic but let's admit it, my wits were beaten black and blue. Just then, I did not know how to answer him.
NOIDA: I and my high-profile stylist grab a quick take-away from McDies, pick my outfit for the weekend show and rush officewards to meet some uncalled for, god-damned deadline.
Again that acrobatic pitching-of-litter-in-the-middle-of-the-road performance is repeated. This time, by my suave-looking, globe-trotting, self-proclaimed gay stylist. He catches my eye (and the look of disgust in it) and offers apologetically, "It's Ok Baba, sorry na. Besides, no one was watching."Ya right! I sigh.
MUMBAI: Finally a city where people are said to be lot more courteous than those in north India. I stay with a friend in her posh Hiranandani Estate apartment. This place has got a swanky club house, crystal clear swimming pool and sprawling well-manicured gardens.
Nothing can go wrong here, I tell myself when I see the roads being swept clean early morning. Three days into our morning walk, we come across -- what else -- litter. Wrappers of fancy chocolates, plastic bottles of Gatorade and Red Bull, man this is high profile litter.
Even before I can voice my disgust, my friend -- an Aries girl (and therefore obssessed with cleanliness), dives down and with acrobatic precision aims the litter (thankfuly) into -- where it should always have been -- a waste bin.
At last, I take in a breath of relief. Then I recount to my Australia-returned friend, what my driver had said. "If we don't litter so many people will remain jobless." "What nonsense", she snaps, "In Australia, roads are washed everyday. Why would sweepers lose jobs, they will become the cleansing squad."
That was easy. Why did it not hit my Indian mindset? Conditioning, I say. That's bad conditioning.
PS: I have long been the unofficial ragpicker of my society. There are many such posts lying vacant in your vicinity. Interested parties need not apply. Just get started. Else, this is the new age jingle for your kids:
LITTER, litter everywhere,
Urban India STINKS!!!
KANPUR: I take an overnight train from Delhi to Kanpur. Early in the morning, I am woken up by the sound of a particularly inquisitive kid. You know how it is with those pre-nursery ones. He has an endless ammunition of 'W's -- what, when, where, hoW. His father bats around patiently with -- Have we reached Kanpur, When will we reach Kanpur, and then the kid hurls a googly at dad -- How would I know we have reached Kanpur?
To this, the father answers matter-of-factly, "You'll know you have reached Kanpur when we spot filthy pigs on either side of the railway tracks." The man draws suppressed giggles and nods of endorsement from his co-passengers and sure as hell, there they are. As the tracks start multiplying we spot ... 2,3,4, . . .8,9,10... numerous pigs pigging out (literally) on a sumptuous diet of litter and waste. All this amongst people in various stages of sleeping, waking, bathing.
NEW DELHI: Being a Lifestyle Correspondent, my work takes me to the Taj's, Maurya's and Hyatt's of the city much more often than my humble salary could otherwise afford. I pass instructions to my driver to take us to The Oberoi's for a shoot.
"What, we'll have to eat at The Oberoi's today," the man is visibly irritated. Wondering if he's missing home food, just like me, I ask him to bear with 'outside food' for the day."No, no Madam," he declares, "it's not the outside food, just that I prefer the lunch buffet at The Graaaaand!"
Such selective display of gastronomical preferences leaves me flabbergasted for a while. I try to offer him an olive branch . .. well, errr . . . Lays chips. In two quick munches he finishes the carb-laden diet. Then with the swiftness of an acrobat that pack is tossed, heaven forbid, right in the middle of the expressway."What was that. . ." I start to protest.
"Madam, now don't start your lecture on road cleanliness (such audacity, I miss in drivers elsewhere). Have you ever thought how many people will become jobless if we stop littering?"
That was a knock-out punch. I didn't even realise what hit me. The, how do you say it, Graaaand Finale'. A voice in my mind told me you can't buy that logic but let's admit it, my wits were beaten black and blue. Just then, I did not know how to answer him.
NOIDA: I and my high-profile stylist grab a quick take-away from McDies, pick my outfit for the weekend show and rush officewards to meet some uncalled for, god-damned deadline.
