Coming of Age

Comedy is surely that genre of cinema that gets justice on the celluloid at the rate of noughts. Slapstick and sexual innuendoes may have found their footing with Indian directors but more often than not, its the wrong foot that they find themselves on. It was against my better judgement that I decided to put caution to winds and step out to sample the latest offering on the marquee. "Maalamal Weekly" seemed to lack the panache of "Herapheri", even if I was privy only to the rushes. No reveiews had yet sifted through to colour my vision but Paresh Rawal's "toothsome" antics sure didnt evoke memories of a certain "Baabu Bhaiyya" act. The fears of doom stood vindicated with the hall resembling the parliament ( minus the din ). Although the narrative on reel was far from riveting, it allowed my top floor to meander from the inane to a few real reflections. It was enlightening to hear guffaws from the odd corner strengthening my belief that "value for money" is a phrase whose realization is dependant more on the buying side of the transaction than the selling. Laughter muffled only by the need to breathe from certain sections at jokes that got pre-empted by my companions seemed like a statement on my sense of humour. A statement that seemed to say that I have gone bankrupt in that department. Expectations may be a statistical measure but she who keeps them low does get to laugh. The only smirk that I managed to sneak in was during the intermission when a collection of dumbfounded eyes ( I am sure the collection wasnt "odd") met me near the men's rest room. They were all glaring at a flashy red box that gave an impression of a fire extinguisher from the distance. Reasoning that a fire may not be in the offing considering the look was one of curiosity than panick, I decided to go ahead and add a couple to the bulging collection. The box in question turned out to be a condom vending machine. This was my first sighting of the contraption in India and it was no lesser exciting than sighting a lion in Kaziranga. Not because I cannot find a pack at the local medical shop, but because all that talk of safe sex seems to be percolating down to action too. Just makes me believe that it wont be far when a machine finds itself outside the ladies rest room too. Way to go.

A Sunday with Bachi and Fisi

"Cull ho na ho" blared the title of my favourite space of the Sunday Times. Indication enough that Bachi was in prime form again after a severe bout of mediocrity. Chics were never my plate of grub, notwithstanding the one that flu over the cuckoo's nest. An allusion to my cull-inary skills is enough to get the guillotine out of the bag and here was Ms Karkaria going legs and breasts after the next entry on the endangered species list. Jug's sermon on herbivorous diet felt like a decapitated rooster getting along with its early morning duties. While I was engrossed with paltry poultry issues, it was time for the Italian Fish to get me out of my doldrums. I dare not refer to the person in this country's driver seat as a member of the pisces family. The reference undubitably was to Fisi who sat at pole position in Malaysia this Sunday. Twas a revealation to see the underdog trash that "one race wonder" tag and take his toll on the Sepang highway. Things are back to their competitive best, be it getting the formula one title or getting the title formula right. All that matters.

INCHing towards a new-clear order

Dubya's jamboree to the land of elephants and rope tricks may have set a few tails wagging but those hackneyed details are best "left" unchronicled. For somebody who is credited with utterings that may let a thousand marines sail, it would be a travesty to find his way to these innards of inane ramblings. Sample this for starters and it would be just a single course fare that am going to dish out in reverence for the keeper of the free world.

"Terrorists are becoming stronger and resourceful and so are we, they are looking for new ways to inflict agony on our people and our country and so are we."

What garnered more space on our broadsheets and even more bytes in these spaces was the bill of fare laid out on his plate and palate. He sure pardons one turkey on "Thanksgiving" but the credence for him not getting "hen"pecked should go solely to Avian. Its disturbing to think that a call centre job might have exchanged hands during that public show of "affectation" he indulged in. Back stabbing and back slapping remain so congruous a pair of pastimes that making one from the other is better left to a more discerning eye. I managed to spend half a day's salary on a new joint called "INCH" but was as far from famishing as the distance that famous unit of distance suggests. Had trouble figuring out if the key to my suitcase was 119 or 611. Some numbers do make for fascinating tales. Its a prayer that the 14-8 division doesnt have an unforeseen fallout.

Billowing hot and cold

Its not my intent to describe the refrigerator action when I start off with that tag line. Its a rather painstaking chore that cant be "compressed" into the leeway I allow my narrative here. Although, nuptial bliss can sometimes be an excellent anecdote to aid a comatose diction thats so charateristic of a mechanical engineering lecture. It can be a little unnerving to find yourself in good company in the wee hours when you are only accustomed to find the hands of the clock glaring at a rather obtuse angle at you in between the winks. Coming to terms with hot tea and cold shakes can make the faint hearted jittery. The little crib for the curl on the forehead and the overwhelming approbation for a clean shave can put the unsuspecting rookie in a swirl of emotion. Those injunctions masquerading as innocuous requests to comply with the better half's motives can be ignored only to one's own peril. That whimper that lets go from somebody else's lips when the head thats banged is yours makes your tummy do a few sommersaults. Wedlock may be intriguing but it certainly is addling. The steam that would have gathered in your head on mere transgressions now condenses to a warm hug adoring pure naivette and you need to hold firmly against that reassuring shoulder to keep from blowing your top on an innocuous pun. Its uncharted territory but you travel sure footedly, assured of a helping hand should your fortunes take a turn for the worse. They say you make conjoined twins only at birth. I beg to disagree. Marriage pips birth at the post there.....only if you dont call it a second "coming".

