B for...

L'adieu à l'espoir

2008-10-03T13:04:00.000-07:00

Contrary to what you may think or may have heard, I have never been one who supports the concept of resolving issues through violence or aggression in all its forms and varieties.

In fact, I've been supportive of civilised, diplomatic yet speedy solutions to "situations"; which would explain my admiration for the Japanese businessman.

For those of you who may have spotted the subtle contradiction in the above statement....my clarification follows....

Japanese culture and customs, have been shaped by and find their roots in Edo-era Japan when Bushido was much more than a code. It was a way of life.

The Japanese approach to business has been moulded from this very code, bringing together contradicting elements such as brute aggression and civil honour.

Hence, although the Japanese may be legendary in terms of their swift and ruthless business tactics; you would rarely read of a Japanese CEO resolving his problems with a katana.

But to get to the point (which by now, I'm sure, is more of a microscopic speck to you) is that in my humble, personal, layman's opinion, violence is never the answer to a problem.

But that was me a few weeks back.

Till a few weeks back, the world, society as a whole was just the right balance of good and evil (although lately, the term "balance" is defined as being more in evils favour, but not so much that you'll feel as if toothpicks are slowly...very slowly being pushed under your nails).

Every single act or event was laden with the cliched pros and cons, the typical contradictions and the innumerable tragedies and triumphs that seem to be the mainstay of Earth, 21st Century A.D.

Closer to home, the balance was even more visible. It finally appeared that the tremendous cost borne by a community of farmers and landowners would be paid off by a simple contraption of plastic.

But there had been hope. Too much hope for peace and a future that seemed to hold promises and present opportunities across all levels of societies.

And there had been too much noise. Noise that set off alarms in the mind of a mentally imbalanced, paranoid, self-centred, irrational and moronic individual. Alarms that brought about such a rush of madness that finally broke down a threshold that had already been pushed and shoved to the point of cracking. Patience.

Patience of not only the ones in the factory, but of those in the villages surrounding it and in the towns near them and even in the ivory towers of the cities and even beyond.

No more of this nuisance, some said. No more before it's too late, said others.

Maybe it already is too late.

What began as an irritation, slowly developed into an itch, growing into a rash which has now poised itself as a tumour. A malignant cyst with the sole objective of petrifying all around it.

Modern society has often proposed a simple solution to such a problem.

Elimination. Swift, surgical elimination.

But at what cost? Thousands, Millions? Something that cannot even be quantified?

For those of you who find themselves asking these questions, know this. Nothing comes without its costs. If you believe otherwise, my sincere and heartfelt condolences to you.

Regard these lines of text as a wake up call, a call to arms, an incessant rambling, or utter nonsense.

It's not that I care. I've stopped caring about a lot of things in the recent past.

But I do admit thatI had never thought I'd ever stop caring about my beliefs and change them so drastically. And I guess I have to thank one individual for that.

My closing message to the subject of this post.

I hope, for your pathetic sake, that you realise the outcome of your acts before others do.

Remembrance...

2008-02-12T05:12:00.000-08:00

It was the warmth that brought him back to his senses...as he regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was his leg...or whatever remained of it.

The entire length of his left leg was peppered by shrapnel, some of the pieces still glowering. The faded khaki was now a deep red, mixing with the exposed flesh. He didn't feel much pain, the damage to his nerve endings was far too much to allow him to feel any. Years on the field had taught him that much. Too many years...far too many....

He surveyed his surroundings and witnessed a scene that would have turned any one's mind. What used to be the bus station was now a burning crater, the flames fueled by the corpses of the vehicles and their passengers. The air burnt, smelling of fuel and flesh...the unmistakable stench of "plastique" hung in the air. Shaking off a wave of nausea, he groped around...searching for his sidearm, his hand being greeted by chunks of burnt metal and concrete. He looked around and assessed the need for a weapon, his senses answering in the negative.

He could see some of his squad through the flames. He could shout at them, just one word and they would be beside him, at their commander's side. But he knew that they had better, more important tasks to perform. There were civilians to tend to...and he wasn't worth rescuing...not in the shape he was in.

"Rescuing"...he laughed to himself. That was the last thing he had expected he would ever need.

It had always been him doing all the rescuing, he had always been the hero.

But today...today he had failed..miserably. He grimaced as he tried to measure the loss of life his actions or rather, the lack of them had caused today. Collateral. That was the word they used. That was one of the side effects of battle, of war.

That was the word they had used five years back, when they had debriefed him in the ambulance.

He remembered that day on the school yard, remembered the bell ringing, muffled suddenly by a staccato of automatic fire.

He remembered his reflexes, his training taking over.

He remembered spotting the gunman, remembered opening fire just as another hail of hot lead spattered the ground before him.

He remembered seeing the group of children caught in the line of fire.

He remembered seeing his son amongst them.

He remembered the ambulance. He remembered calling up his wife, hearing her screams resounding through the hospital corridors.

He remembered his son.

It was the warmth again that jarred him to his senses the second time. He realised he was crying. He wiped away the tears with his grimy hand.

His son. Five years had passed since then. His son would have been twelve last month.

He had often wondered what his son would have looked like grown up. And today he had seen him. Among the busy crowd, the masses thronging the bus station he had seen him. The resemblance was uncanny. The auburn eyes, the sharp nose... "Uncanny" was an understatement.

He had stepped out of the jeep and had walked towards the boy. Two of his squad members had followed him, unsure of what was happening.

The boy had looked lost, as if in a daze. He remembered calling out his name, his son's name. He remembered spotting the flashing light through the boy's cape. He remembered his reflexes take over...too late.

He remembered the blast...the heat...the roar of metal twisting and melting, the sound of skin burning...

He remembered his son dying in the Intensive Care Unit...the alarms being drowned out by his wife's screams.

This time he did not let the warmth wake him up...

"Lonely Hearts"

2007-08-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

That's what they were known as back at base. Most of them didn't care; some took on the phrase as some kind of label, an identity. He hated it. He had always disliked being called a 'loner', a 'recluse'. He didn't need a label, a nickname to know what he was...what he was capable of.

