(untitled)

He sighed. He wasn't very good at this.

The Holden Caulfields of different books he had read had sat in places the authors had picked wisely; vantage points from which their brooding protagonists could take a moment from their usual self-indulgences, and choose to indulge themselves in a different way. They would sit in places where they could watch people come and go, or see them eat, or observe quietly their facial expressions as they reacted to what they were told by their companions, while constantly forming judgements and opinions about them, giving them back-stories both imaginative and quirky, or simply calling upon the Holmes’ in them to deduce what little they could from the apparel and mannerisms of the objects of their scrutiny. Then they’d form conclusions. Opinions. All this seemed smart. The Holdens always seemed smart, if only to their readers and to their own sorry selves.

He wished he was smart. He didn't feel very smart. He wished the spot he'd chosen for his own observation hadn't been so...disappointing.

But he reconsidered.

The Holdens of literature probably did find the perfect perches and the perfect passers-by. In all probability however, the FANS of the Holdens were in the same position he was: constantly let down by the mediocrity of the world that frequented the coffee shops and bus stops they had chosen, and by their own inability to come up with anything too fascinatingly far-fetched. But recognition and acceptance of this fact wasn't a thought a lot of these fans got to. And really, wasn’t that all it took to be an intellectual? Books are just words. It’s how far your thought takes you that defines your intellect. Well. He was far now.

There. He felt smart.

He smiled at how easy it had been.

He dropped his gaze and his guard. He stood up, went back to his room and gave his grandmother a long overdue phonecall.

There is never a dearth of smart-asses in the world. Don't take yourself too seriously. Act stupid once in a while. Open your eyes as wide as you can, and keep them that way. Try and move your ears. Hold your slippers over your head and get Jumper to chase you up the road from C-mess. You're in a good place. Take [that BITS word].

Numb

The waiting area outside the ER of Jehangir Hospital was just as clean and well maintained as the rest of the hospital. But it didn’t need to be. Nobody who ever sat in those chairs lining the walls of the long corridor ever cared about hygiene or cleanliness while there. Every man who has ever had to sit down on one of those grey plastic chairs has always had far more important things on his mind. Anxiety has filled his head as he has repeatedly gone over every imaginable conclusion to his current situation. Many of the conclusions he has arrived at have been far less pleasant than he can bear, and he has had to drag his thoughts away from them, and set off again on a new line, hoping for a better ending. This battle has raged on within him, until finally a man in a green overalls has walked out and given him news; news that he has inevitably already imagined at some point, but news that evokes strong emotional reactions from him nonetheless.

Naveen sat alone, on a chair far away from the ER doors, his hands together, thumbs pressed against his lips, and his fingernails digging deeper and deeper into his palms. A passing nurse could have seen her own reflection in the sweat that had collected on his forehead. He stared blankly at the wall opposite him, trying hard to stop his hands from shaking. His mind was in turmoil.

Away to his left, standing or seated right outside the main doors were members of Arun’s family, and several of his friends.  His classmates from college had formed a quiet huddle close to the corridor wall, inches away from the path being traced by Arun’s father as he paced up and down the hall. In the chairs closest to them, Arun’s mother sat sobbing into his elder sister’s shoulder, resurfacing every few minutes to voice her faith in God and to tell everyone not to worry.

Five metres away from where she was sitting, Naveen gave the silent gathering a quick glance. He cursed himself. It was his fault what had happened, and he knew it. And he didn’t even know if things could still be saved yet. Behind the doors of the ER, Arun continued to battle for his life, and Naveen looked back at all the things he could have done differently this afternoon. He had known instinctively even then, that handing Arun the keys to a car like that was a bad idea. It was a an ‘83 Hindustan Contessa, and a beautiful one at that. But handling of a car the chassis of which is a decade older than yourself is no child’s play. And Naveen should have known that before giving in to the demandss of an 18-yr old.

Naveen’s knees were shaking too now and the shirt he wore was stuck to his back, moist with perspiration. He had always been careful about these things. He had always thought these things through. But Arun had asked so nicely, with such charm. He had known all about the history of the car, its lineage, its year and make. He had spoken of the car with a passion that Naveen believed they shared. He had impressed Naveen. And he had driven off.

