The benches in the back *sigh*

The last time they made me sit on the first bench in class, I almost passed out. I have always been one of those typical back benchers throughout school, college, corporate training rooms and now in IIMK. For the back benchers, there is no need of any blog to tell them the merits of making their home where they choose to, but for all those souls who are ignorant of the multifarious opportunities provided by the back benches and for those poor sods who intentionally avoid the back benches for whatever reasons, here is an attempt to unravel the mystery. Before proceeding any further, however, I would like to acknowledge the source of inspiration for this attempt...none other than the back benches in the new class rooms at IIMK, which are built purely for the back benchers with chairs squeezed in to increase the class capaciy.

Today is the day when all your questions are going to be answered...there are going to be answers to the quizzical glances you always gave to the guy running in at the last minute (a side effect of being a back bencher) and heading straight to the last bench in a class hardly filled up to the third or fourth bench...there are going to be answers to all those times when you got frustrated because the teacher picked you to answer a question and not the back bencher snoring away to glory...even answers to the times when the back bencher was able to answer the question you couldn't despite snoring away to glory a moment ago.

The obvious difference that the back benches make is that of visibility. The absolute lack of it can be further accentuated by a certain shift in posture that only the back benchers are capable of (do come to me sometime if you want to learn the trick...I will try to help you with the best of my experience). This shift makes it virtually impossible for even the keenest of teachers to spot you and even if they do get some indication of your presence, the posture can be modified slightly to appear that you are the only student engrossed in whatever the teacher is saying and in your efforts to retain it all, you have gone into a scientific aasana.

Actually, it is all about perspective. The "global" perspective that a back bencher can gain from the class discussion is unmatched. Sitting at the very top (in case of sloping lecture halls like ours) or at the very back, in line with anything else but teacher's sight (as in schools with level floored classrooms), the back bencher enjoys the sound wave reflection that is unimaginable for anyone else. All the crap that gets around in the class room has to come and strike the back benches on their way to the rear wall of the class (don't ask me what the sound waves are doing near the rear wall) and thus have to come to the back bencher. This, here, is the answer to your pseduo intelligent back bencher you wanted to throw your book at for stealing your point and giving a detailed answer, leaving you with nothing else to speak on when the teacher caught you.

The overall personality development that a back bencher is capable of is unmatched, too. With novels, magazines, newspapers, and the like making the back benches their home (there have been so many occasions where I didn't even have the need to get a book along...it was already there under the desk, left by the previous informed inhabitant of the back benches), the back benches act as information highways. The journey on this highway, aided by the sound wave reflection make sure that the back bencher achieves much more than the ear-cocked-head-tilted first bencher.

There are so many other things that I can count as the advantages of being a back bencher but if you have not decided to attain salvation by now, then perhaps the devil owns you :-). Speaking of the devil and his followers who sit on benches other than the ones in the back, let me assure them that God sees everything in this world and He has given us back benchers a special power to get back at all of you. Of course, since I have that special power, I am not going to be naive enough to share it with you non-believers but for all those who want to belong, let me tell you my sisters and brethren, as Morpheus told Neo...unfortunately, no body can be told what the back bench experience is, you have to experience it to understand it.

Why the long face?

I seriously need to see someone or do something about it. This is certainly not the first time that something like this is happening to me and if I don't do something about it, it is certainly not going to be the last. After some terrible days at the end of the last term, I had had a welcome break of three months in which my stay at home, the experiences in Kolkata and of course, the affection of my family had changed my outlook completely...or so I thought.

Today was the first party at campus and ever since the morning, I had the long face ready to greet it. What went wrong? Presumably nothing and yet the long face...the long face that makes people stay away, think twice before coming over. After all, no one wants to be spoken harshly to or be dismissed by a disinterested attitude. No one can understand why I am the life of the party one instant and an unsufferable bore the very next...and why should anyone make the effort to understand...when I can not understand it myself.

All this again brings me back to so many other things...who are my friends and who are the acquaintances, what do I expect of my friends and why do I expect anything at all? What am I cribbing for and why? What will I achieve by writing all this on the blog? Why am I changing my blog yet again from completely public (meant to be read by others) to something so personal (meant to act as a private outlet of feelings...a cleanser)? Why am I insecure (despite the apparent confidence that I so unabashedly display)? Why can't I pin point the reason for my problems? Why is the tension eating me up from the inside? Why is the positive accumulated over the last three months depleting so fast?

Why am I such a kid...such a loser?

Fable in a fable

You are sitting in the middle of a magnificent, lush, green garden. This garden is filled with the most spectacular flowers you have ever seen. The environment is supremely tranquil and silent. Savour the sensual delights of this garden and feel as if you have all the time in the world to enjoy this natural oasis. As you look around you see that in the center of this magical garden stands a towering, red lighthouse, six stories high. Suddenly, the silence of the garden is disturbed by a creaking sound as the door at the base of the lighthouse opens. Out stumbles a nine-foot-tall, nine-hundred-pound Japanese sumo wrestler who casually wanders into the center of the garden.

It gets better. The Japanese sumo wrestler is naked! Well, actually he is not totally naked. He has a pink wire cable covering his private parts.

As this sumo wrestler starts to move around the garden, he finds a shiny gold stopwatch which someone had left behind many years earlier. He slips it on, and falls to the ground with an enormous thud. The sumo wrestler is rendered unconscious and lies there, silent and still. Just when you think he has taken his last breath, the wrestler awakens, perhaps stirred by the fragrance of some fresh yellow roses blooming nearby. Energized, the wrestler jumps swiftly to his feet and intuitively looks to his left. He is startled at what he sees. Through the bushes at the very edge of the garden, he observes a long winding path covered by millions of sparkling diamonds. Something seems to instruct the wrestler to take the path, and to his credit, he does. This path leads him down the road of everlasting joy and eternal bliss.

