Father's Day

I'm going to make a habit to write on November 10 every year, I've realised its high time I began acknowledging my dead father's birthdays. I haven't done it since 2000, so now seems like a good time to start.

He would've been 63 today, a grand old asthmatic with two grown-up boys and a ton of money accumulated over more than 30 years on the seas. We'd be living in posh Goregaon west, 13^th floor of Acme Enclave with Inorbit Mall and stinky mangroves for neighbours. There's every possibility that Abhishek and I would spoilt rich kids. But then again, it's also likely that I'd rebel against him and hate him openly. Latter seems more believable considering that I didn't like him even as a 9-year-old. Beyond that, I can't imagine what he'd be like. If the former was to be the story of my life, I'm glad he snuffed it when he did. I'll trade money for morals any day.

On November 5, 2000, five days short of his 52rd birthday, Nandagiri Raghavendra Rao finally managed to give (in no particular order) his crazed sisters, unhappy wife, young children, mistrustful in-laws, a dozen shipping companies, his harmonica, loving older brother, his two rotting Fiats, A-1, Sheetal Co-operative, Housing Society, Seven Bungalows, Andheri west, his drinking partner Donny, and his own wrecked body the slip.

In the decade since then, my memories of him have gradually faded, I've never missed him or a father in general. You can't miss a person who's a visitor in your home and makes sure to quarrel with your mother during his brief visits. Yet he's listed as my father on my birth certificate, so biology must count for something. Ever since I realised he's gone to place where I can't touch him, and tell him that he wasn't a great father in the ten years of my life through which he flitted by, I've decided to make peace with him. This is as close to a birthday present as  can offer and if it brings a scowl to his framed photo back in my room at home, so be it. If Maa ever read this, she'd be happy to know how far I've progressed in un-hating him, not with the choice of words no, just the fact that this is actually coming from her error-prone firstborn. It's a start.

I'm guessing this change of heart has a lot to do with living in Delhi. Knowing that I'm in the city he grew up in gives me a strange sense of belonging and security otherwise hard to feel when you have to spend a year away from your family. From the second I arrived, I never felt I was in a different city, Delhi's become my home sooner than expected.

Delhi's in my blood, it's where my ancestral home is currently rotting and I've stopped denying myself that. It's hard to do a complete turnaround on something I've built over the last 6-7 years, but then, I've done stupider things as a teen.

This could never have been possible in Bombay. Simply breathing Delhi's polluted winter air makes me feel closer to pops than I'd ever been while he was still alive. I can hear my 14-year-old self barfing in disbelief, but I've learnt to distance myself from him for the stupid things he believed in. But he's got a point, I've rambled on way too much.  

Off the record

Considering the profession I'm aspiring to enter, this phrase is going to be a great source of frustration for the rest of my life. Considering how important what I'm about to say is, I'll get to the point first and leave the rambling for later. I want Shekhar Gupta's job. I want to be the Editor-in-Chief of The Indian Express. My life's ambition is to become Top Dog of India's best newspaper. I won't settle for anything less. I have no problems with condemning this statement to the irreversible and irretrievable immortality of the internet and having to be reminded about it in case I should fail because I won't.

Right now, I don't want to think I'm going to regret being this rash and impulsive. It's just a matter of climbing to the top again. It took two years to become Head of Literature in my college festival and that started with a simple statement to my HoD that I was going to kill her and take her job. All I have to do to succeed this time is pull the same gag on Shekhar Gupta, laugh over it, remind him each time I see him and work hard in the meanwhile.

I can't imagine life without The Indian Express now and I've already decided what I'm going to do as its supreme overlord. Hold on, to be fair, I will reveal to you the source of current crazy ambition. On Wednesday, he invited all his employees to his house for a Diwali party the next night and that included us students too. Simply standing in his living room completely overshadows all my achievements racked up over 21 years.