"What do these grunts know anyway", he had heard himself quip one day. Unfortunately, this comment of his had been overheard by some of the residents of the camp, the ones who did, take pride in being called 'grunts'. Needless to say, the results of the consequent 'conversation' hadn't been too pleasant.

It was a miracle he had passed the course, having spent almost two weeks of the six nursing a broken finger...his 'trigger finger'. It was during these fourteen days that he had learned about his gift, his 'power'.

"The sniper is the most adaptable of all animals", he remembered his chief instructor saying. He remembered the looks on the other cadets' faces when he made a perfect score using his other hand. He had never been ambidextrous, but it was something in him, something that he felt only when he was with his rifle, that made him feel 'invincible'.

He felt a bond, a 'kinship' with that object of wood and metal that he had never felt with any other human being, ever.

By the end of the six weeks, only four teams had survived the course. There was no ceremony, no party to celebrate the accomplishment. They had boarded a plane the next morning and been dumped, equally unceremoniously in the middle of a war which had slowly started to lose all meaning and sense of purpose.

Snipers always worked in pairs, one would watch and the other would kill. Those were the rules. Simple rules, which, if not followed could mean certain death.

He had never been one for rules. But he had been clever enough to know when to abide by them. In the camp he had to, if he had to earn the badge. But they were no longer in camp and the rules appeared easy to bend...even break.

"That looks like a good spot..over there", whispered his watcher. He pretended not to hear. "Hey..didn't you hear what I said?" said the watcher, nudging him on the shoulder.

He didn't reply back. His Beretta did it for him. The soft metallic 'clinks' of the casings falling on the cracked concrete were muffled by the sound of the watcher's body crumpling, collapsing against the wall.

Holstering the sidearm, he walked to the slit of a 'window'. "It isn't such a bad spot after all" he said aloud. He was alone now, exactly how he had wanted it. Just him and his rifle. Just like it should be.

He cringed with a sudden rush of rage as he remembered that night, a few days after they had landed. Their first mission, the promise of their first 'kill'...HIS first kill. All taken away by that bungling pile of flesh and bones that now lay rotting in a pool of 'its' own blood.

He remembered how he had wept that night, how he had felt his entire world, his dreams implode, leaving behind a deep vacuum, a scar that seemed to deepen with each passing hour.

But his luck had changed. There was another mission, the promise of another kill.

During the briefing, he had felt it grow within him, a deep, warm feeling...no, not just a feeling, a craving. It was the kill he craved...the 'red mist'.

He'd first heard this phrase when he was in camp, from one of the older ones. "That's all you can get to see", the man had said. "Through those cross hairs, all that will tell you if it's a kill, will be that puff, that cloud of mist...RED mist".

Since then he had wanted it, wanted the mist, the kill.

He looked at his watch. A few more minutes to go. He had been waiting for three hours now.
Even if he had decided to take position in the open and not in the deserted 'pill box', no one could have made him out. He was one with his surroundings. In the past three hours, he had moved twice; the first time was to allow a scorpion to pass through his 'ghillie suit' and the second movement was to compensate for the first. He could hear his sweat seep into the cracks of the concrete floor, feel the dehydration setting in. But he couldn't move...not now..not when he could hear them...hear his prey approach.

He breathed in, feeling the slight jerk of the recoil against his shoulder, the sharp smell of cordite, the soft 'sneeze' of the suppressor. Then he saw it. The mist. He felt his senses exploding in unison, a feeling of elation that could never be described in words, one that he did not want to let go off...he felt...he felt like 'God'.

The yelling broke his stupor. Looking through the cross hairs, he saw his remaining prey scatter, hiding behind whatever cover their surroundings could provide. His rifle now seemed to be a part of him, an extension of his arm. All he had to do was point and breathe and he was answered by the mist that he so craved.

One by one he saw his prey fall. And with every breath of his, he could feel the breath leaving their bodies. This was his moment of truth..his moment of self realisation...of true power.

Snipers had rules, simple but cardinal. One such rule was never to compromise one's position.

But he had never been one for rules.

He never heard the muffled footsteps behind him, the whispered orders, the creak of the door. He turned only when he heard something rolling on the floor...something heavy.

"Clear!!!" yelled the man near the door.

"That takes care of that nuisance..." remarked the other, his superior. "Come on...we've got the wounded to take care of...and...what's wrong?"

"Nothing Sir...I mean...when I tossed it in..I saw him...his face..and..."

"And what? Speak up man!!"

"I could swear he was laughing..."

Blub...blub....

2007-07-03T23:36:00.000-07:00

"Enjoying the rains?" read the scrap from an old school-mate of mine. When I say 'old' I do NOT mean it in terms of bio-physical chronology...in case you lovely ladies out there ARE wondering.

Now that I have demonstrated enough of my desperation...back to the storyline.

"Yea sure!!!!" I typed, ending the reply with a grinning emoticon. This was usually how the tone of my 'conversations' with buddies from my alma mater went....loaded with sarcasm and in the very few, extremely rare cases, expletives; for contrary to what you may have heard / read about me, I AM a true gentleman.

A short 'ping' brought my attention to the reply to my initial response. As I read the letters glowering on the screen, I felt an overwhelming wave of nausea coming up, getting ready to come crashing down.

"Yes me too! I'm feeling so nostalgic!!!"

What the!!!????!!!!! I checked the scrap to verify the author's identity, still unable to comprehend what had happened!!! 'Freaking Nancy Boy'!!!! (I never said I was a 'politically correct' true gentleman)

Nostalgic about the rains??? In Kolkata?????? How the hell does one say that!!!?????!!!!!!

To shed some light on my extremely adverse reaction to the aforementioned scrap, I was, at that precise moment, very close to being diagnosed with cabin fever. (Refer foot note 1 for details)

The reason or rather, the cause? Nothing serious.

Well, if you can term being stranded at home for almost 34 hours on account of the rain, which some people apparently find nostalgic, 'nothing serious'!!!