The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari



I have never been one of those who are easily impressed by the self-improvement or the get-rich-soon books. In fact, it has always been the reverse and I have made no bones about laughing at those who read such books, believing them to have just too much spare time at hand or mentally challenged. I always wondered that if the authors really knew techniques such as these, why were they still writing books, of all things. I had picked up this book, one of the latest and more popular self-improvement books (in fact, I was not really sure if it was that when I laid my hands on it) only because of the first reason I mentioned, that is having quite some time on hand.

Having gone through the book in two seatings, however, I realized that the succinct manner in which the book is written and the effective way in which it conveys its message is something that can not be found so easily in any other book of the same class. The fable above is the only thing that the book talks about. It uses this amazingly simple and unbelievably absurd fable to give a list of principles that will help improve the quality of life. Robin Sharma is no sage and he does not tell us something that none of us knew...at least the Indians know most of what he is speaking of and have actually employed most of the principles mentioned in the book as a part of their routine lives.

However, it is clear and apparently obvious that the book is not meant for India or Indians. Robin Sharma, in a seemingly calculated move, makes sure that even the protagonist is the typical workaholic American with dollars to spare for the eastern new age fads...Yoga, Gurus, and books like these. Julian Mantle, a hot shot lawyer gets burnt with his work filled life and after a heart attack that rings the warning bells for him, he sells off all his possessions (including a Ferrari and thus the name) and goes for an odyssey to the east.

After roaming about much of India, he finds peace and enlightenment through the teachings of the sages of the Sivana who live in isolation in the deep reaches of the Himalayas. Having committed to spreading the wisdom that he has gained, Julian comes back to America and pays a visit to his one time colleague and junior lawyer who was pretty close to him during his materialistic days. As Julian gives this discourse and pours out his heart and knowledge to his newly-found pupil, the readers of the book travel along with the two on this odyssey to a supposedly tension free life that promises nothing short of the elixir of everlasting youth.

Unlike other such books where after a decent beginning, much of the rest would have been lost in some disconnected rambling, the best part of this book is the way it connects the ideas spread across the entire (200 pages long) book through the fable above. As Julian tells John, his pupil, the secrets of life, he tells him that each element of the fable above represents one of the factors that need to be considered if a sattvic life is to be experienced. While the garden is compared to the mind, the lighthouse represents the purpose of life. Similarly, the sumo wrestler represents kaizen for self improvement and even the wire cable he wears represents the will power of human beings.

The book goes on to describe not just the ideas as represented by the elements of the fable but even gives some practical techniques to implement the ideas. The summary at the end of the chapters, mentioning the fable element, the virtue, and the techniques to achieve that virtue is another effective tool used by the author to tie his strings.

I am not sure how helpful the book is going to be in improving anyone's life (though some of the ideas are really common sense and do seem to be helpful). The important thing, nevertheless, is that the book brings together many of the things we already know but have no time to think about in cohesion. Even more importantly, all this is done in style and the use of the fable within a fable is a master stroke that is earning Robin Sharma the millions he rightly deserves (well, perhaps he does not deserve millions for telling us what we already know but that is what he is getting, fortunately or unfortunately).

Love gives life, or does it?

I see that your aim is as bad as your cooking!

And you never even remembered to send a card to my mother on her birthdays...
...yeah, the mother who never existed!

If you wanted to see Angelina pout...if you wanted to see Brad charm you off your plush multiplex seat...you got it. If you wanted a good movie, however...ahem, you just might look elsewhere. Mr. and Mrs. Smith appeals because its stars do and an amazing appeal Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie do have! Widely voted as the two most beautiful faces on this earth, the lead actors try their best to make this movie pass but ultimately, the lack of any coherent subject matter and rather shoddy treatment of the strings of the narrative prevent the movie from making the mark.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith are the neighborhood couple up for a split. The movie starts with a visit of the couple to the marriage counsellor beacuse each of them feels that the other is a bore. In reality, their jobs are anything but boring. Both of them work for rival spy agencies that kill for money/honor/whatever but since they don't bring their work home, they never know what the other is up to. In fact, this is one place where the story falls flat for the first and most significant time. It is difficult to believe that even after six years of married life and staying together, not only do they not know what the reasons for the other's late entry into the house and the scars on the bodies are, but also they have no idea that their partner has hidden away weapons in the house.

The movie catches pace with the rival agencies giving conflicting assignments to John and Jane Smith and with the assignments having gone awry, it now becomes the task of each of them to finish the other off within 48 hours or get him/her self finished. As one numbing (and often unbelievably James Bond-esque) action sequence follows another and as the two realize the identity of the secret agent that they are after, the tone of the movie is set. Mixed with the action sequences are the elements of romantic comedy with the couple finally realizing that killing each other is not so easy and that they have always been lying to each other about themselves.

It would be wrong to say that there are no funny moments in the movie...there are quite a few, especially when they start talking about the background of each other before marriage, as it actually was and as they presented it to the other. The movie loses focus, however, when these sequences start becoming way too predictable and instead of actually bringing that smile on the viewer's face for the originality of the one-liners, they (the one-liners) mostly make the audience wince.

After the customary and predictable love making and make up between the couple in the intermission comes the next most obvious twist in the plot. The two form a team to defeat the forces that initially make them bay for each other's blood...off they are to save their skins from their assasins but this time, together. This is where even the comedy part goes for a sabbatical and only the John Woo style action is left to supposedly entertain the audience. With bulletproof jackets playing God, it becomes difficult to appreciate even these well-shot sequences: culprit is, without any doubt, lack of originality in conceptualization and execution of these sequences.

From the directorial aspect, Doug Liman does a decent job with the screenplay that he has been given. In the scenes between Brad and Angelina (especially the ball dance scene), he does manage to spark some sort of chemistry between two otherwise cold beauties. However, in the action sequences, he tries too much to follow the Hong Kong style of eyes-closed-shooting that starts getting on the nerves after some time. Since the movie does not have much of anything else (apart from action) to offer, the nerves tend to suffer quite a bit. This does not, however, take away from the camera and the action departments which do a credible job. Had it not been for the lack of involvement in proceedings that a seemingly disintegrated chain of events brought along with it, the effect of the action sequences (with the last one being close to choreography) could have been much better.