Everyone who matters in this country was in attendance, mingling with us underlings, sounding genuinely interested every time we were introduced as the 'kids from the journalism school'. It still hasn't sunk in that I was in the middle of the biggest Diwali party in the world. What did sink in quickly enough was how terribly out of place I was. The imbalance in terms of simple intellect and actually being a fucking somebody was graver than Nitin Gadkari's weight issues. It'll take until next year's party for some of the overawe to slide to a more manageable level.

By way of an unwritten law, I can't tell you how wild it was. Let's just say that the bartender wished he had three pairs of hands. Come to think of it, he could also have done without goggle-eyed kids demanding orange juice with the same authority as some MP/Editor/Diplomat/Thinker/Millionaire ordered a second shot of vodka.

I'll be honest, I've been blinded by the razzle-dazzle of the night and plain simple greed. I want it all, the influence, the chumminess with the best in the world at something or the other and the delightful house in Delhi's poshest locality. Just in case I haven't made it obvious enough yet – I'm a power-hungry maniac with specks of talent and an unlimited supply of sand to build castles in the air.

When I do finally get the job, I'm going to take control of my ancestral home in Hauz Khas. I'm not bluffing, you may drive down to Y-87, Hauz Khas whenever you feel like proving me wrong. Then I'm going to tear it down, along with a few other neighbours and construct a huge 4-storied villa. I'm also going to expand the lane because it just isn't wide enough to admit scores of Bentleys, Audis and the rest of them high-brow machines. Unfortunately, this will involve flattening out all the neighbours in the lane so I might as well let a bulldozer and road roller loose without caring for the consequences. The final step involves converting Gulmohar Park (that is right next door) into Gulmohar Parking Lot. Face it, Delhi won't mind losing a small little garden when it has more green patches than all of Ireland's Leprechaun population put together. With all the accessories in place to perfectly time my ascendancy, the annual parties will be spoken of until the end of time and will most definitely be broadcast to faraway galaxies by hungry news organisations from all over the universe.

The alternative is to shift the headquarters of the paper to Bombay, the city that'll always be my home, even after the Arabian Sea gulps it down without remorse within the next few years. There's no reason why Bombay shouldn't be the news capital of India, after all it is Rich Rich Rich and besides, it's my hometown. And that is the extent of my vision for when I'm boss. Feel free to bring me to back to stinky little Dayanand Colony whenever you feel like it.

I Deserve Better

I came to Delhi with the Express Intention of slumming it out, to live rough and on the edge for a year. Somehow that sounded like a really good thing to do when I set out. If I'm going to live away from family I might as well do it different, renouncing worldly comforts I've taken for granted for 21 years. Since the world is a weird place, I need to brace myself for everything and a year away seemed like the perfect practice.

And I've turned out to be spectacularly wrong. It's not like I'm not suited to living on my own, my ability to adjust is crazily good. It's almost scary how easy I find it to change myself depending on the demands of a situation. Anyway, the point is, I can't do it anymore. Correction, I don't want to do it, I'm sick of adapting quickly and would ideally love to return home. But since that isn't happening, its time to ramp up my lifestyle here.

I'm bored of Dayanand Colony, sick of the tiny room which has served as my dwelling the past two months and would love to be taken in by some family with a spare room and decent internet connectivity. Then I'm reminded I'm not exactly rolling in cash and pipe down for a while. I've spent the the last 15 days piping down and it's a sucky feeling now. Suddenly, I don't give a shit. To hell with austerity and all that jazz, frugality can jump out the fucking window and hermit-ness can kiss my bursting ass tomorrow morning. I'm breaking up with modesty for good (for a year) and I just want to live better.

I don't have a job, the 18 grand earned at Bombay international airport earlier this year shows no sign of turning up but I don't care a fuck. I have a family with enough money to see me through and I'm allowing that offer to rot in the bank. If this isn't the act of some selfless nut bent on sacrifice where it isn't due, I'm going to hump a monkey.