"Monster monsoon" read the headline; the article itself carrying a very macabre graphic of a school boy (complete with uniform and knapsack) being steadily submerged by a rising wall of water. That was somehow supposed to demonstrate the 'water-logging' levels at various times of day in the city.

For over-imaginative people like myself, there was a small disclaimer at the bottom explaining that the situation depicted in the graphic was imaginary based on actual rainfall statistics.

Phew!!!!!!

For those extremely fortunate ones, who are as yet, unaware of what 'water-logging' denotes, imagine yourself immersed in waist-deep (which reaches a level of 'neck-deepness' once a vehicle manages to drive by) water, which I am sure, if analysed chemically. would turn out to be more than a mere compounding of hydrogen and oxygen molecules.

For someone who's been born and brought up in this city, events such as 'water-logging' and 'load-shedding' are as common and familiar as the rising and setting of the sun. However, this year's monsoon had, by its fourth week, turned out to be a royal 'pain-in-the-you know what'.

In one of the many attempts to sensationalise the pathetic situation in the city, one newspaper had measured the day's rainfall in buckets!!! Apparently, close to 3000 million buckets had been poured onto the streets in a little more than three hours. And then it went on to quote the local meteorological head honcho as saying, "If it hits with full force, the city will drown".

That was comforting. I imagined calling up my client and telling them, "Sorry, can't make the flight, I might drown in a few hours..." I'm sure they would understand!!!

After spending the entire morning making close to 3000 million calls in an attempt to re-arrange my schedule which had been ravaged by four feet of water outside my door, I resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't do anything to alter the current scenario and so, decided to lay back, relax, and have some tea while listening to the waves lapping at my doorstep.

In case you have not realised, this is a 'live' post, my first one till date. It's started raining again and I've just realised I don't know how to swim!!!!!!!

So I hope you won't mind if I excuse myself and start googling "Free online swimming lessons - crash courses"!!!!!

The End (well hopefully not literally!!!!!!!!!!)

Notes:

1) Cabin Fever ~ Refer 'The Shining' (foot note 2)

2) The Shining ~ Refer foot note 1

Baichung or Beckham...contd.

2007-06-20T21:32:00.000-07:00

The Match!!!

A fortnight had passed since the 'warm-up session' and although the three of us were trying our best to forget that 'memorable' day, the throbbing pain in our rusty joints wouldn't let us!!!

The news of our football fiasco had spread like wildfire and pretty soon, people were expressing interest in a match. Somehow, the tale of our sporting skills and athleticism had instilled a deep, vibrant feeling of enthusiasm and confidence in people (the enthusiasm and confidence of beating us 20-0 no doubt!!!)

A date was fixed...22nd September 2006 and so was the venue...Southwark Park. All that was left was the final list of players. Along with AB and Jewel, ARAP, who was now back in town had signed up. Bhaitu-Da (probably the only person in our group who had any legitimate sporting experience at all) had suggested the venue and had even arranged for a post-match tea session at his residence. KV, another solid bloke from back home had jumped in the band-wagon as well.

That made six. And since we were quite certain most of us would not be able to last a full ninety minutes, we did need more substitutes!!

"I'm in!!!!" exclaimed Dada as soon as he heard about the match. A quick phone call later..."and so is Boudi!!!". 'Fan-blooming-tastic!!!' Having Dada and Boudi around would surely elevate the 'fun' rating by a few notches!!!

A brief pause to explain who Dada and Boudi are. Dada's a part of our senior management but can give any of us lesser mortals a run for our money when it comes to being the true party freak!!! And for those who don't know the bong words, Boudi's his better half, who's equally (sometimes even more) freakish (and in the given context, extremely gallant) when it comes to having good, clean fun!!!!

Another brief pause to define the words 'party' and 'freak' as they are known in the world where I come from.

'Party' ~ A gathering of a weary, workaholic accountants who sit and talk about the intricacies of work, work and more work throughout the duration of such a gathering.

'Freak' ~ A person, being a member of a 'party' as defined above, who sits the most and talks the most about the intricacies of work, work and more work throughout the duration of such a gathering.

On a serious note, all of us aren't that bad....some of us stand as well.

The morning of the 22nd was a typical English one. Dull, gloomy, cold and extremely wet. "Perfect weatha for footsie eh!!!" said an extremely chirpy Bhaitu-Da on the other end of the line. "I'm sure it'll be better by the afternoon", I said, trying to sound as chirpy.

We had decided to start our match at three in the afternoon as there was a Man U vs Liverpool match earlier that day. Hoping to get a few last minute 'pointers' from the match, I had planted myself in front of that faithful companion of mine (the television set), only to find myself being extremely distracted and perturbed by the downpour that was becoming increasingly audible through my 'toughened-glass' window.

Despite the rather disconcerting monsoon-like weather, we had decided to go ahead with our plans and soon enough, we were in the middle of Southwark Park, already drenched to the bone, deciding on where to place the goal posts (and more importantly, how big they were going to be!!!).

The teams were decided. Dada, Jewel, AB and I were to be on one team and Boudi, ARAP, KV and Bhaitu-Da were to be on the other. It was decided, despite her protests, that Boudi would be the goalie of her team, where the least amount of harm would reach her.

Play started with a blistering kick from AB, which sent the ball flying into the air, followed by his right shoe, the latter seeming to land closer to the goalpost.

Now, in normal circumstances, identifying one's opponent's goal is not a major dilemma facing football players. However, in 'normal' circumstances we weren't. Not only had the rain reduced visibility to a few feet, the absence of the goal posts and the goalkeepers themselves had not helped the situation.

Although we had taken a lot of pain in marking the goals (The one with the pink polythene bags was the one we were supposed to run to), the gale that was now howling through the park, sent us scurrying after our precious goal markers rather than the ball (which was nowhere to be seen).

As for the goalkeepers; Boudi had decided to step away from the fray and under the protective shade of a tree, busying herself in capturing those fantabulous sporting moments being played out in front of her on her camera.