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie look like a million bucks each and Angelina even manages to raise a few laughs with her dead-pan humor but Brad fails miserably with an un-cool performance that is certainly not expected from as BIG a star as he is. The best deal is clinched by Vince Vaughan, who plays John Smith's best friend and trusted comrade-in-arms. He does raise a few laughs by his dumb act but can not salvage the movie because of his relatively small role and some real chances of an overkill had he tried more than what he did. Rest of the cast are there to just fill the gaps and the movie tries to rest on the capable shoulders of Pitt and Jolie alone, which, for a change, fail to stand up to the load this time.

From tags to...

The game of tagging people on their blog spaces has been on for quite some time and I must say that the ingenuity of the person who started it for the very first time needs to be appreciated. The very methodical nature by which he/she chose the topics for these chain blog posts, viz., books, movies, and music, is something in its own class. Almost no body would mind writing about his/her favorite books, movies or music and anyway, that is what most of us who write blogs do.

What beats me, however, is the reason why this person started the chain blog thing. In case of a chain email, I can understand the commercial motives in probably trying to earn some money through scrupulous (as in advertising) or unscrupulous (as in stealing confidential information through viruses, et al) means. But, how different bloggers mentioning their favorite books, movies, or music can benefit anyone is beyond my comprehension. The only thing that I can think of right now is that it may live up to the ego of the starter and I guess that is reason enough, or is it?

The weather outside my room being heavenly, I am currently very highly motivated for another round of the inviting pillow and mattress routine (just got up an hour ago). As such, I don't really want to get too much into the psyche of the original tagger. Instead, I will just do my job and since I do not basically enjoy getting my neck on the line, I won't specifically tag anyone. However, any of the people whose blog links exist on the left panel of this page are welcome to carry the chain ahead if they wish. :-)

Number of books I own:

As Karan, the person who tagged me said, are you serious? There are too many to have a count of. The last count I did was when I left high school and took back my books (and comics) from the neighborhood library I was a partner in. They returned me some 350 comic books, nearly 35-40 novels (of the likes of Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, etc) and about 20 odd classics (which belonged to my uncle at the time). Over the years, there have been many additions to this collection and I have absolutely no idea where it stands right now.

Presently reading:

[Reading again]
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

[Reading for the first time]
Dilbert and the way of the weasel

In the pipeline:

[In my possession]
Atlas Shrugged
Fountainhead

[To buy/beg/borrow/steal and read]
Harry Potter and the half-blood prince
The Monk who sold his Ferrari
Five point Someone

Recently read:

The Da Vinci Code
Angels and Demons
Digital Fortress
Deception Point
(Yes, I was on a Dan Brown spree!)


Some of my favorites:

Gone with the wind
The immensely intricately etched characters of Scarlett and Rhett were the irresistible features of this epic saga that spanned across the American civil war. It appealed to me primarily because of the emotional strength of the female characters which is what I also appreciate in real life (all girls reading this post and swooning over its writer please note :-))

Yes Minister (and Yes Prime Minister)
Comedy at its subtle and satirical best! The television soap was good but the way readers of the book are exposed to the diaries and letters of the charcters in this political comedy is something that really completes the picture. There could hardly be any better way to portray the politics of a country as much in discussion as the UK but more than that, the treatment of the subject is exquisite...nothing banal about it at all...typical bureaucratic class at its best.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
The play of fantasy and at the same time, some back-to-the-roots fight between good and evil appealed ever so much to the readers of this book. More than anything else, the book made an impression on me not because of what it presented but because of what it promised to present in near future. This has now become a hallmark of JKR's Harry Potter series: each book reveals some things and promises to reveal so much more the next time around.

Lord of the Rings
Yes, I am rather given to the fantasy bug and I really like the magical creatures and the stories of good versus evil where the good finally defeats the evil and all is well but that is how I am! The darkness of the villains in this epic, though not in the same league as you-know-who, was enough to justify the supernatural blessings that were showered upon the ring bearer and his troupe. I really digged the elves and the kings and dwarves and all the others!

Tale of two cities
One of the first classics that I ever read, it actually exposed me to the dark side of man and how even fantastic motives like liberty can turn man to monster and how vengeance can take ugly shapes. This book reduced the naivette with which I used to view the world and given the early period in which I read it, it was also the first book to introduce the ways of the west to me and was a sort of first entry for me into the European way of life and what an entry it was!

The travails of travelling

As I sit in my room in the G hostel (yes, I am back to G after wishing a heartfelt farewell to it just a few months ago), overlooking the rain and feel strange for the umpteenth time about the difference in weather between this place and back home (compared to the heat wave there, this place is cold, what with the incessant rains for the past so many days), I can still hear my stomach growl. And enough reasons it has to growl, too. The long journey from home to Kozhikode is just that...long and without anyone to accompany you, it is immensely boring and frigtening, too.

The very first thing that hit me as I entered into the compartment of the superfast train to Mumbai was the bad smell coming out of the pantry car which was right next to my coach. Somehow, I knew right then that the poor stomach is going to get a rough treatment and given the heat wave that was lashing against North and Central India with all its fury at the time, there couldn't have been a worse time for such a thing to happen. As expected, the dysentry set in as soon as the train crossed the borders of Uttar Pradesh and with the last of water bottles over, I struggled to the pantry car only to find it locked.

With no water, dysentry having set in and diarrhoea to follow, and most importantly, no stoppage for the next seven-eight hours (this one was a long distance superfast train, remember!), I had a terrible time and could just manage to somehow stay alive till the next day when water came and with it came the comparatively milder climate of Maharashtra (with the Rain Gods having blessed the state a little earlier). As I reached Mumbai in the evening and tugged my heavy luggage along to the local station to get on to Panvel from where I had to catch my next train, I was feeling better, but just a little.