Again that acrobatic pitching-of-litter-in-the-middle-of-the-road performance is repeated. This time, by my suave-looking, globe-trotting, self-proclaimed gay stylist. He catches my eye (and the look of disgust in it) and offers apologetically, "It's Ok Baba, sorry na. Besides, no one was watching."Ya right! I sigh.
MUMBAI: Finally a city where people are said to be lot more courteous than those in north India. I stay with a friend in her posh Hiranandani Estate apartment. This place has got a swanky club house, crystal clear swimming pool and sprawling well-manicured gardens.
Nothing can go wrong here, I tell myself when I see the roads being swept clean early morning. Three days into our morning walk, we come across -- what else -- litter. Wrappers of fancy chocolates, plastic bottles of Gatorade and Red Bull, man this is high profile litter.
Even before I can voice my disgust, my friend -- an Aries girl (and therefore obssessed with cleanliness), dives down and with acrobatic precision aims the litter (thankfuly) into -- where it should always have been -- a waste bin.
At last, I take in a breath of relief. Then I recount to my Australia-returned friend, what my driver had said. "If we don't litter so many people will remain jobless." "What nonsense", she snaps, "In Australia, roads are washed everyday. Why would sweepers lose jobs, they will become the cleansing squad."
That was easy. Why did it not hit my Indian mindset? Conditioning, I say. That's bad conditioning.
PS: I have long been the unofficial ragpicker of my society. There are many such posts lying vacant in your vicinity. Interested parties need not apply. Just get started. Else, this is the new age jingle for your kids:
LITTER, litter everywhere,
Urban India STINKS!!!
Friday, October 2, 2009
Dirty Indians
Ever came across a handful of men staring at you in great resentment?
I did in the market-place today. Their coal black eyes resembled ambers. Their mannerism looked serious as if to say -- Dude, I mean no-nonsense! Worst of all, piercing arrows of all those pairs of eyes were directed at me.
ADRENALIN RUSH happened. FIGHT or FLIGHT, my mind asked, simultaneously wondering what had I done to invoke their wrath? TRUCE -- my higher self intervened. [I am high on Yoga and meditation these days.]
So, I strutted towards, oh don't-ask-where -- electricity bill collection centre. Suddenly, it dawned upon me that the men I have been referring to were not an angry mob, they were an angry queue. REALISATION No. 2: The queue was lined-up for paying up electricity bills. (This is what months of making online reservations and paying OL bills does to your sense of reality.) I had completely discounted the idea that if I were to continue enjoying my digital lifestyle, I'll have to stand at the rear end of this human chain. [In true saggi spirit I was paying my bills in the last hour of the last day of the given deadline. Going by the length of queue, though, it seems my status as a lazybum is under severe threat.]
Anyway, like any other law-abiding citizen I took my position at the tail-end. Now, that men's gaze had shifted from me and I had enough time to kill, I decided to wear my psychoanalyst shoes. The topic of analysis being -- why those men looked angry? Few reasons I worked out, go like this:
1. Their wives might have nagged them into this.
2. They might have pesky bosses, back there to report to
3. They might have *taboo -bad-sex-life- taboo*
OR
4. May be meditation has made me a calmer being. I have evolved while rest of my species has been entangled in the mess of "maya".
The last one was a chewy thought but before I could savour it, I heard angry shouts. I turned just-in-time to notice that a lady was walking past us, clearly ignoring others' protests to stand in the queue.
She seemed, to me, a great follower of Alexander. Veni, Vidi, Vici . . .she came, she paid, she left. Actually she could not execute the last leg of her invasion plan as she was mobbed. Amongst angry shouts, I heard a familiar voice - - MINE. What was I saying-- " This is what you gonna teach your kids, SCHMUCK WOMAN!!!" (Here goes my higher self for a toss.)
So this is it. The resentful eyes of those men, they were not directed at me. They were trying to pre-empt this phenomena UNIQUE to and PATENTED by Indians. That of breaking and bending all rules. That of showing middle finger to law and order. I mean, that lady looked well literarte (apparently not educated though) and well-to-do. While senior citizens, daily-wagers and even lazy ME wait for our respective turns, this woman has to be in time for her scheduled appointment with the PM. HUH!!