It was almost an hour later that Naveen had flown out of his home and sprinted all the way to the hospital. He had not known who made the call, nor how he knew Arun. All he heard and understood was that the nearest people who knew anything about what had happened were gathering at Jehangir. And that was where he was headed. At the hospital, none of Arun’s other acquaintances spoke much about the accident, or how exactly Arun had swerved his car into the path of an oncoming truck. Naveen’s heart rate hadn’t gone down since. He shook violently as he tried to keep breathing steadily, but it was no use. Guilt was slowly starting to devour him from within. He did not yet know if the damage he had done was permanent. But until he did, no one could offer him any relief. Not until the news came. Only then would he know where he stood. Only then would he know whether he could live with himself after this.

The doors of the ER burst open, and the man in green overalls walked out. Immediately Arun’s entire family stopped still. Each member of the party stared at the man’s face, their minds now numb, no one daring to think any more. The man started to speak.

Further down the corridor, the light above where Naveen was seated flickered. He had heard the doors open, and was aware that the man had brought news. But he had continued to stare at the wall opposite, his knees had not stopped shaking and his nails continued to dig their scars. The flickering light distracted him. He stole another glance at the ER doors. Arun’s family and friends had burst into conversation. Men and women hugged each other and the man in the green overalls smiled as Arun’s father embraced him. There were tears everywhere, but tears of a different kind. Naveen looked away again, and back at the white wall. The sudden commotion just as suddenly began sounding muffled. Naveen shifted back into his world of anxiety and despair.

“Excuse me? Naveen, yes?”

Naveen didn’t look up. He was still shaking. He could barely hear himself think, let alone others speak.

“He’s safe. The doctor says he’ll be fine, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Naveen exhaled loudly, as if angry at having lost concentration. He began to speak, still addressing the chairs on the opposite side of the corridor, but the words got stuck in his throat. A frustrated grunt was all he managed. His anxiety did not leave him. Nor did his fear. He shut his eyes, praying silently.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, and Naveen would have shaken it off had his phone not begun to ring at the same moment.

In a sudden response to the noise, Naveen jerked himself off the chair and slammed his phone against his ear. “Yes? What is it? How is she?”.

Arun’s father stared with his eyes wide. Naveen’s cell phone had its volume set high enough for the entire corridor to hear the caller’s response in the silence that had fallen over it.

“She just came in. I’ve had a look at her, and I’ve got good news. She’s pretty beaten up, sure, but nothing money can’t fix. Part of the engine might need to be replaced, and fenders too. But I know a guy who can help. No need to worry. She’ll be fine.”

Naveen’s knees almost gave away beneath him. His shoulders drooped as he let out a huge sigh, warmth spreading to his very fingertips. He had never felt so light in his life. He looked up at the ceiling, back still turned to Arun’s father, and whispered a silent thank you prayer to God. His phone dropped back into his pocket, and his feet slowly dragged their way away from the rest of the gathering.

A dozen pairs of eyes bore into his retreating back, but no one said a word. They knew he wouldn’t hear them if they did.

#16

I’ve asked my mum, and she says I must’ve been around 7 or 8 when it started. I was sitting on the floor of Mrs. Malhotra’s flat where she took her weekly art class, a phase of my life featured prominently whenever  I made my mental ‘phases-I-wish-I-remembered-more-of’ list. I had just finished painting my  last drawing, a castle of some sort, and was waiting for my next assignment, when the boy seated to my left, my best friend of 3 years, Aditya thought aloud, “We should do a Tintin picture”.

Admittedly, I had read Tintin comics before this. My mother had brought home my first  one as soon as she’d heard  Veena Aunty was opening a library less than two hundred metres away from my building. I’d read it, and I’d enjoyed it, and because back then Adi and I shared everything, including books and opinions, he’d enjoyed it too. But we weren’t crazy. Oh no, we got crazy after we started drawing.

Suddenly, it was absolutely necessary that we get our hands on every Tintin comic we possibly could. Veena Aunty’s library was quickly exhausted and we began looking for other ones. I remember begging my mum to drive over to a new library we’d heard had opened near a friend’s house and rushing in only to head straight for the pile of Tintins. There was an extremely satisfying feeling we’d get just by turning a Tintin book over in our hands, looking through a list of the  entire series and counting how many we had left. The list itself would vary, depending on how old the edition in our hands was. This meant some titles would appear and disappear randomly, leading us to figure out that some titles were simply a bit too rare to find in any random library.