The next day, however, proved to be my saviour as the wonders of the Konkan railway route once again put me in the poetic and romantic and nostalgic mode. I forgot about my stomach pains for quite some time...lost in the beauty and the memories. The frequent stoppages helped, too, as I could get down and stretch my limbs every now and then and the fresh air that went inside me during each of these stretches worked wonders that no medicine could have.

God's own campus is living up to its nomenclature and I can just imagine the amazement with which the new batch would make their first entry into the campus. Last night, we had an introduction session with whatever little of the new batch that is already on campus (people in for the remedial course or the early arrivals). There are some people who are good, some who are very good and of course, the people who appear to be rotten apples as of now. But then, prejudice is bad for health and I will reserve my opinions till I see more of these people and more of the rest of the batch.

Of handwork and french cuts

Although this is a back-dated post, I still wanted to write about what happened to me a few days ago in my sleepy little village (particularly sleepy given the heat wave which makes practically anything else too difficult). As the readers of this blog may be aware, I hail from a small village called Pandeypatti in the district of Buxar in Bihar. This village, as the name suggests, is the fiefdom of a particular caste (of the many that rule the Bihar landscape) and much of what happens here  is guided by the whims and fancies of the village superiors...or it used to be guided by the above. Recently, there has been a marked change in the way the proceedings are carried out and even I have been able to notice it over my last few small visits.

The Buxar town that is flanked by villages like Pandeypatti (that form the Buxar district) is an interesting study, too. With four cinema halls, one big market (big by the rural standards, that is), two mandis (make-shift markets that meet twice or thrice a week and act as a meeting point for sellers and buyers across the district), and one shady Government hospital, the place has got little to boast of apart from the historic battlefield where the famous Battle of Buxar was fought (and which has now been converted into the political playground).

Enough of background now! Let's cut down to what exactly prompted me to write all this. Actually, it was a combination of two incidents that happened one after the other, one in Buxar town and the other in my own village. Taking them in the chronological order, the first of these incidents happened when I was on a visit to the Doctor of Homeopathy who has impressed my mother and sister by his smart talk and some lucky medicine selection that seems to have worked for their repective ailments. My ailment, as per my much-impressed and much-concerned mother and sister, is my thinning mane which needs something to be done about it if there is any chance to marry me off (ok, the marriage part was my addition of the spice, but you get the point, don't you?).

So as I was explaining the encumberances of desired matrimony to this doctor, he suddenly pops up a question and I am taken aback a little, considering the passion with which I was tring to communicate all the worries of my mother and sister and the reciprocal passion with which the doctor put the question to me.

Doctor: Night fall hota hai? (Do you experience night fall?)
Me: Huh?
Doctor: Night fall (with the fall spelt as phaaaal, as if to make me understand)
Me: umm nahi, normally to nahi, kyun? (Well, no...not normally. Why?)
Doctor: Hast kriya (literally translated, Hand Work)?
Me: kya (What)???
Doctor: Hast Kriya karte hain? (Do you indulge in hand work?)
Me: Hast Kriya??? (Hand work...still trying to relate to the terminology)
Doctor: Dekhiye, humse sach bataane me koi problem nahi hai, aakhir hum aapke doctor hain (Listen, there is no problem in telling me the truth...after all, I am your doctor)
Me: Accha, wo! haan karta hoon regularly (Oh that! yeah I do that regularly...suddenly realizing that he is referring to masturbation)

Doctor raises his eyebrows at regularly and looks at me.
I change the word to normally and am eagerly waiting for him to ask me the frequency but unfortunately, the question never comes.

The next incident happened when I was coming back to my village after the emotional meeting (at least for the doctor...he did not speak much in the same tone after hearing regularly, despite my subsequent reversion to normally) with the doctor. As I was passing the last of the nukkads (the corner shops that sell tea, cakes, eggs and such), I overheard the conversation taking place between some four or five young boys (most of them in their late teens) sipping their last cup of tea before going back to their household chores of the evening.

Boy 1: kaa ho, tu gaeel rahla na saloonwa me? (so, you had gone to the saloon, hadn't you?)
Boy 2: haan, gaeel rehni par okra paas na rahe kauno design (yeah, I had but he did not have any design)
Boy 3: Frencho cut na rahal ha? (he didn't even have the french cut?)
Boy 4: are na rahela ekni ke sang ei sab, okra khaatir jaaye ke padi Patna (oh, these people don't have these things, for that you will have to go to Patna)
Boy 2: haan, aur ou phatal boot cut bhi na rahela yaar kapadwa ke dukaan me (yes, pal and even the torn boot cut is not there in the clothes' shop)
Boy 1: aajkal ihe sab achcha laagela lekin ei Buxarwa me saala kauno samjhewaala naikhe (nowadays, only these things look good but in this bloody Buxar, no one understands)

So, no one understands, and as the school drop outs and Lalu's baal charwahas (the sons of cow-grazers for whom Lalu had so famously opened the special schools all across Bihar) discuss boot cut jeans and french cut beards, the doctors in the city are still speaking of masturbation in hushed tones. Probably it makes sense, too and is not that much of a contrast for I wonder what the reply of these french cut and boot cut boys would have been, when asked about the frequency of their hast kriyas...all I can say is carry on, doctor! :-)

Oh boy! The city of...

The sunmmer training process is over and I am waiting for the mail from my project manager approving my report so that I can send the same to the HR and complete the formalities that still remain between me and my goodbyes. Since this is going to be my last post for quite some time (perhaps till I reach IIMK on the 19th of this month), I thought that I might as well jot down some things that struck me the most during the past two months spent in Sonar Bangal (not the seven star ITC hotel with a slightly different spelling...am referring to Kolkata). So here go a few observations about the city of joy:

Kolkata has a very high beauty quotient. Beauty Quotient, to me, is the natural beauty of the female population (can be accordingly modified by the fairer sex, if they wish so) divided by the forced beauty that is attempted at through tight-fitting clothes, layers of make-up and of course, some strong dieting and exercise to try and maintain that perfect 10. Compared to Bangalore (which has a low quotient because of the high denominator) and Mumbai (where the quotient is a little better but not as well because of the denominator and the numerator being high at the same time) and other places that I have had the opportunity to...ahem...study, Kolkata scores probably the highest. The natural beauty of most of the girls and women of Kolkata is supplemented well by the sense (of dressing, carrying themselves, etc) of the not-so-endowed ones to get the quotient quite high.