This is why resentment grows and stays in local trains. Road rage becomes more of a style statetment. This is why most of the Indians walk on the streets with a big frown on their foreheads. (I swear, I stood on an overbridge once, to check out how many smiling faces I could encounter. Result = ZERO!!)
This anger, probably stems from the realisation that we as a country have no civic sense, no collective conscience. We are dirty opportunists. I bet, that lady would be the first to point fingers if a political thug were to outshine her in another similar queue (Since queues are such a universal phenomena in India.)
Few months back, a local Reuters correspondent (a British guy) had written a particulary unflattering article about "habits of Indians". I was the first one to call him and give it to him left, right, centre . . .top, bottom -- whatever. "Magi, you don't understand. You are not complete India. You are a behavioural minority", he had said.
I so wish, he was wrong. How I wish, some day he would be wrong about it.
I did in the market-place today. Their coal black eyes resembled ambers. Their mannerism looked serious as if to say -- Dude, I mean no-nonsense! Worst of all, piercing arrows of all those pairs of eyes were directed at me.
ADRENALIN RUSH happened. FIGHT or FLIGHT, my mind asked, simultaneously wondering what had I done to invoke their wrath? TRUCE -- my higher self intervened. [I am high on Yoga and meditation these days.]
So, I strutted towards, oh don't-ask-where -- electricity bill collection centre. Suddenly, it dawned upon me that the men I have been referring to were not an angry mob, they were an angry queue. REALISATION No. 2: The queue was lined-up for paying up electricity bills. (This is what months of making online reservations and paying OL bills does to your sense of reality.) I had completely discounted the idea that if I were to continue enjoying my digital lifestyle, I'll have to stand at the rear end of this human chain. [In true saggi spirit I was paying my bills in the last hour of the last day of the given deadline. Going by the length of queue, though, it seems my status as a lazybum is under severe threat.]
Anyway, like any other law-abiding citizen I took my position at the tail-end. Now, that men's gaze had shifted from me and I had enough time to kill, I decided to wear my psychoanalyst shoes. The topic of analysis being -- why those men looked angry? Few reasons I worked out, go like this:
1. Their wives might have nagged them into this.
2. They might have pesky bosses, back there to report to
3. They might have *taboo -bad-sex-life- taboo*
OR
4. May be meditation has made me a calmer being. I have evolved while rest of my species has been entangled in the mess of "maya".
The last one was a chewy thought but before I could savour it, I heard angry shouts. I turned just-in-time to notice that a lady was walking past us, clearly ignoring others' protests to stand in the queue.
She seemed, to me, a great follower of Alexander. Veni, Vidi, Vici . . .she came, she paid, she left. Actually she could not execute the last leg of her invasion plan as she was mobbed. Amongst angry shouts, I heard a familiar voice - - MINE. What was I saying-- " This is what you gonna teach your kids, SCHMUCK WOMAN!!!" (Here goes my higher self for a toss.)
So this is it. The resentful eyes of those men, they were not directed at me. They were trying to pre-empt this phenomena UNIQUE to and PATENTED by Indians. That of breaking and bending all rules. That of showing middle finger to law and order. I mean, that lady looked well literarte (apparently not educated though) and well-to-do. While senior citizens, daily-wagers and even lazy ME wait for our respective turns, this woman has to be in time for her scheduled appointment with the PM. HUH!!
This is why resentment grows and stays in local trains. Road rage becomes more of a style statetment. This is why most of the Indians walk on the streets with a big frown on their foreheads. (I swear, I stood on an overbridge once, to check out how many smiling faces I could encounter. Result = ZERO!!)
This anger, probably stems from the realisation that we as a country have no civic sense, no collective conscience. We are dirty opportunists. I bet, that lady would be the first to point fingers if a political thug were to outshine her in another similar queue (Since queues are such a universal phenomena in India.)
Few months back, a local Reuters correspondent (a British guy) had written a particulary unflattering article about "habits of Indians". I was the first one to call him and give it to him left, right, centre . . .top, bottom -- whatever. "Magi, you don't understand. You are not complete India. You are a behavioural minority", he had said.
I so wish, he was wrong. How I wish, some day he would be wrong about it.
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