Jewel, on the other hand, had joined the 'Save our goals mission' and was busy chasing his 'pride and joy', a ragged leather jacket which, moments ago, had formed part of the right 'post' of our goal.

In the middle of all this confusion, someone found 'Animado' and after a series of passes, stumbles and intimate encounters of the muddy kind, the two teams were back in 'game mode'.

The gale had quietened down a bit and the raindrops didn't seem to be so big and heavy. Boudi had initiated a pause in her 'photo-documentary' and Jewel was holding on to his jacket much like a capsized sailor would hold on to a life raft.

A shout from behind me...AB had negotiated a tackle from KV and had sent the ball in my direction. I reached out with my right leg and established contact.

The next few seconds seemed to be played out in slow motion. Defying all known laws of physics, the ball made a weird turn in the mud and whizzed past ARAP and Boudi into the welcoming yaw of the goal!!!

"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" we roared in unison, proceeding to give ourselves, crude 'non-hip' versions of back slaps and high fives. However, our joy was short-lived as we discovered, to our horror, that Dada had hurt himself.

However, after listening for a few minutes to our expert physio-therapeutic advice, Dada decided (rather wisely) that it was safer for him to go back to the field.

Play resumed and within a few seconds, another shout. 1-1!!! Bhaitu-Da had managed to take advantage of Jewel's distraction with his jacket and had sent one past him. It was sometime later, that we discovered that Jewel's glasses were equally at fault. They had decided to fall apart shortly after that!!!

Payback was the only thought on my mind as I made a desperate charge towards the goal. Boudi, this time, for reasons of her personal safety, had decided to step away. A few more feet to go!!!! As I readied for the final shot, I noticed KV heading towards me. Stepping out of his way, I turned to send the ball into the now empty goal when i felt a hand on my shoulder.

In seconds, I'm sent flying across the mud towards the park benches. Lying flabbergasted, I see a grinning ARAP shrug and remark, "It was just a nudge"!!!

Luckily (for ARAP), the weather played spoilsport again. It was raining elephants and rhinos by then. Also Dada wasn't feeling too well (he still complains of a pain when he sees anything remotely related to football), Jewel was visually impaired, Boudi's camera was low on memory and I, well I had mud in my shorts and revenge on my mind!!!!!

Thus ended our glorious sporting event and we walked / limped back to the warm sanctuary that was Bhaitu-Da's apartment where the promise of hot cups of tea and 'chanachur' awaited.

But that's another story altogether!!!!

Baichung or Beckham...

2007-06-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

This post is based on the first article that I had written for our office newsletter. In fact, this was supposed to be named 'The London Times vol. 1". However, it was my colleague and friend, Bhaitu-Da, who came up with the title that stuck.

While writing for one's office newsletter (one that is published on the national network), one has to be very careful with the words and phrases that are used. Apart from being 'politically correct', one must also make sure that no-one is left out and is mentioned at least once.

I find these conditions to be a bit claustrophobic as I'm sure most of you will. Hence, the following 'bhaant' has been generously tweaked and moulded to free the original essay from the shackles of 'work-place censorship'!!!

Baichung or Beckham...

"How about this then?" said Jewel, striking a pose a Vogue model would have been envious of. "Not too bad....but...." commented AB. "Dudes!!!! They have footballs!!!!!" I yelled.

Before I let you sink further into the murky quicksand of confusion (damn, that's a catchy metaphor!!!), let me explain the situation that was described in the above three sentences.

AB, Jewel (sorry guys, not the kind of Jewel you think..this one has a moustache) and moi were standing in a very crowded Lillywhites in Piccadilly Circus. The reason for us sweating it out with over-zealous housewives and mothers (no offence meant of course) shopping for their husbands and sons / daughters, was that Jewel wanted new shoes.

And I thought women were terrible at shopping!!! (again...no disrespect meant). An hour and a half and fifty thousand pairs of shoes later, he still hadn't found the "one"!!!

Being totally bored with the whole affair, I had wandered off into the far corners of the store, discovering to my delight, an entire crate of footballs. (That's 'soccer balls' for you pseudo-Americans. Also, if you have not guessed already, this post IS going to be about football. Hence, if you are squeamish when it comes to the word 'ball' or its plural form, I suggest you stop and move on to the next blog...)

Not only were there balls everywhere, these balls were pretty cheap balls!!! (now I'm doing that on purpose...) Pretty soon, AB joined me and we started to put a number of balls that had passed our visual inspections to the test, much to the chagrin of the security guard. Deciding that it was best not to test the footballs and the patience of a seven-foot, three hundred pound man any further, we bought one and exited the store.

"Hey!!!!!" yelled someone from behind us. "Jewel!!!", both of us exclaimed. In our excitement, we had forgotten our friend, who was last seen trying on four different pairs of shoes at the same time (don't ask me how). Apologising profusely and gushing praises for Jewel's new pair of Lionsdales, we headed back home, enduring Jewel's 'Besh hoyechhe na"s ("They are pretty nice, aren't they") which seemed to be uttered at a frequency of ten per minute (that's one every six seconds).

A week had passed by and the only bit of sport we had had with the football was bouncing it off ARAP's head. Sensing ARAP's growing displeasure at our fondness for this new sporting activity, we decided to have a 'match' in Hyde Park the next Saturday. Unfortunately, Saturday wasn't good for most of us, including ARAP, who was flying off to Ireland. Despite the lack of numbers, I had put my foot down and we decided to stick to the plan, calling it a 'warm-up session' instead.

Come Saturday, the three of us, AB, Jewel and I headed down to the lush and vast green fields of Hyde Park. After all, it was fitting in a way that the ones who had 'discovered' "Animado e belo" should be the ones to first 'test' "her". (That phrase was my 'secret' nickname for the ball...all I can say is that it's in Portuguese)

So there we were; three, out-of-shape men from the land of Mohun Bagan and East Bengal in the land of Manchester United and Chelsea, huffing and puffing, chasing a ball that didn't quite seem to live up to its 'animado' tag. "Aah..a few solid kicks should fix that", we had agreed in unison the night before when the last bounce off ARAP's head didn't quite, well, 'bounce'.