The folks are crying out for me to move out to someplace better, to haul my rapidly rising girth about and scout for potential paradise and my explanation, “Do you know how fucking hard it is to find a new place? And besides, I like it here, it's alright and will do” suddenly sounds just a little weak. Hold on, fuck that last bit. I HAVE NO REASON TO DEGRADE MYSELF TO PUTTING UP WITH THIS HELL-HOLE. What the hell am I trying to prove to myself and what could I possibly get out of it? I'm torturing myself, I've become a damned masochist along with Delhi-ite. Who drilled into my head that I'm supposed to live out a compromise? That I'm supposed to accept second best and that I can put up with this unacceptable situation till August 2012 and expect to be the same kid that boarded the Rajdhani on August 30, 2011?

Clearly, I've taken this shit too far and too seriously and need to be re-educated on the goodness of creature comforts and standard of living conducive to the well-being of normal human beings whose family can afford to put them up nicely in distant lands. I know I should be doing this in my head but I've learnt that in crunch situations I always back out of making the brave decision. I'm convinced only verbal third degree can now cure me of my dangerous self-harming tendencies.

It's time to go. I'm tired of my dusty bed, that bastard Nishant who needs some consideration spanked into him, tired of having his bed sit next to mine. I hate how Anoop keeps barging in and making himself at home in my room, I hate how he eats his dinner on my bed when I'm not around. I want to kill him but he's doing me a big favour by moving out of this place and out of my life forever. I hate how cramped this room is in spite of what I've told the folks. I hate the cockroaches I find scurrying around in my cupboard every time I open it. I hate having to live in a place my family is ashamed of and wouldn't subject their maid to. I hate how it doesn't live up to the standards of cleanliness and order I've been surrounded by all my life and how it borders on the filthy. I hate that I have no life here and having to take to washing clothes and immersing myself in the laptop just to have something to do. I hate having to wake up at 7.30 am each day just to protect my slot in the bathroom and how that doesn't give me time to go for a jog. I'm eating like crazy and putting my eight-pack on the brink of extinction. I'll never be able to live with myself if that happens. I hate having to arrive here each evening at the end of a fabulous day at Express and having to think “What kind of fucken life is this?” just before entering the threshold.

There's a reason there are very few people I truly hate, that's because I'm my biggest enemy. Only I have the power to screw my life over till it's not funny anymore. And I've realised I need to wage war against the formidable combination of my brain and my perverted sense of self-righteousness. And I must win if I want to be happy until August. The human mind is the greatest battlefield in the world, forgot who first said this. Whoever you are, thanks for the gyaan. Time to do myself this one little favour.

Missing in (Ma)action

And this lady is my Mother (one of many). She's run away to Leeds as well. I couldn't call her en route to the airport so this is my weepy goodbye message. There's a fair chance I'll have forgotten about it when she returns in a year's time. Have fun in Blighty Krithika.

In a little Mumbai village

Where it's acceptable to pillage

There used to live a girl

Whose hair didn't ever curl

With a name like Krithika Iyer

And a voice like the town crier

She's miss goody two shoes

Part butterfly, part recluse

Something about her almond eyes

Assure you they they hide no lies

She's not my first momma

Nor a number separated by a comma

I can't be her exclusive son

That would mean injustice done

But I won't add any to that list

While she enjoys the English mist.

The brightest and wisest of us all

Yet defending us like a wall

She's gone to Leeds to be brilliant

And she'll return jubilant

And so we can wait a year

To once again see our precious momma bear.

The Idiot's Guide to Pickpocketing

For the second time in a year a boy tried to pull my wallet out of my back-pocket this morning and failed. His attempt so was amateurish and obvious, that I had half a mind to haul him to the cops for being a pathetic thief. He couldn't have been more than nine years old and made no effort to hide his short-lived prize. To my credit, I knew there was something fishy about the kid and turned around the second I got off the bus. What helped my cause was that the offender dug in his hand while I was un-boarding and made the mistake of climbing down after me.

