Much ado about...

Regular readers of this blog (I am still hopeful!) are aware of the entire brouhaha about "The play that never was" which happened last Wednesday. Irregular readers or those who don't know what I am talking about should read the previous post just below this before they come back to read the rest of this one.

Now that Wednesday March 25th was approaching, I was looking forward to watch the play more than ever before. Further news items in newspapers and on the radio, talking about the play and how its special edition was going to be a special show, kept on adding to the anticipation throughout the week.

And then it was that I received this mail from my boss asking me to arrange a mock session for some presentation on some product that we are launching. And before you say you guessed it, let me still have the satisfaction of telling you that the mail mentioned Wednesday March 25th as one of the dates on which the sessions would take place and before you jump the gun and take away from me my thunder, let me also tell you that the timings for the session were just right, starting about an hour before the show started and ending at least an hour after the show could have ended.

So it was that with a heavy heart, I drew the schedule and sent it to all concerned. I was still ruminating on the lost opportunity and trying to console the inconsolable Jassi when I was given a real bad look by one of the other concerned. He also happened to have planned for the show...with his wife...having bought tickets worth Rs 1000 each...twice of what we paid, btw.

In spite of all the bad looks and all the inability of being consoled, nothing could have been changed, more so when there was a mail from the boss again the next day, asking people to stay back for the entire session irrespective of whether they were directly involved in it or not. You couldn't have played around with something as direct as that, could you (we did try doing some re-scheduling earlier when certain things would have freed us up on time for the show)?

It was not to be and it was not. We sat through the entire mock session, I trying to forget everything by concentrating on watching the presentation getting murdered in some mock sessions and added on to in others, others shifting from being interested to being hung over, all this within less than a few minutes.

And then the torture ended and we were out on the streets to get back to home and that is exactly when the show broke as well. As Jassi put it very nicely, "not only did we not get to see the show, but we also got to get stuck in the traffic because of it".

PS: We managed to sell the tickets in time, and the person we sold to had a really nice time...really nice...really nice (yes, she did it, repeated it thrice).

My Blonde Moment

I did it. Before you start your wisecracks about how everyone does it some time or the other and it took me a really long time to get about doing it, let me correct you. It's not about what you think it is about. It is about what I am going to tell you it is about.

So there is this very popular play I had been looking forward to catch whenever it plays in town. The play called "The Vagina Monologues" is broadly a tribute to Women's Liberation and is popular the world over. It was last Sunday that I came across an ad which said that the play was in town and for the first time in its screenings around the world, this screening (the 200th one) will have any male actors and these male actors would be the celebrities Farhan Akhtar and Imran Khan.

Expectedly, it was an excited me who, after being reminded of the play yet again by an ad this Sunday, shot off an email on Monday morning to all friends, asking them if they were on for the show on Wednesday. Since it was middle of the week, most of the people responded in the negative and it was ultimately Jassi (Jasminder Gujral for the uninitiated is a colleague and friend) and me who ended up forming the party. I happily booked the second cheapest tickets (which were worth 500 apiece, incredulously) on bookmyshow.com and received confirmation for the same on my mobile.

All I needed to do now was walk up to NCPA (next building to my office), show the message on my mobile, collect the tickets, walk into the theatre and enjoy the show. Things were going along on the said lines till we saw that the ticket counter from where we were supposed to collect the tickets was shut down. When we, exasperated because we were already late for the strict 7:30 PM start, approached the security guards, they knowingly smiled and reassured us that such things have happened in the past.

While one of the security guards was trying to call up the program manager to help us out, the other kept talking about some Lawni event that was happening and if we had come to see that. Knowing that there were three theatres in the NCPA compound and assuming that he was talking about some event at one of the other two theatres, I did not pay much heed to what he was saying. He then went on to ask me if I had the message with me. I was about to blow over the top by now as I opened the message on my mobile and began reading from it, as if to prove the big mistake the guard had done in challenging some one like me on some thing like this...of course, I had the message...what did he mean by Do you have the message...Will I come here just like that, without booking tickets, without checking if I got the confirmation message...

"See, here it says", I said..."Vagina Monologues, NCPA Tata Theatre 7:30 PM, Wednesday, 25 March 2009. Aaj Wednesday hi hai na?". And that was when Jassi spoke for the first time. "Dude, kya kar raha hai...Today is Wednesday but not the 25th, 18th of March, what are you doing???"

The night when I was almost a hostage

This is going to be one long post!