Sure enough, an hour or so later, after a furious assault of kicks and curses, it did. Satisfied with our handiwork, we progressed to the next stage....dribbling. A few embarrassing minutes of stumbling and tripping over each other and the ball, we realised our skills definitely lay somewhere else....passing, maybe?

Gaining some confidence from moving the ball around within a little triangle, we decided to end the warm-up session with some 'goal-kicks'. The sun had climbed up a bit in the sky, and we were 'warmed up' enough. The words 'hot', 'hungry' and 'haggard' seem to best describe the state we were in and not necessarily in that order.

As it would turn out, Jewel proved to be an incredible goalie. Despite our best efforts, neither AB nor I could put one past him. In fact, the only way I had managed to score a goal with Jewel at the post was to put on my 'mean face', which, for some inexplicable reason had him in splits...

AB wasn't bad either, although it was clear his forte lay in playing the mid-field. As for me, I had always been the guy who would blindly charge towards the goalpost given the ball and pointed in the right direction. In my schooldays, my then not-so-considerable mass and short stature gave me the opportunity to duck, dodge and slide towards the opponent's goal. However, many years and layers of adipose tissue later, those 'skills' can now safely be labelled 'extinct'!

Exhausted physically but high in spirits (mainly on account of the fact that no-one had laughed at us), we trudged back to our apartments, our minds focused on one thought and one thought only....a footsie match!!! That and ice packs....lots of them!!!

To be continued....Soon!!!

D and I go out for din din...at least that was the plan!!!

2007-06-12T22:33:00.000-07:00

Among the many things D and I have in common (apart from being two 'weirdos' who are equally 'insane') is our love for varied cuisines and unique dining experiences.

Although her 'love for food' translates into the experience of going through the menu and deciding what to order, my fascination with the field of gastronomy begins and ends with consuming the servings ordered.

One fine day she calls me up asking me if i was 'vella' enough to have dinner. Reminding her I led to the term 'vella' being invented, I raise the most dangerous question of all..."Where?"

What ensued for the next fifteen minutes was a veritable flood of emails from D containing links to websites of eating joints strewn all over London. Having admitted that I was more vella than her, I had unsuspectingly fallen into a trap.

Now I had to decide where we would be having dinner, knowing very well that if I screwed up, I would be subjected to a few painful weeks of 'never getting to hear the end of it'!!!

After a few hours and a dozen "how about this?"s and "why don't you decide then?"s later, D announced her sudden craving for momos. We zeroed in on this place called 'Base Camp'. The reviews were good, the price seemed right and they served momos!!! Registering her approval with an "yayyyy", D switched off, as she often does, into her "kaaj aachhey" ("I have work") mode.

Although I was a bit speculative as to whether the momos in London would even begin to compare with the Elgin Road ones, I dialled the number printed boldly on the website.

"The number that you have entered does not exist", said the curt, but surprisingly posh voice on the other end. "CRAP AND DOUBLE CRAP" I cursed in my breath. Deciding not to wait any longer, I break the news to D, who again, very predictably gives one of her 'hmmmm's.

Finally we decided to make the trip anyway and that if the 'Base Camp' wasn't to our liking, we'd go somewhere else. Little did either of us know at that time how important a phrase like 'somewhere else' would turn out to be!

Having fixed up a time and place to meet, we get back to our daily schedules (and NO, mine does NOT include me being vella all the time!!).

Now what I did not know was that Base Camp lay in the far-away corners of 'Zone 4' (one of the six transport zones of London), a zone which I had absolutely no idea of, being confined mostly to Zones 1 and 2.

Being the trust-worthy fool that I am, I was relying completely on D's knowledge of the location we were heading towards. Only after we were on the Tube did I come to know that the only bit of 'knowledge' she had was a rather confusing squiggly thing of a map. (Readers of this blog will know about my infamous grasp over the subject of geography)

Having received one of D's "don't be so paranoid" glares, I decided to stay 'mum' for the entire journey, which involved two line changes and thus required an incredible amount of effort on my part (Again, readers who are unfortunate enough to know me would agree).

Almost an hour later, we reached the neighbourhood of Leytonstone.

My very first thought on getting out of the Tube station was to grab D and turn around. Now I am definitely NOT the timid type and don't mind venturing into the unknown. However, there are places where you can't drag a female of the species to. Although in this case, it was the female of the species who was doing all the dragging, something in my gut was telling me that this was a bad idea.

Leytonstone resembled one of those neighbourhoods you see in gangster movies, and by 'gangster' I don't mean those fedora-wearing, tommygun-wielding, snarling types. I mean the hooded jacket wearing, knife-wielding, snarling types. In fact, a couple of those types were standing a few feet away from us.

I looked at D, who was busy studying the map she had brought along with her. "Give that to me", I said snatching it from her and stuffing it in my pocket. "Don't we need that?" asked D.

"Naah...I replied, rather unconvincingly. Being the stubborner of us two, D had decided to let her craving for momos override her judgement and so we started looking around for Leytonstone High Street, which was supposed to be where this place was. "...and it had better be damn good", I grumbled.

After a fifteen minute walk along this unlit (hence dark) road lined with shops and other suspicious looking 'commercial establishments' (none of which were open, by the way), we sighted Base Camp. "You have got to be kidding me!!!" both of us exclaimed. The freaking thing was closed!!! And from the appearance of the place, it had been so for a few months at least!!!

Feeling disappointed and relieved at the same time, I dragged D back to the Tube station. After walking for a while, I realised that she wasn't walking beside me. Panic-stricken, I turned around and saw her, standing under the only functioning street light, busy fiddling with her Blackberry, completely oblivious to the fact that she was at that moment, what military strategists would refer to as a 'soft target' .

Apparently, she was researching other restaurants on that fruity gadget of hers. And whenever I was attempting to interrupt this endeavour, she shoved me away. Realising, to my discomfort, how freakishly strong my skinny friend was (she had used just one elbow to physically displace my considerable mass by a few inches), I decided to pay no attention to D and walked towards the Tube station. Soon enough, I could hear her pattering behind me.