Realty Strikes

Real estate has a metallic sound to it. Like steel shearing against concrete. Stuff that can put the best mettles to test. The chronicler, however does not refer to those glistening skins that characterize a yeomen brandishing his skill with a brick in one hand and mortar in the other. What he intends to put in perspective are the uncanny dynamics of renting out a dwelling for himself. When legends come to life, it can get unsavory at times and I realized this the hard way. The prospect of searching for a "house" would always have been daunting given my comatose inclinations. Add to that, taking the challenge on in a burgeoning metropolis we call Bangalore. The buck doesnt stop here. To a budget you would assume to be enough to buy you royalty, the adjective of "shoe string" gets attached before you could say "damn". The prices at which they rent out square feet makes you curse the almighty for giving you two of them. Then, there are other parameters except space that you would try to juggle with, to balance with your pocket. Ventillation ( why do you need to breathe ), wardrobes, a tiled loo or a wash basin, they all come at a separate cost. You may figure out to your own peril that these form a mutually exclusive set when it comes to a single house. Though, if you have those fortunate set of eyes that get to see an abode that defies convention, the rentals would probably be out of your reach, both financially and numerically. Welcome to the real(ty) world. It takes a couple of weekends to realize the aforementioned truths that adorn a house searcher's predicament. The next couple start with the resignation of either living with a obnoxious landlord or without a regular electiricity supply. This is where you encounter the fine print. Requests that say " Sir, we would prefer if you can avoid mid night jamborees " actually are threats of eviction if you string so much as a guitar after 10 in the night. Overheads amounting to a third of the rent you agreed to come out of their dormant state to catch you on the wrong foot ( you dont really have the space for feet as I mentioned ). You are however expected to be condescending to the good samaritans who entertain you and make allowances of showing you the place you want to live in before hand. The security deposits quoted can truly take your breath away if you have managed to save any after these jaunts. (Land)lord save my soul. And, to take you through these throes of emotion is the main protagonist of our chronicle, the "real estate agent". What stops potential land lords from advertsing a "to let" is beyond me ( may be its the sound that it makes ) but this little aversion has sprouted an industry that may well be Don Quixote' s holy grail. These real estate agancies may boast of the best earnings to effort ratios that you may ever come across. Whisking you away on their privileged bikes to corners you never knew existed, they would expose you to the landscape that seemed so oblivious to you a day ago. A month's rent is what you will have to part with as their "consultation" fee. Never knew, you can be paid like a merchant banker for your wanderlust. Suffices to say that they consider it their cardinal duty to fix you up with one of those "avenues". The search borders on the lunatic and its a lucky bloke who gets to say "home, sweet home" at the end of it.

Fire in the Belly

Ushering in the new year with a bang makes for a good figurative mention at binges that are so characteristic of this bulging metropolis. Abstemious behaviour on my part doesnt really put a spanner in the works. Although, Bangaloreans did manage to experience the bang literally to their own chagrin. Its more often than not that you hear shots of raging intellectual fire at the apostle of knowledge that the IISc is. Verbal barrages apart, it found itself in line of some real fire at the fag end of the year. Indiscriminate firing, the news reports blared but to me, it was a case of some serious discrimination. Knocking at the very doors of that hallowed institute, the perpetrators have sounded us on our vulnerability. Only if it was the fear of mortal peril, I wouldnt have found the incident worthy enough to find a mention here. However, the shackles it puts on our thought process is what deserves to be put in perspective. We now need gun toting police men around us to feel secure. Thoughts of attending public functions and institutes of repute fill us with apprehension than pride. Our nerves display such frailty that a panic attack is triggered even by preposterous rumours. Isnt gunning down a professor every bullet worth it if it meets these ends. We are no longer touted as a safe haven for business and the proposition of losing my bread fills me with much more dread and pain that a bullet can. Something inside me tells me that the only way out of this gloom is to avoid the very submission I have alluded to. Should the IISc function under surveillance. Do I keep looking for possible attacks from every car that stops besides me? Do I avoid crowded places and functions that celebrate my very being. I have decided not to, not because it sounds like a Herculean task but because thats my reply to the conundrum these veiled men pose before me.