Even as I write this, two floors of the Oberoi Hotel Towers are on fire and explosions follow gunshots in what can perhaps be a final assault by the security forces aimed at flushing out terrorists holed up inside the Trident-Oberoi hotels and probably holding hundreds of people hostage.

As is a usual pattern now, I was in office last night with three other colleagues of mine, working on an important client presentation to have happened today and watching the fifth one-day cricket match between India and England. As we were celebrating yet another Indian victory and watching the post match presentation ceremony, Nitin got a call from his father asking him to take care while returning home as news channels started carrying the first reports of indiscriminate firing at the Mumbai CST railway station.

We were just debating if we should switch channels and watch some news when Ashish heard some shouting outside. As we ran towards the windows of our 9th floor office, we could clearly hear sounds of gunfire and see sparks flying in the building right across the road. This building opposite our office building is, of course, the now immensely-in-news Oberoi Hotel. It was immensely confusing as people started calling us talking about firing and bomb explosions in other parts of South Bombay while we, a bit ahead of the news, were experiencing something ourselves.

It was just a matter of time when we could see smoke rising through the hotel building, and filling the rooms overlooking our building. We watched in alarm as people broke open the window glass and were hanging out the window ledge in an attempt to escape the black smoke that could be seen enveloping the entire building. There were some people who broke these windows in panic and there were others (like the one I saw) very calmly going about his business of talking on the phone as he picked up a chair and struck the window pane with it. I might just have seen a terrorist!!!

As events started unfolding at a furious pace one after the other, the exclamations only grew louder. As we watched with open mouths, we heard an immensely loud sound and our building shook. Scared for our lives, concern fuelled a little more by the now-panicky voice of Ashish, the four of us (I, Ashish, Nitin, and Sameer) rushed to the first floor of our building just in case we had to move out of the building in a hurry. On our way down, we saw some people sitting in the lobby of Kotak Investment Bank watching the news with as much interest and concern as was almost flowing through our veins.

As we reached the first floor and were peering through the window on the side overlooking Oberoi's, we started receiving calls from everyone from family members to colleagues to the senior most of management (what with Ashish being very senior in the company, of course) as the news finally broke on news channels.

Mumbai was under siege as terrorists attacked some 12 centres, mostly in and around South Bombay. There was indiscriminate firing, and along with it numerous bomb and grenade explosions that rocked the city, killing and maiming people and the entire Government machinery.

I know that I should be probably ashamed of myself but I was actually enjoying the entire event, revelling in the undercurrents of uncertainty, fear, and unpredictability. The scene was no different for the others as all of us switched between watching the TV and looking across the road peering out of tinted glass windows and finally, having a laugh at how outdated the news channels were. As people hung out at window ledges, using white clothes as distress signals, some channel carried a report branding them as terrorists. Pray, why will terrorists hang out of window ledges carrying white distress signals?

As night progressed, police forces enveloped the hotel, spreading across the entire area and cordoning off all nearby buildings including ours. The army moved in at about 3 in the night but nothing was really happening except the incessant firing and occasional explosions that we could prominently hear. Our hunger satisfied by raiding the office canteen, we sat around, resigned to our fate but just as one of us dozed off looking at the same video footage repeated multiple times, we were disturbed by yet another round of firing or yet another explosion.

Things were fast getting out of control and all the fun and excitement had given way to this nagging fear at the back of our minds. Some of the guys went into a panic mode and that was not helping either. I could almost feel my feet shaking every time I went into the room facing the Oberoi's. On one of these visits to check the situation outside, I could see someone strolling on the ledge on the topmost floor, carrying something that appeared like a torch (and perhaps a gun as well). On another, I could see (or imagine?) snipers hiding in the NCPA building alongside. As day broke, we thought it was probably just the tail lights of cars reflecting in the darkness but as per latest reports, snipers actually opened fire on the Oberoi's and guess what, they were firing from the NCPA.

The whole night had passed and the terrorists were still there holding up and the army all across, trying to get in the building in the best possible manner. In the early morning light, things were only prophesising the doom to follow. As we came down to talk to the security guards of our buildings, we could see the army guys in the compound and the entire area seemed to have been converted into a military cantonment. As we asked permission to leave, we were not prepared in the least for the way we would be led out of the back door and allowed to leave.

Sunil, my driver, after having spent the entire night on the streets on the Marine Drive in the middle of action had managed to get the car out by that time. As we rushed out to join him and started getting as far as possible from the site, he recounted his story of how a grenade exploded right in front of him, shaking the cars around, including the one he was sitting in. Dropping Nitin and Sameer en route, I was just wondering if things could very well have been closer and how God was kind to spare me the agony that so many others faced.