Kolkata is liberal. It is the only place I have seen (and I admit I haven't seen all) where the ladies sit by the side of the auto driver right in the front. There is no difference between a guy and a girl when it comes to filling an auto (though the buses still have the "ladies" seats), which I believe, is an indication and a fallout of the matriarchical Bengali society that we have all heard of.

Kolkata is not expensive at all. For the typical middle class big-city-dweller, Kolkata is heaven incarnate. Cheap food, cheap lodgings (unless you take up living quarters in the extremely posh or estate scarce areas) and reasonably priced amenities, make Kolkata the cheapest metro to live in.

Kolkata is not cheap either. When I say that Kolkata is one of the cheapest metros to live in, I am not being derogatory. For all its traditional nature and Bengali conservative culture, the city is shaking its chains off and pretty fast at that. The number of nightspots is increasing dime-a-dozen and the number of people (including college goers and the fairer sex) who go out past midnight to return only in the morning hours, is to be seen to be believed. And lest you believe that the middle class is going to have fun here as well, something else is in store for you. The prices are steep (perhaps not as steep as they are in Mumbai but comparable, nevertheless) and as the lifestyle and Page 3 craze gets going, the exclusivity is going to come in big time as an attraction. The prices are bound to follow the exclusive pattern, too.

There are some good cinema halls in Kolkata but not good enough. Be it the INOX or the 89 Cinemas, the multiplex culture is catching up but a little too late. Mumbai is of course right there at the top but even late comers like Bangalore have an edge over Kolkata in this regard. As of now, Kolkata still plays host to cinema halls and multiplexes as a part of a bigger picture of a mall. However, in contrast, at places like Delhi and MUmbai, shopping malls have been built around cinema halls (Priya, PVR...).

Retail is booming in Kolkata. The Pantaloons outlet in Kolkata is their biggest grosser across India. The Pizza Hut at Camac Street, Kolkata is the largest selling Pizza Hut outlet in India. The INOX theatre in Kolkata is again the biggest grosser amongst all INOX theatres in India. The story promises to continue. With Big Bazaar lowering the prices to suit the pockets of the used-to-economy Kolkata inhabitant, there promises to be another surge, putting Kolkata firmly on the map of the retail industry.

Kolkata is going to be the next hot software destination. With places like Salt Lake already filled beyond capacity and new buildings coming up wherever empty space could be seen a few months ago, the scene is picking up. With Wipro having set up one huge facility in Salt Lake and in line to open another at Rajarhat, the upcoming software center of Kolkata and with TCS going full steam ahead with their new building, things can only go up from here. The Kolkata map is expanding like never before to accommodate the new suburbs that have been coming up over the past few months as a part of the software revolution.

Bengalis in Kolkata are turning into one neutral lot. Although the quintessential fights-with-no-blows-and-only-words are there, the Kolkata crowd is fast appreciating the value of silence. The metro culture is creeping in and instead of shouting at the neighbour, the preferred option is to just shut your doors and windows down. with the Marwaari community almost taking the town over from the native Bengalis, the culture is undergoing serious transformation. The helpful and straight-though-immediately-provoked Babu Moshai is disappearing fast but still exists.

Kolkata is hot and HUMID.

The smoke knows no bounds in Kolkata which seems to be the biggest consumer of cigarettes amongst Indian cities.

The PG (paying guest, that is) homes at Kolkata that shut down the doors at 10:30 (inspite of it being an all-guy PG) suck.

The Kolkata metro rocks...even now.

The wooden seats and the general seat layout in Kolkata buses don't.

There are not as many of the North East India people here as are the Biharis and the Oriyas (unexpectedly, for me).

There are some really good hotels in Kolkata (not to mention ITC's 7 star Sonar Bangla).

You can get a cab willing to go anywhere in Kolkata, if you flag it down from Park Street.

The walls and buildings in Park Street remind you of CP in Delhi and VT-Churchgate in Mumbai.

The water in Salt Lake area is to be had with a great deal of caution.

For a non-Bengali, the sugar in the curry is not digestible. Maarwari food outlets in outhouses rock.

There are quite a lot of FM stations in Kolkata and boarding a taxi without an FM radio is sacrilege.

The latest Food Plaza opened at the Howrah railway station serves some quality food and a varied lot at that.

It is difficult to commute from Joka to Dunlop if you are on a time crunch.

The CD renting shop at the BJ market in Salt Lake has an amazing collection.

The classroom at Alliance Francaise has an amazing air conditioner that makes the three hour class possible.

If you want to party hard in Kolkata, you need to have accommodating hosts like Sandipan's folks who can take in a guy at home even at late nights.

The tea and snacks jhups near PwC practices CRM and knows what is to be served to regular customers without their asking.

The libido of Bengali women is not just a fairy tale :-)

Believe it or not, I shall miss Kolkata and remember it fondly ;-)

Believe it, I don't want to come back to Kolkata for any long duration (short visits will be welcome).