Turning around to flash my ' Hah I win!' grin, I saw this rather agitated, petite, middle-aged lady rushing towards me. Managing to step away in the last moment, I realised that my considerable mass had been blocking a considerable part of the entrance to the station. I also realised that it was pretty late. Although it was only nine in the evening, this was well past the normal dinner time in the United Kingdom. And we did have a long journey to reach the sanctuary that was Central London, if we were to have dinner at all!

Luckily enough, D sensed that as well. And so, we headed back towards Zone 2, closer to home and civilisation!!

On the Tube, I suggested that we go somewhere that would be close to where D stayed. And so, we decided to head towards this joint called 'Chillie's' in Canary Wharf. Chillie's was a decent place, with pretty good food, and although the price was a bit steep, the servings were adequate. The downside to Chillie's was that both of us had had a lot of meals there and it was TOO familiar. A rather disappointing conclusion to our gastronomic journey.

However, both of us were ravenous and D's craving for momos had turned to a craving for anything that had ever moved once.

Having ordered a trout, some chicken, a diet coke and a Long Island Ice Tea...we waited, rather impatiently for our food, which was brought to our table by this rather flirty waitress (who somehow seemed to be having some problems with buttoning up her blouse).

"I have a headache', announced D, pushing away her plate. This translated into the following:

a. I have had my fill by ordering stuff from the menu, and,

b. I'm bored and want to go home!!!

Now I was stuck with more food than I could finish, an increasingly irritated friend and a waitress, who I could have sworn, had just changed into a blouse which was two sizes too small!

Managing to convince D to have some of the trout, I gobbled up the rest (hence, my considerable mass) and signalled for the bill.

"Don't tip her", grumbled D. This translated into:

a. I didn't like the food (cos I wanted momos), and,

b. Why the hell were you ogling that b**** (read waitress)!!??!!

Leaving me over-stuffed and a tad confused at the table, D sauntered off.

Paying off the bill (which included a rather hefty tip), I gathered my scattered belongings (which consisted of my suit jacket, my overcoat and my laptop) and managed to catch up with D on one of the many escalators.

Realising that our grand plans had been screwed up royally, I braced myself for the assault.

D turned around on the escalator and flashed one of her 'Bardot' smiles. Nauseous from an over-indulgence in a combination of trout and chicken and lima beans and feeling tired and sleepy from the 'now hectic' day I was having, I managed a rather confused "HUH????"

At the DLR station, I delivered a few parting words of advice like "Take care and take an aspirin and let me know once you reach home", all of which fell on deaf ears.

I went to bed that night, steeped in mortal fear. Having spent the remaining hours of the night visualising how my punishment was going to be meted out, I trudged to work the next day.

After having gone through the early morning ritual of saying "Hi"s, checking my mail and having coffee, I decided to brave it and sent out a mail to D.

A few minutes later, I got a reply. It was a few minutes before I realised why my colleagues were looking at me in bemusement. Apparently, the expression on my face was rather similar to the emoticon on my screen.

I was, once again, free to breathe again!!! :)

A for...contd.

2007-06-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"
Was what was going through my brain as I witnessed that Pan Parag chewing, girlfriend worshipping thing that resembled my senior 'negotiate' (as he had so elegantly put it) with an increasingly-agitated man who had claimed to be a local 'teski' driver and who apparently knew a route to our destination.

At the risk of being subjected to another hug, I decided to step into the fray when my senior (let's just call him 'A' for...you know what) decided it was high time that he blamed the people of the state we were in for our current predicament!

"Ki maan dibo?" I asked in broken Assamese. The man softened, not from hearing his mother tongue being mercilessly slaughtered by a total stranger but from hearing the 'magic word'.

I had asked him how much money he was asking for. The man studied me from head to toe, scratched his head and stated his quote.

"Are you kidding me!!!??!!!" yelled out A. "That's mid-day robbery!!!!" he exclaimed.

"Daylight..." I muttered, refraining from punching the daylights out of him. Now don't get me wrong. I am pretty tolerant by nature. But if you had been subjected to the tantrums of a 25 year old man for the better part of an hour, I'm sure you too would have been looking for a sizeable brick in your vicinity.

After another five minutes of bickering, it was decided that the teski driver would take us to the nearest telephone booth where we would establish contact with our destination (which was a tea estate, if you hadn't guessed already) and accordingly chalk out our 'plan of action'.

I had decided that MY 'plan of action' on reaching the nearest telephone with an active STD facility would be to call my incredibly paranoid mother, who I'm sure had by then made calls to the airport, the airline, my manager and the local morgue.

Now you must remember that this was before the wonders of cellular telecommunication had reached the interiors of Assam. In fact a fully-functioning STD booth was often revered as a place of awe and wonder in some parts of the state.

Luckily enough we were able to call home. That took us another half an hour though. Not because of the bad connectivity. The network was just fine. However, A had decided to give his girlfriend (whom I had decided to call 'Her Fabulousness') a call before calling home. ("Well after all..home is where the heart is" he'd stated)

I had decided to wait outside the booth while A made the call. Not surprisingly enough, I was soon joined by the proprietor of the booth and a few other locals who had decided to enjoy a siesta in the shade of the booth before A had walked in.

As soon as A walked out with a rather vulgar look of contentment on his face, I stepped in, this time to call up the estate. Once I had satisfied myself that the receiver was sanitised enough, I punched in the wierd looking number my manager had handed me.

A sleepy voice on the other end said "Doria Sa Bagisa.." In a conversation that consisted of Bengali, Hindi, Assamese and what I later suspected to be Zulu, I was able to gather that somehow our client had been given to understand that we were arriving by a much later flight and hence the missing board with our names on it. In fact 'Manjer Saab' himself was on his way to receive us, what with the 'bandh' and all.

I told the gentleman on the other side, who had turned out to the estate's 'Bada Babu' that we were not waiting any longer and would be reaching the estate ourselves. He sounded reluctant but agreed.