I couldn’t explain to you what we saw in those books. Quite frankly, they were nothing special. Certainly not the sort that can make you laugh out loud, but I suppose back then when we were kids we did find it amusing to read about what sort of trouble the young reporter and his foul-mouthed friend Captain Haddock had gotten themselves in to. Later though, when these comics just stopped seeming all that funny, I can only say they had started to mean more to us than books do. They had just become something we had to finish. A goal we’d set out to achieve, so to speak.

Years went by and we never got tired of driving to new bookstores. The 21 covers that featured consistently on the back of every Tintin and the 1 based on the movie were now old bait. We were after rarer books now. Tintin and the Land of  Soviets was the very first one, so old it’s artwork looked alien. Tintin in the Congo was so  unspeakably rare in Pune, nobody even seemed to have heard of it. And Tintin and the Alph-Art was the last, the incomplete one, the one author Herge had passed away before finishing. Imagine our feeling of anguish when we spotted the latter for the first time in a Crosswords store, but realized that at 650 rupees for a hardbound copy there was  no way our mothers would agree to buying it for us. For a long time, that was how we left it. 3 books to go. 3 more till the finish.

Recently the interest in Tintin comics has picked up once again. Ever  since Steven Spielberg announced  he was working with Peter Jackson to produce the ultimate movie adaptations of The Adventures of Tintin wherein he would use motion-capture technology to create a happy medium between the animated cartoons we saw on Cartoon Network and the 1970s live-action French movies starring Jean-Pierre Talbot, I’ve been scanning the net for all the news I can find about the planned films. Having seen the trailers, I’m embarrassed to say they still look like ordinary cartoons to me, but nevertheless I’m happy this is happening.

A few months ago, I noticed both the Soviet book as well as the Alph-Art in Landmark Bookstore, Pune, and realised these books weren’t considered rare any more. It had been years since my last Tintin experience, and I took my chance. I bought the former and gifted it to Adi for his birthday, knowing he’d only give it to me for a read once he’s done. I then sat down and spent an hour  in Landmark, and finished Tintin and the Alph-Art. There. 1 more to go.

Tintin in the Congo, that last title still remains. That single book whose cover you’ll never find on the back of any other Tintin still continues to elude me. It’s on my Bucket List you know? I have a rather  nice list of things I’d like to do before I die. Reading all 25 books from the Tintin series is entry #16. As I said earlier, these books are hardly considered rare any more. Just google the title and you’ll find links to a Flipkart page offering to sell you this book for as little as 500 rupees, far less than I’d be willing to pay for a book I’ve been chasing my entire childhood. But I can never bring myself to order it online. Somehow, that, for me, just defeats the purpose of putting that entry into my List in the first place.

The objective, you see, wasn’t to read the books themselves. Tintin is not great literature. Hell, it’s not even that funny. When my mother brought home my first Tintin, her intention wasn’t to make me a fanatic. It was simply to get me to love my first book. It was to get me to visit more bookstores. It was to make me actually WANT to visit libraries. And by God, it worked brilliantly.

I therefore wait patiently, for the day I walk into a bookstore and spot a cover I’ve been looking for for over a decade now. I wait for that rush. I wait for that feeling that ordering a book on the net can never get me. Till then, as the rest of the world clamours after the upcoming flick Spielberg’s got them all so  excited about, I continue with my usual routine. Heard of a new bookstore? Allow me to visit it. In between my usual tours through the Christies and the Archers and other gifts my mother gave me, I’ll take time to take a look at the comic section. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be sending Adi a courier soon.

Book Review: Revolution 2020

I suppose the primary challenge of picking up a Chetan Bhagat book to review is the process of ignoring that section of your mind that screams "This isn't LITERATURE" and persuading it to believe that literature isn't what you came here looking for in the first place. Admittedly, it would be quite foolish to work your way through such a book, looking for examples of clever wordplay and witty dialogue between its characters. Revolution 2020 has no brilliant language in it. But then again, it never pretends to be anything more than itself. And that works in its favour.

Revolution 2020 is the story of Gopal, a Varanasi local, and his constantly mutating relationships with his old best friend, Raghav, and the girl of his dreams, Aarti, as he works hard to scrape by life somehow, eventually giving in to the temptations that a corruption laden lifestyle has to offer. Within the first few chapters, what quickly became clear to me was that Bhagat had decided to try and replace the whole process of character development in the case of the protagonist, by constantly bombarding with all sorts of problems and miseries. At half-way through the book, you can't help but feel for Gopal, and even nod understandingly at his usually questionable actions throughout the book.