It's June 9, 2005 and I am a score and five

One of the first memories of my birthday celebrations that shall always be a part of my life is looking at my little sister (she was a kiddo then...not even 3...not that I was any older at my 4th birthday) sitting on the window sill all grumpy and teary eyed, with two balloon sticks in one hand and a candy wrapper in another. In fact, I shall always be indebted to whoever took the snap of her sitting there all alone, with her cheeks puffed up on being ignored and her tears having dried up on being given the little consolation she had in the form of the balloons and the candies. I still use the photograph whenever I have to get "kiddo" psyched up. :-)

The cakes and friends and temples and gifts routine carried on for quite some time but most of that is vague and hazy in my mind...till the last of them came about. Incidentally, it was my 13th birthday that was the last one celebrated with all fanfare and gung-ho enthusiasm on part of my parents and guardians. Everyone we knew in the city was called up and invited to the last birthday celebration of a 13-year old (I am not sure but as far as I remember, it was me in one of my crazy want-to-grow-up moods who suggested the birthdays-are-for-kids funda). And what a birthday celebration it was and what amazing gifts!!! It was the birthday when I received my first cricket kit, some "intelligent" board games and all this not for nothing...for it was also the only birthday where added to the usual cake and snacks bit, there was a sumptuous dinner spread for the guests, as well.

And then I was 18. Having already decided to avoid the guests invitation and gifts receiving routine (and unfotunately sticking to the decision), I had my family planning a rather moderate celebration and how moderate it was!!! We went to one of the most expensive and stylish and considered-hep restaurants of the city and reserved a table for nearly twenty (yes, that was the number of relatives whose presence blessed my trasition to legal adulthood). I had a ball that day and still carry so many memories of the party...how Nana and Nani got into the party mood for the first time...how my Mausis and Mami pulled my leg every minute of the first day of my adult life...how I laughed and laughed and laughed!

The mother of all parties, however, was when I turned 21 and when I gave a birthday treat to my friends out of my own hard-earned money, for the very first time. I was in Bangalore then, working as a research assistant under the fellowship program of JNCASR (Jawaharlal Nehru Center for Advanced Scientific Research) and had received the monthly stipend of three thousand bucks for the month of May. About ten of my batchmates from engineering were doing their summer projects in Bangalore at the time and then of course, there was Shabana from JNCASR. I don't know where you are, Shabana but this memory shall always be incomplete without you...without your childish enthusiasm, without your corn cobs...without the great friendship that we had. And before I forget, it was also the time when we had some good fun with another of my good friends. Ashish, with his girl-who-was-born-on-the-same-day connection and the rest of us, with the freshly created mail id inviting him for the girl's birthday treat...that birthday was FUN. In fact, whenever my friends from college wish me on my birthday post that year, they always refer to "that party we had...when's something similar happening again?" Probably never...but who knows!

I went out with my PG room-mates last night and thanks to the extra half hour that the PG aunty graciously allowed us post closing time, we were back after a good (though expensive :-( ) dinner and back to open doors for a change. The cake was there, courtesy Anurag and so were the cards with all those whacky messages. And then it was time...to keep the cell phone in one hand pressed hard to the ears and the knife in another slicing the cake in one sweet motion amidst loud cheers of "Happy Birthday to you". There is another party due tonight with all the summer trainees (thanks to Orkut, my birth date is not something I had to shout from the rooftop for the others at PG or office to know...I know that you were not thinking I had done something like that but still... ;-)). Thnakfully, this party involves a fixed (though by no means small) contribution from me and the rest is going to be pooled in by everybody as the contribution to the summers-at-PwC-Kolkata farewell party.

Since it is my birthday, I will leave the cynicism part for some other day and won't talk about how wishing people on their birthday is fast becoming a social farce and how long-lost friendships seem to come out of thin air as soon as the birthday comes and get lost into oblivion a day later. But didn't I say I will not talk about this? So long then and thanks for all the wishes!

The drums are rolling..a la..a la...a la la la

Congratulations are in order (in no particular order...ain't I funny :-)) to:

Yash Sehgal, for becoming a certified derivatives and commodities trader

Vishak Hemchand and Rahul Nallari, for keeping Ernst & Young buzzing all summers and grabbing a PPO (pre-placement offer) each

Rajan Venugopal and Nimish Menon, for doing the same at GE Money

R Vishwanathan, ditto for Wipro

Jaspreet Chandok, who did the same at ICICI OneSource

Kunal Bharadwaj, for the PPO at Godrej and Boyce

Rohit Bansal, for bagging the second best summer project award at Godrej

Kiran Rama, Manish Shukla, and Prashant Kowshik, for receiving a PPI (pre-placement interview) each from Patni

Indian Institute of Management Kozhikode, for being brave, bullish, and agressive enough to increase the batch strength to 180 (from 120)

The Class of 2006 at IIMK, for the success stories yet to come and for making their mark wherever they went this summer

The Class of 2007 at IIMK, for having decided to spend the next two years of their lives at God's own campus.

Sandipan and poor-ole-me, for having managed to scrape through the summers :-))

From the mountains to the lakes

As the taxi driver steers the vehicle over the umpteenth uncovered manhole, a smile starts playing on his lips while he calculates the huge fare that he is about to receive from the four co-passengers...people who, he thinks, can not even comprehend the speed of his thoughts...who have no way to know that he can calculate 1.7 times the meter reading faster than they can say "Joka Management". And what about these co-passengers? They appear to be tense and seem to have little time to devote to saying "Joka Management" (having already said that when they had specified their destination). They have even less time to think of the taxi fare or ponder needlessly over the extended tables of 1.7. All they are worried about right now is a place called Pailan where the last of thier saviours exist.

It is eleven in the evening (evening!!! exclaims the taxi driver but who's listening) and there is the whole night that is to be brought to life. Bringing nights to life, if you have not noticed it already, requires a little more than idle chanter and any charms that even the elusive Joka Management might have for the first timers (which is the category that entails three of the four co-passengers of the now-never-been-happier taxi driver). As the taxi screams down the dirt track, putting all dirt track taxis of the world to shame and screeches (okay, maybe whimpers) to a halt outside the place that the helpful directions refer to, the co-passengers stare in amazement at the run-down dhaaba and the even more run down (if that is even remotely possible) surroundings. But cease the amazement does as the saviour comes forth from the drakness with his shining torch, the elusive elixir that promises to bring the life to the night ahead.