Heading outside, I saw A standing outside with a rather Dev Anand-esque expression on his face, holding an unlit menthol cigarette between his fingers. Grinning at me, he handed me the cigarette and said "Dhara de na.." ("Light it for me please").

Taking up smoking as a habit is something I am not proud of. However, the fact that I have managed to quit does make a strong boast. This narrative relates to a time when I was battling my inner demons to give up the notorious 'cancer-stick'. Hence, the very sight of one did bring about a certain 'longing' within me...

What I WAS unprepared for was the sight that faced me. A grown man holding a menthol stick (the type which I rather insensitively refer to as 'nunu cigs') , unable to puff on it on account of lacking the knowledge of lighting a cigarette!!!

Finally we were on our way!!! Our driver, who seemed to have relaxed a bit now, was busy negotiating the many turns and potholes and cows strewn across our path, while we were busy keeping the stale airplane food from coming out.

We had been on the road (or lack of it) for at least two hours. That nasty thing of a 'bad feeling' had started to creep up again. I was positive that the last turn we took looked familiar, too familiar in fact!

Leaning forward I asked the driver if he was sure that we were headed in the right direction. Looking at me through the rear-view mirror, he gave a sheepish grin and said "I guess..."

He what!!!

The car sickness having sapped my energy to even voice my anger, I slumped back in my seat...looked at A, who was deep in slumber with the same vulgar look of contentment he had on his face when he had walked out of the telephone booth; looked at the driver, imagining for a moment how he would look being roasted alive on a spit and then muttered, "Just take us to the nearest telephone booth".

Another forty-five minutes later, we reached a shack which stocked apart from a telephone, biscuits and mineral water!! It appeared that we were headed in the right direction, but were on the wrong road (although 'jungle trail' would be a better term).

The kind lady in the shack drew our driver a map, the latter vigorously nodding his head every time a new turn or landmark was drawn on the scrap of paper.

We were on the road again, but this time armed with a map and with adequate supplies, the three of us shared this feeling of hope that a few minutes ago had never shown signs of re-appearing.

It had taken us four hours to reach the estate and it had been more than five since we had landed in Jorhat. Reaching the manager's bungalow, we collapsed in the guest room (not even caring that there was just the one 'master bed').

Countless apologies and several cups of tea and sandwiches later, we stepped out into the setting sun. For the first time that day, we weren't pre-occupied enough to take in our surroundings.

So this was Assam. A lush green platform of tea bushes lay before us, bordered in the distance with hills topped with grey clouds. It was almost dusk and the fireflies were coming out, lighting up the horizon. It was picture-perfect. And neither of us had brought a camera!

We had had an eventful start to our trip. One which would last two weeks taking us to various corners of the state and which would be as eventful as the first day.

This was the start of my relationship with Assam. More trips would take place over the span of two years giving rise to innumerable experiences. Ranging from leopard attacks to crossing rivers in jeeps, each of these would be fondly stored away in some part of my memory, to be recounted to any unfortunate soul who would be unwary enough to ask me about my last trip (which would always be Assam!!).

So don't say I didn't warn you.... :)

A for...

2007-06-06T09:23:00.000-07:00

"Assam. You know where that is don't you?"

I stared at the white envelope my manager was holding out in front of me. Of course I knew where Assam was...it was that squiggly thingy beside the other squiggly thingy on the map thingy. Now this of course was as far as my knowledge of geography stretched (Having once obtained the grand score of four in one of my school tests, I wasn't exactly NATMO material!!!).

It was like a dream come true for me. Finally an 'out-station'!!! That was what we called our jobs outside the city. Unfortunately, for greenhorn interns like me, most of these 'out-stations' turned to be places like Bandel and Asansol at best. Hence, Assam could be regarded as an overseas (or in this case, an ‘overacoupleof rivers’) trip!

As I made my way towards the 'enclosure' where we interns were 'kept', I could see some of my seniors gravely nodding their heads. "You're GGA bro" quipped one.

A brief pause to explain what ‘GGA’ stands for. Unfortunately, keeping in mind the sensitivity of the reader and the norms of public decency, all I can say is that this ‘TLA’ (Three Letter Acronym) is the Bengali equivalent of ‘FUBAR’ (which I cannot, unfortunately, expand either). Hence, if you do wish to know what either of these stand for (you pervert!!!) do e-mail me for further details.

"Yea, going to ‘Ahom’ means you're going there for the rest of your bondage" remarked another. "Yea, do you even know how many clients we have there??" asked a third.

Fortunately or otherwise, none of these remarks / inquiries affected me at that time. Innocent and idealistic (some say that also stands for ‘DUHHH!!!’) I saw this trip as an opportunity. An opportunity to travel, to prove my worth, to do what I had always wanted to do...SERVE SOCIETY!!! (okay, the last part was a bit too much)

The flight to Jorhat was pretty uneventful. My team lead, a senior intern (who was also a novice to Assam) 'entertained' me throughout the flight, alternating between raving about his girlfriend and snoring. "Revenge will be sweet, my friend", I thought to myself, once he had started calling out their future childrens' names....

Stepping out of the airplane, we were welcomed by a blazing sun and luckily enough a non-blazing AK-47. None of us were very surprised, given the situation Assam was in (IS in for that matter). But what amazed me was how most of the passengers, most probably frequent travellers, barely even looked at all the weaponry around the bus stop, sorry airport.

And so we walked out of the bus stop, sorry airport, expecting to see a board which had our names on it. No board. I mean, there were boards, in all shapes and sizes, dozens of them being held up by men in white or khaki uniforms; all of whom bore an expression, which I felt at that time would be borne by someone who had mistakenly used sandpaper for toilet paper that very morning. But none of these sandpaper using gentlemen bore good news for us. None of the rapidly diminishing boards bore our names or the name of our employer or even the name of the organisation we were visiting.

My senior started pacing the bus stop, sorry airport 'patio' with increasing pace, now muttering the names one of the many commercially popular Hindu gods and his girlfriend in the same breath.