Raghav's character is supposed to be one that has a sense of social responsibility. While we are never given a direct look into his thoughts, we do get a lot of indirect looks, such as when he shows up on a television channel and gives us a taste of his idealistic views. I was disappointed by those pieces though. I understand Chetan Bhagat to be a rather impressive public speaker, especially when it comes to topics such as youth empowerment and similar. If that's true, this was a let-down. None of Raghav's speeches inspired me in the least. Too fake.

All in all, I found Revolution 2020 a thoroughly readable book, one you can get through quickly and without much brain damage. And that means a lot coming from someone who hated One Night @ A Call Centre as much as I did, title et al. I say you give it a read, simply because everyone you know will. It's light, and even good if you liked any of his previous works.

I feel I should mention though, the ending was rather rushed. Somehow I've always found endings like that rather annoying. It's like eating dessert that leaves a bad taste in your mouth afterwards. If you can, finish it at night. That way you don't have to carry the taste around all day.

Old Twine

There are few things more distinct to a man than how he takes his tea. A lot could be told about the sort of person he is, if only one was allowed to observe how he took his tea.

Or so Roy would like to think. He paused, and thought about it again. Nah, that probably wasn’t true. When you think about it, the only thing you could say about a man by seeing him prepare his tea, was in fact how he prepared his tea. Nevertheless, how he liked it could still be called unique to him.

Roy took a sip from his own cup, smiled, and placed it back down on the desk. This, this was how tea should be enjoyed. He smiled at his grandfather’s mahogany desk before him, he smiled at the fully carpeted British-era furnished room around him, he even smiled at the fresh flowers in the modern glass vase that had been placed on the desk, although the vase was probably a lot newer than most of the other furniture in the room. That didn’t matter. It went well with the regal look of the entire hall. He only stopped smiling when he looked back down at his teacup. It was a new teacup. It made him wince. He reached out, and carefully rotated the cup until the logo on it faced away from him. Then he smiled again.

Roy was happy, for now. He was happy because he was comfortable, and back in his grandfather’s room, the grandest in the whole of Ooty. He was especially happy because of the tea-making kit before him. A small kettle, a few cubes of sugar, several Earl Grey tea bags from Twinings, London, and plenty of sachets of powdered milk, which he approved of, even though they too, like the vase, had probably come here long after his father’s misfortunes, were all present in the compact little tray. And none of that masala nonsense. No elaichi, adrak, or any of the other strange spices the roadside riff-raff seemed to insist on putting in their tea. The horror. That was not tea. That drink was coarse, mud-coloured, and cheap. He knew tea. Water was to be boiled and the tea bag placed, but not shaken, in it for a minute and a half. It was as simple as that. The most unorthodox thing he would allow to be done with his tea was the addition of a few drops of lemon, and that was all. His grandfather had once even-

“You see Sir? He’s back again”

Roy turned. He had not heard the door open. At the entrance stood a young man in a apron, whom he had grown to dislike over the last few weeks, and another, older man, familiar, smartly dressed, upright, and wearing a tag on his chest that said ‘Manager’. Roy barely noticed either of them. He was busy grimacing at the metal plaque that he could now see had been attached to his front door. VILLA SUITE.

“Sir,” the older man said after the young attendant had left them alone, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave”.

Roy turned to look back at his beloved kit.

“I do not wish to be spoken to right now.” he said, “And this is my grandfather’s room, I will come and go as I please, thank you very much.”

The manager sighed, and dropped his formal tone, “Roy. Come now. You know you can’t stay here. Go back home. You can’t keep coming back here.”

Roy heard him but didn’t say anything. He clenched his jaw, and stared down at his bare feet resting on the richly carpeted floor beneath the grand desk. For the first time since he had broken in, he realized he was dressed in rags; worn versions of clothes that had once appeared quite fine. He wore no wristwatch, as that too he had had to sell, as his father had once this house.

His father’s old manservant looked at him sympathetically, and said, “I’ve got guests on the way here now. Finish your drink son. But I want you to leave after that, alright?”

He had turned and was about to shut the door again when Roy spoke again.

“I had no part in his gambling! It was just as much YOUR fault as it is mine! Why am I being punished? Why was I robbed of what should have been mine??”