Taking Stock

Sensexual matters have always had that titillating effect on me that baywatch never managed. Bulls and bears do form a heady combo when it comes to the jungle that is Dalal Street. Having grown up in that miasma of margins, dividends and rights, it was a foregone conclusion that this "trade's" shoes would fit me fine. It was sacrilege to think of the thing as a sort of wager that could spell doomsday even without having that word in its vocabulary. Had seen a couple of fellas losing their shirts trying to ride high on market sentiment. Never averse to a roll of dice, that didnt deter me putting my own eggs in this mystical basket. Call that a rolling settlement. If I had fallen short of taking care of any filial duties, this made up for it. Pa, always the avid observer had his "share" of disappointments with my resisting the temptation but as the cliche goes "all's well that ends well". India Inc hasnt really caught me on the wrong foot. With the index that tells the story shooting up like an adolescent gunning for puberty, the investment proved to be robust. It isnt always that I exercise my options right but exceptions arent so exceptional with me. The harbinger of globalization that he is, our PM's forecasts of a 10 percent GDP growth rate seem to say that he has his heart where his mouth is. The rings seem to corroborate his optimism with rallies that can give inflation an inferiority complex. Have seen unsuspecting junta around me come out of their blissful reveries with no idea of what a stock is, and plunging into the circus headlong ( the identities have been intentionally concealed to avoid trouble for the taxman ). It isnt very obvious though that this jocular act has its origins in the lark of making a fast buck or the high that one gets on having her judgement vindicated. The derivative however remains, the audience for the circus has shrunk and the performers swelled. A reflection on the after effects of this dynamo effect warms the cockles of my heart. Gone are the days when the quintessential blue collared worker considered the FDs as her holy grail to a safe "future". The green bucks are out from the vice like grip of the government coffers and being put behind the dreams of entrepreneurs. They are driving the imagination of fortune makers who would risk their today for a glorious tomorrow. India has perhaps taken its first true steps towards the hallowed steps of capitalism with this subtle change in the mentality of the middle rung samaritan. It can only be the start of the coming true of that great prophecy that pronounced the 21st century as India's territory. May the stock taking tribe follow its beloved number's rise to fame. AMEN....

Of phones and phony tones

It can be a little unnerving to be considered an authority on a subject that doesnt boast of a heirarchical decision making process. Had been at the receiving end of a barrage of queries relating to telephone tarriffs when my new colleagues sniffed a "wireless" tugging along my otherwise non descript repertoire. If choosing horses for courses was a racy proposition, choosing a mobile service provider ( and a service therein ) warranties phenomenal deliberations. Spending an hour just to decipher the intricacies of the tariff dynamics seems to have become the latest national pastime. Add to that, the "offers" being made by sundry operators in the leading broadsheets and you have the perfect recipe for unabated price wars. Should one be opting for a pre-paid connection or its the post paid one that puts paid to the common man's needs ? Does that tariff plan provide free ring tones and will I be able to SMS all night long without burning a gaping hole in my already emaciated pocket ? The fine print only adds to the frenzy of the already blithe discussion. "Differentiation" is the hip word that many mobile evangelists coin to support the fog that surrounds our country's telecom market. Had never been good at the branch of mathematics they call "calculus" but that shouldnt be blamed for my bias against the present state of quagmire. TRAI has been instrumental in letting the thin ray of hope that aspires to straighten up proceedings but it seldom gives the impression of a watch dog that has got its canines in place. They talk of number porting when service providers offer life long validities for peanuts. Uniform calling rates across the length and breadth of this country seems to be under the purview of wishful thinking. The variance of tariffs across operators and across schemes from the same operator makes for rather intriguing predicaments. I use two different ( and leading ) service providers to cater to my local and long distance calling needs ( would have gone for three if my fiscals allowed a third mobile phone ). With as many options available as one has toes, it seems unlikely that we could be thinking of better ways to save our money. Consolidation is the name of the game but the rate at which it is being played, its certain that I am not going to be spared these phony conversations for some time. If only I could say "Would the best horse prance up??"

About time

Just realised that this may be the best way(and time) of leaving my foot marks in this hallowed space....not that my feet face any significant perils but metaphors need to be expounded with some care these days. If there is one place that resembles a disaster in the waiting, Bangalore certainly fits the bill. A head on collision in the wee hours ( take that to be the stroke of 10 am for us movers and shakers ) isnt a good omen to start the day with. Taxi drivers have been at the receiving end of the stick owing to the unsavoury incident that rocked this BPO city recently and a biker making his way into this Indica didnt augur well for the man in the "driving seat". The sound did betray grave repurcussions only mellowed by the melodrama proceeding in Kannada( or so I thought ) and Hindi by the two warring factions. A melee is something that ranks at number two on my "to avoid" list.. the first being giving the mirror a moment of reflection. The breakfast added to the misgivings leaving a bad taste in the mouth as well. It was all capped by the question of the day. "Where can I find a petrol "bank??" is what I made out of a stifled plea from under a thick beard that was being lugged around by a Hero Honda splendour. The incredulous disbilief on the equally bushy eyebrows when I replied that one can only be found on the other end of the ubiquitous ( and hopelessly packed ) Bangalore traffic junction was a sight to be captured on the cerebral canvass. Alas, I cant help geography ( and that applies to history as well ). Just as an afterthought, it was befuddling to imagine the chagrin of our hirsute protagonist on realizing that I had my back to a veritable filling station when I had parted with my advice. Way to go....if only I knew it like the back of Prateek's T shirt.