Tucking the nectar under their arms, they make their entry into their nightspot. As the first of the lakes looms up on the visible horizon, there is very little for the first time visitors to drop down for. This however, as promised, is not all and yet to come are the gleaming beauties of OH, the NH, and of course, the WH. As the taxi toils on (but not the taxi driver...he knows what's coming and is...lovin' it), some more lakes pass unnoticed and so do some of the monuments of learning that stand quite close to but quite different from those of education (if it is not too difficult to get, I am sure that you must have realized that I am talking about the academic and the hostel blocks).

Finally, the deserted Annexe welcomes the weary travellers but with nectar in its various forms to refresh one and all, the weariness is soon washed away (or perhaps down) in tune with the exit of the taxi driver (who could not hide his hideous grin as two papers with an old man staring out passed hands). A couple of people can be heard (seeing is difficult because of the all pervasive darkness...of soul??) moving in and lest there be panic, there appears light at the end of the staircase. As the party moves up the staircase and looks down at the central quad, short talk of the possibilites of one-tip-one-hand cricket passes around.

And then there comes civilization as the travellers knew it. The computer screen is flashing, the speakers blaring and the playlist stuck (that was after one of the travellers tampered with it) at the "Kajraare kajraare" song from Bunty aur Babli. Like moths get attracted to a light bulb, the nectar does bring life to the sleeping campus (or would you prefer to say that  no one had been home at all...not yet?) as the room next to the top floor square gets filled up with intertwining limbs and light hearts. The neighbours are not in and they shouldn't have been especially since the genesis can be quite upsetting for some but then...perhaps not for this neighbour. Paper leaves orphaned and even the book trees abandoned, the beast sits proudly. The future Frankenstein and/or(?) Dhapadhap is stationed in the corner in all its glory and as the new comers struggle to get the better of its experience, the beast plays along.

It is time soon for the ultimate journey...the goal whose pursuit had brought the new comers to this strange land. Despite having come from the hills and having lived on clean and thin air, they were prepared for what was to come. As the bridge (with a famous name sake) appeared and the stories were re-laid about morning sojourns and nightly crawlings, the visitors are amused...the grass lands they come from and the wood and concrete and iron that they find...interesting is all that they say with any sort of commitment. The next in line are the temples. The travellers are wondering if the temples are spelt as Temples and while all this wondering is happening, their eyes dart all over the pithy quotes strewn all over the place. There  is darkness all around but as must have been the case with earlier visitors (in front of whom the temples are always showcased), they seem to feel the light.

From temples, across muddy lawns after the evening's showers that were not threatening enough to act as spoilers, our vaoyageurs move on to the Big one. The nearly 500 seating auditorium with enclosing lakes in abandon (and of course, the only  parking lot nearby) seems to entice the travellers, mock them with its grandeur at the same time. While they ponder on all this and pass by the academia again, they stop...not physically but to apply their thoughts...what lies beneath, they speak aloud?

And then come the tales of glory, of tradition and bravery...of raids on the enemy and the wars...of digging the tyre in and getting it out...of liquids less than a month old...of booking advertising space by forming human chains...of the con and the parties...of other nights that have been brought to life earlier...of the silver jubilee reunions...of the hang outs and the jetty...of boating round and round and not being able to find the shore...of climbing atop the 70 feet high water tank and getting scared coming down...of much much more.

As the travails of the day start taking their toll and the wanderlust seems to have taken a break, and as the first timers retire to bed, one of them can not but think of what sets this place apart. It is not the lakes...not the buildings...not even the bridge or the temples or the audi or the huge acres of land that stare at you as you peek out of the balcony. It is people who have made this place what it is right now. It is not by virtue of being the oldest that it is grand, but it is by virtue of having played host to people who wish to return, to keep themselves associated with the tradition that they had helped set up.

It is because of all these things that one of those three people, the new comer...the traveller...the first timer, while setting his body and mind to rest on a very early Sunday morning, says his final words aloud, "I salute you, IIM Calcutta".

Ye jo world hai na world...

Aisa koi saga nahi, ki jisko thaga nahi
Aisi maari langdi, ki kabhi jaga nahi



Amitabh Bachchan tucks in his upper lip while he lets the lower one drool...the eyes are popped open and the eyebrows raised a little...Sharaabi, Laawaris, Amar Akbar Anthony anyone?
Abhishek Bachchan tucks in his upper lip while he lets the lower one drool...the eyes and eyebrows are covered with black glasses...ummm...he also has a red, heart-shaped balloon in one hand and his father's arm in another.

Amitabh Bachchan romances Rekha on screen and the rumours of their off-screen chemistry fly thick and fast.
Abhishek Bachchan drinks at a bar and later dances to the tune of a soulful kawwali...ummm...but not before some yesteryear songs featuring Rekha have already been played in the background.

Amitabh Bachchan is the undisputed and charismatic leader of the cheats and thieves who can never be wrong...Don anyone?
Abhishek Bachchan is on his first con job while the song that plays in the background is...ummm...the legendary "Are Deewano, mujhe pehcaano" from Don.

Amitabh Bachchan displays some acrobatic skills on a motorcycle with an attached car and of course, with the irresistibly funny Dharam paaji.
Abhishek Bachchan uses almost an exact replica of the bike with the attached car and as a replacemnt of Dharmendra, he has...ummm...the un-put-downable Rani Mukherjee.

Amitabh Bachchan says "Is duniya me do tarah ke keede hote hain...ek wo jo gandi naali me rehte hain aur doosre wo jo samaaj me rehte hain"...Hum anyone?
Abhishek Bachchan says...ummm..."Ye jo world hai na world, isme do tarah ke log rehte hain...pehle wo jo saari zindagi ek hi tarah ke kaam karte rehte hain aur doosre wo jo ek hi zindagi me saare kaam kar dete hain...aur hum un doosron me se hain"

Welcome to the very first movie that stars none other than the First father-son duo of Indian moviedom...the movie that has been touted to be the ultimate entertainer...the movie that is expected to put Abhishek firmly on the path to success that he has embarked upon, post Yuva...the movie that people believe is sure to cash on the amazing Abhishek-Rani chemistry...the movie that attempts to transform Ahishek into the next Amitabh. Bunty aur Babli does all this (except the last one, for there is no other Amitabh...no way) and more.