Roy turned around again without waiting for an answer. He could be forced out of the property, this he knew and accepted. But he would not bear people looking at him with pity in their eyes.

There was a long pause, and the door closed behind him.

***

“Has he gone?” the manager asked the attendant half an hour later.

“Yes, he’s gone. But he’s probably-“

“Yes I know. Have the kit refilled before our guests arrive.”

“Refilled? You don’t think he’s taken the entire tray with him?”

“Oh no. The tray, the kettle, and the cup. Anything with our name and seal on it is still in that room waiting for us.”

HI

Fact 1: Quoting Hockey India President, head cheapstake, A.K.Mattoo, when asked about the players’ demand of Rs. 4.5 lakhs each –

“It adds up to nearly Rs. 1.08 crore. We don’t have that kind of money. We told them we have around Rs 30 lakh in our kitty and are ready to distribute Rs. 20 lakh. But it seems, for them, money is more important than playing for the country.”

Fact 2: Some figures released by Sahara India, in their annual report –

“Sahara India has signed a four-year deal with India’s shooting, boxing and wrestling federations, paying the players Rs. 2 lakh to Rs. 18 lakh per year, without adoring any logo.

Sahara had also struck a deal with Hockey India for the men and women’s team, but here, due to the complicated structure of this ad-hoc body, the money is paid to the federation itself. Thus there is no cash incentive for the players. In keeping with this deal, Hockey India received Rs. 1.78 crore for May 2009 to April 2010.”

So, in a teacup: HI received, from a single sponsor, Rs. 1.78 crore. HI Chief, Mr. Mattoo tells us, they have Rs 30 lakh ‘in their kitty’.

So the question is, where was the remaining Rs. 1,48,00,000 spent, Mr Mattoo?

Did you get yourself a new Mercedes?

Wadians

Six months ago, something happened. Of course, six months ago loads of stuff happened, but among that stuff there was something pretty unremarkable- at-the-time and yet quite-significant-now. I decided to undertake a study of a race of beings quite different from the ones I have become accustomed to over the past few years. Which, by the way, is just a cool way of saying I joined the Nowrosjee Wadia College of Arts and Sciences, Pune.

So the story until now goes something like this: Having spent (read wasted) so many months in the company of these creatures known as the Wadians, and having eventually earned the right to even call myself one, I have formed a few conclusions, one of which is a bit in doubt.

BY observing them long enough, if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that these things, whatever they are, are radically different from all other humans. And the possible reasons for this are only two, both theorized by my Mother almost 2yrs back, when she sat watching T.V and tried guessing why exactly Inzammam Ul-Haq was the way he was.

Anyway the reasons are: 1) They’re all either too unbelievably DUMB to stick to the usual norms of civilized living, or 2) they’re so incredibly SMART, and so far ahead of the rest of us in most fields, that the stuff they say tends to sound a bit odd.

I myself am inclined to considering neither possibility. Being a Wadian myself now, it just doesn’t seem fair if I continue with this study. So I’m resorting to the only other means I have of solving something like this. That is, put it up on Facebook and see what people say.

So that’s what I’m doing now. I am posting only a very tiny part of my extensive research over the past 6 months. By showcasing this much, I hope that the people reading this will be smart enough (or hey, dumb enough) to form their own opinions about the species known as Wadians, and thus be saved from shock or surprise whenever they next meet one.

What I put up is this: Over the last few months, being still largely unaccustomed to the usual way of doing things around here, I ended up greeting people wherever I went, with the incredibly normal, very Hutchings-era, thoroughly average Question: What’s Up?

Now you’d think I would get a variety of answers, but hey, you aren’t a Wadian, so what do you know? I got just the same reply, again and again and again. What really makes this worth noticing is that every chap who said it, did so with the air that he was quite obviously the first person to have thought up something so smart, so witty, that it blew me away. It really did.

Q: Hi! What’s up?

The Reply of an average Wadian:

http://www.esnips.com/doc/d39847fd-b399-4875-8df8-94069eacc1f3/Wad1

I lied. There were TWO answers. The next one’s a bit of a rarity, said only by the few exceptional people walking around the place, people who probably don’t really belong there.

Q: What’s up?

The Reply of the slightly more sophisticated Wadian:

http://www.esnips.com/doc/6af9006c-c773-489a-b945-267958b714c0/Wad2

Happy to have helped.

Cheers.