"You know...we could give them a call" I said. My senior stopped, looked at me and then to my horror, hugged me!!! "Great idea!!!!!" he exclaimed, rushing towards a CRPF jawan who I'm sure would have shot him then and there, had he been subjected to a hug as well.

While my senior was engaged in what I could only hope was an inquiry as to where the nearest telephone booth was, I was in the meantime wondering what our backup plan for reaching our destination would be. Other thoughts occupying my head at that time were:
a. Whether we would be getting separate bedrooms (that was more of a wish rather than a thought) and
b. Whether my senior's girlfriend had any idea of his enthusiasm for hugging other men.

Going by the slow trudging motion my senior made on his return, he was not the bearer of good news.

"The nearest booth's a couple of miles off.." That bit of information could have sounded like "You just won the lottery!!!" when I heard the next few words that came out of his mouth.

"There's been a bit of trouble here...apparently there's a 'bandh' today..."

It was at that very moment I decided to give up alcohol, smoking, religion and my love for cotton candy. All in exchange for salvation. Salvation from what seemed to be our last day on this miserable excuse for a planet!!!!!

"...and it's been called by THEM" he finished, his voice fading in the now increasing wind.

Goodbye cruel world!!!!!

To be continued...

well of course!!!! Otherwise I wouldn't be writing this would I!!??!!

The London Times vol. 1

2007-06-04T22:24:00.000-07:00

The nature of my work makes me travel...to places far and away. Last year, I had to journey to that little island of the United Kingdom of England and Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland where I set up base for a little more than eight months.

Being a home-bred 'bong' having grown up on stories of 'bilet' (non-bongs..please do look up these words in a dictionary. In case you do not find them in a dictionary, please contact your nearest bong; and by this I do not mean your resident apparatus for consumption of certain "stimulants"), I was subjected to a flurry of experiences which ranged from the predictable to the totally unexpected.

My methods of 'literary torture' in the coming months shall, from time to time include some of these experiences. So don't say I didn't warn you!!

The following is an article I had written for a newsletter at my place of work...

The London Times vol. 1

I remember my very first day in London...wet, gloomy, cold. “Luvly weathah, init mite?” quipped my ‘cabbie’. After deciphering the ‘code’ that turned out to be “Lovely weather, isn’t it mate?” I managed a faint smile, having endured a nineteen hour journey from home via two flights.

Shivering in my cotton shirt and cursing myself for not wearing a jacket, I hopped onto the pink monstrosity that stood in front of me (and here I was, thinking all London cabs were black!) After a short ride I found myself in front of a Victorian building on a picture-perfect avenue in Kensington that was to be my home for the next eight months. Picture-perfect, except for the rain which had now become a veritable downpour!

My colleague, AB who had had to endure my company along with the long flights and the weather, paid off the cabbie, who somehow didn’t look too pleased with us. (It was sometime later that we discovered the custom of tipping taxi drivers here in Her Majesty’s land!)

We soon came to know that our friend from back home, AD, was also a resident in the same building. AD still remembers that fateful day when he found his new next-door neighbour to be ‘yours truly’ rather than that gorgeous supermodel he had always expected! The expression on his face was priceless!

One always apprehends the ‘jet lag’ accompanied with long-distance flights and trust me, no-one can prepare for it. (Despite whatever household remedies one may prescribe!) I personally believe that it’s not the crossing of time zones but the incredibly ‘comfortable’ seats that your carrier offers you that are to blame! I mean, how anyone could be expected to relax in a chair which feels like having been made out of wooden rulers bound by cloth is beyond me!

Anyhow, a relaxing shower later (which managed to bring the drumbeats inside my head to a nice, slow rhythm), the five of us ventured out into the streets of London looking for a means to satisfy that primal need of Man...Hunger! Before I proceed, the ‘five’ of us included AB, AD, SK from our Delhi office, Mrs. SK and I. Led by AD, who was the veteran among us; we managed to gather enough ingredients that would last us a week or so.

The walk to this supermarket from our house was about five minutes. But, thanks to me, it turned out to be fifteen. Let me mention here, that one of my two weaknesses (the other being food) is trendy cars. I was not prepared for the fact that the streets of the ‘Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea’ would be the setting for most automobile magazines! Every time, a Porsche or a Ferrari would zoom by, I would stand there with an expression of a toddler being locked in a room filled with cotton candy! My friends soon realised that the journey would be much quicker if they carried on without me and well, they did so (carry on that is).

That evening, we had an invitation at a restaurant called ‘Chowki’. It was some-what of an impromptu get-together as our boss was in town. It was also the day when we got our first glimpse of the infamous ‘Piccadilly Circus’. Bright lights, big crowds and rickshaws, no wonder, people compared Kolkata to London!

At Chowki (an Indian restaurant, if you had not guessed already) we met more of our ‘Dada’s from back home. The food was great, but it was the conversation that rocked! I could never have imagined that we would be having a typical Bengali ‘adda’ in a restaurant in London (the so-called birthplace of the ‘stiff upper lip’)!!

After finishing off an entire generation of sheep and an entire yard of grapes, we headed back to our apartments buzzing with excitement (or maybe it was the wine). Pretty exhausted by now, all of us went to bed (in their irrespective bedrooms).

We were starting work from the next day and the butterflies were aflutter! But, the rains had stopped and ‘tomorrow’ was looking good!!

Nota Bene: Due to possible legal ramifications, names have not been used.

About this blog...

2007-06-04T22:12:00.000-07:00

'B for...' is meant to be a repository of all the inane ramblings that I subject my friends, family and any other unlucky soul who may be in my proximity (physical or virtual) to.

For those of you who may chance upon this blog, let me assure you that this will neither be a collection of exemplary literary works nor a dumping ground for philosophical debates and discussions.

It will, I promise, be a collection of nothings. Of those moments in life that one might find some humour in. Although, I must agree that my definition of humour will not be in everyone's dictionary.

So read on if you will (and if you are brave enough!!)

Welcome to 'B for Bhaant'!!!