Overheard in one theatre at Kolkata, "it is almost never that I am impressed by a movie, especially not if it is a Hindi movie, but this one sure has some interesting moments". Words of praise, or what? The movie begins with the invigorating "Dhadak Dhadak" song picturised all over Banaras and neighboring areas and right from the word go, sets the tone for the rest of the stuff that's going to come on. As Abhishek and Rani gyrate (in one of the most natural-yet-prepared choreographic displays which to the viewers' pleasant surprise, is maintained throughout the movie, right across the songs) to the tunes of the song, the expectations are set and the viewers are seen visibly loosening up in anticipation of something good.

From the small towns (Banaras which is not shown to be Banaras, Lucknow with its Miss India-hosting HBTI, Kanpur without its Miss India-hosting HBTI) that stifle the dreams of the two protagonists to the big, bad world is one eventful journey which is as hilarious and entertaining as it is meaningful and reflective. The amazingly visual portrayal of the fascinations of the small town youth is incisive as Vimmi from Pankhinagar is seen clinging to her pin-ups of models (all female, BTW) and as Rakesh from Fursatganj (aptly named, BTW) fixes up the shower at his terrace, refusing to go to the community tap for a bath like everyone else does.

While one gets lost in the entertaining escapades of Rakesh aka Bunty and Vimmi aka Babli, at display is one of the more effective directorial styles seen in recent times. Instead of making the entire thing look like episodes of some comedy soap on television, or like the Anil Kapoor-Madhuri Dixit (or Anil Kapoor-Sridevi) con-after-con movies, the narrative style is very different...just weaving together tales in the lives of Bunty and Babli and bringing it all together like postings on a collage...letting it all conjure some sort of magic that sets the note for the second half to begin.

And then the second half begins and how! Abhishek Bachchan has been shouting himself hoarse and that too from the rooftops that he wants to go to the theatre to watch Bunty aur Babli and throw coins when Amitabh Bachchan's first shot is shown and why not? The rock star get-up complete with the leather jacket, the Bihari style of talking complete with the red gamcha (towel for the more cultured ones), the burning of the 100 rupee note to light up his bidi, Assistant Commissioner of Police, Dashrath Singh has an amazing entry.

Unfortunately however, the story suffers from another of the directorial experiments here on, the first of which had been going so good so far...but not this time. As the narrative changes from a visual inspired yet audio complete sequence of events to more of the still photography, newspaper clippings, scandalized expressions kind of thing, all things come to a passe. Even the voice of Amitabh Bachchan as the narrator does not offer the same pace to the happenings as the zestful effort by Rani and Abhishek had done in the earlier half. A slightly different ending (very slightly, mind you so don't raise your hopes sky high) does manage to stem the rot somewhat but the rot had begun to set in, no doubt. In fact, had it been another set of actors or rather had it been anyone else apart from THE MR. AMITABH BACHCHAN, there just might have been a few problems.

The direction is good in the sense that the way the scenes have been panned and arranged with able support from the editing and cinematography departments is truly outstanding and almost a trendsetter. The only low side can be the obvious effort at trying to cash in on the Amitabh and Abhishek combination but this being the first time, I guess it can be pardoned...nay...even appreciated. The music is mind blowing and the choreography absolutely spot on. The music is in tune with the spirit of the movie, whether it be Dhadak Dhadak that starts the proceedings or the immensely classy rap song that ends it. In fact, I haven't seen more people stopping in their tracks during the rolling of the end credits...not even two hot couples from the Tauba Tauba song in Kaal had the effect that an old, 65 odd year old man had in this one.

And then of course, was the Different (with D in capital) kawwali that features none other than the gorgeous Aishwarya Rai. As she sways to the tune of "Kajraare Kajraare" in a backless folksy ensemble, trying to woo Amitabh and giving the cold shoulder to Abhishek (you read that right, no misprints), the initial reaction from the audience is rather low key. It is only when Amitabh and Abhishek get into the act and the music gets hotter and faster and Different (with D in caps again), that the feet start tapping and the wows start coming.

Talking about guest appearances, there is Raj Babbar in an extremely short role that has been made rather inconsequential, keeping in mind the entertainer tag of the movie. Prem Chopra makes an appearance, too and if you are not looking carefully, the makeup and his rather straight voice (so different from the days of "Prem...Prem Chopra naam hai mera") might just prevent you from realizing who plays the cameo.

Amitabh Bachhcan rules the roost and though he appears for just one third of the movie, he has a greater impact on the proceedings and the movie's fortunes than Abhishek and Rani combined. This, however, does not take anything away from Abhishek and Rani who have both given their best and come out wonderfully, what with their post Yuva on-screen chemistry "rocking" and all that. Rani Mukherjee is Babli personified, all chirpy and young and bubbly, except in the fag end where the entire movie gets a little slow. Abhishek delivers another good performance. Apart from the forced sitting posture and the change of voice in one of the con scenes to sound and look like his father did in Agneepath, his has been a mature portrayal of a small town dreamer who can think like an unattached, insular adult but is yet a child, and a prankster at that, at heart.

Abhishek is no Amitabh but Amitabh, of course is...Bunty aur Babli is no Don or Amar Akbar Anthony or Satte pe Satta or Sharabi...but nevertheless, an entertainer it is. The Amitabh-Abhishek combo is no Amitabh-Govinda (refer Bade Miya Chote Miya) but immensely nostalgic it makes you feel...as you look at the duo dancing together and start realizing how similar the son and the father look and dance and act and react and walk and talk...okay let's cut the talk bit for the AIR reject has got something completely different going for him...but the rest really makes you all dreamy eyed and open-mouthed as you celebrate the final coming home of all that you have been doing right from the first Abhishek movie...trying to compare him with his father, the one and only Big B.