Three images will always remain in my memory reminding me of the night when I was almost a hostage, one of that guy breaking the Oberoi's window pane so coldly, the other of the guy strolling on the top floor window ledge and the third of people waving white flags in exasperation, piteously asking for help. God has been kind, may He bless all those affected by this tragedy and those who caused it.

Kahaani Whatever ki

Once upon a time, in a kingdom shrouded by the tombs of mystery and bathed in the razzmatazz of associated glamour, there lived a boy named Whatever (though it might not be apparent, real names of places and characters have been withheld due to obvious reasons). Whatever was a funny boy...not funny in his actions or thoughts alone but funny in his totality. His deliberations on life and subsequent behavior had often landed him in situations from which only funny people could come out...and come out he almost always did!

Whatever studied in a school called Wherever which was THE place to study in that mysterious and glamorous kingdom. As it turned out later, Wherever added quite a lot to the kingdom's mystery and glamour. All this, however, happened after Whatever's time at Wherever. But then again...even when Whatever studied there, the place had enough charm to completely transform the boy that Whatever was before he left his village, Whichville for the big town, Whatopolis where Wherever was situated. Whichville, it must be noted, was the place for the celibate and the retiree to relax and meditate and not for the excitement, mystery and glamour seeking eyes of Whatever. Whatopolis, on the other hand, was the dream destination for many-a-dreamy-eyed boys and Wherever, in particular, gave ample opportunity to Whatever to whet his desire for an expanded and necessarily non-celibate community.

This, therefore, was the point where Whatshername entered into Whatever's life and swept him off his feet. Not to be confused as a sweeper, Whatshername was the prima donna for Whatever, the dreamy-eyed boy who had never seen what it was to stare into eyes as deep as the ocean, as blue as the sky...who had never known to gape open-mouthed at the sweet words coming out of those perfect pair of lips that moved in cohesion with his own heart beats...who had never known the joy of watching the swaying of body to the tunes of the sweetest octaves known or unknown to the world...who had never been encompassed by the blackness of the tresses, which for a change, was not frightening like other forms of darkness but instead, carried with itself, the mystery, glamour, and soft yet vast dreaminess that whatever had always wanted to find some day.

Needless to say, Whatever was besotted with Whatshername's charms but given the funny nature of Whatever and his actions, it was not long before the eventuality occurred and the twain could not meet. This was not the end for Whatever, however because though he had lost out on using Wherever to his advantage (as some maintain was the simplest of tasks that anyone could have done), Whatever was still young and still dreamt of that ultimate Nirvana. So it was that Whatever graduated from Wherever and moved on to college in the city of Whatsgodswill. The celibate and retiree nature of Whichville being reflected in Whatsgodswill, as well (perhaps owing to the fact that the city was quite close to Whichville, unlike Whatopolis), there was not much that Whatever could do to move forward towards his goal until he went to Whatada, the city where he started working for a living.

It was in Whatada that Whatever met Ohmygodlovely and fell in love for the first time (Whatshername was just an infatuation, Whatever's friends told him). Thus it was with Ohmygodlovely that Whatever went for the walks, shared the chocolates, wiped off the tears...Whatever was lost once and for all in that lovely pair of ear rings, those haughty nods of head, that free flowing laugh, that impish smile, the melody of voice, the tune of songs, that dismissive gesture, those twinkling eyes, the mystery, the glamour, and the dreams. Funny that Whatever was, he did not waste time in creating situations that made Ohmygodlovely bid goodbyes to him and move on to saner pastures and leaving whatever alone with his dreams and memories of what his dreams could have ended in...the ifs and the buts and might-haves.

The episode at Whatada had made Whatever into the cynical soul that landed at the shores of Whatroad whence he went back to academia to try his luck once again and see if he can move ahead in his quest for mystery, glamour, and dreams. However, Whatever had become too funny by this time and regardless of the mystery and glamour and dreams presented by Whatroad and its inhabitants, nothing could deter Whatever...nothing could make him lose his insanity yet again...not even Whatallulikeya, the one with the gait to shame the elephants, the one with the face to launch a thousand suns, the one with the attitude to drive men nuts. The only problem was that funnier and funnier had Whatever been transforming into, and a funny thing he did with Whatallulikeya, too. It all ended for him but then, he had never wanted to start...not after Ohmygodlovely...he couldn't have. So ended the fun for Whatever and so ended his story or did it?

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! :-)