I was so surprised at his stupidity and the ease with which I caught him that I didn't even bother to give him a couple of sharp ones on the head for his trouble. As a matter of principle, I don't punish incorrigible bastards.

The boy's failure has made me realize that budding pick-pockets in the city need help. Sure, they are tutored by their street-smart mentors but it's time some definite guidelines are put to paper. I'm wasting time over this in sincere hope that it contributes to the cause of the successful pick-pocketing everywhere. Here goes -

1. Do not look like a ruffian 
   I understand this is pretty hard to do for prepubescent boys, I've been there myself. But the vaguest resemblance to anything the spent last night sleeping in dog piss and reeking of rotten cabbage and is around three feet tall immediately raises the alarm. A single glance at the creature causes people to clutch their belongings tight and throw looks of disgust in its general direction.
   
   

2. Never ever loiter 
   Add a general aimlessness and minimal movement to a ragged appearance and you get what is called a 'suspicious individual', the kind bus inspectors and cops keep their eyes peeled for but never seem to spot. Really, the last thing you want to do is look like you can't pay the fare and intend to inhabit the currently occupied three square inches all day long.
   
   

3. Do not give yourself away 
   This is a classic no-no, applicable to criminals in every field and of every size and description. Allow me to illustrate with my own example. The kid who would eventually attempt to rob me, unnecessarily blocked my passage to the exit of the bus and stuck to my backside once I did get past him. I was instantly on the alert and placed my palm protectively on my ass. The fact that he struck when in the few seconds when it was away is of no consequence. He gave himself away and only drew attention with his 'diversionary tactics'. Clearly, subtlety is the way to go.
   
   

4. Do not stare
   I feel really foolish saying this but I guess it must be done. It occurs to me that I'm not exactly addressing an enlightened audience. The length of your stare at the target is inversely proportional to your chances of cleanly picking his/her pocket. Stay content with a casual 3 second sweep to identify your potential victim. Anything exceeding that and you're clearly in the wrong profession.
   
   

5. Run, run, run!
   You're bound to be caught if you stand rooted to the spot after extracting a bulging wallet. In the few seconds that you stare at your achievement with undisguised amazement and ecstasy, you allow its irate owner you turn around and bash your skull in. Take it from me, the sooner you step outside the reach of their outstretched arms, the better are your chances of making a getaway, provided you don't run into human obstacles.
   
   
6. Hide the prize
   You may not always want to run so as not to appear to have committed the dastardly act. In that case, it is advisable to stash it somewhere real quick. This requires deft hand movement, imagination, the ability to lie convincingly and beat frisks by concealing the wallet in a flap of  fold-able skin. But seeing as you posses none of these delightful gifts, you're better off making a run for it.

Make a note of these simple instructions and you should be able to avoid capture while sinking your paws into the behinds of fellow humans in the hope of recovering some loose change.

Gifting Myself An Early Birthday Present

Goodbye Beautiful Beard (July - September 25)

I got a shave today, for the first time since July something. It's not like I've sold out on my caveman image. I've just realized that I can't grow a beard without picking at it every waking minute. I'm not sick of beards just yet but I think I think I've identified some kind of ideal length beyond which I shouldn't allow the grass to grow. So yeah, I walked into a pint-sized barbershop in Dayanand Colony this morning on impulse and was out 20 minutes later feeling and looking a different man.

I indulge in these radical transformations four or five times a year but my new classmates in Delhi aren't ready for it yet. I can already imagine their expressions and reactions in a few hours.

What's weird about today is that the need to clean up came from within, when it's normally the threat of being thrown out of the house that forces me to take the step. My mother's halfway across the country and frankly, there's no pressure, so I must be losing my mind.

The girls are right, I have turned into the un-Srinath.

Hope it makes the grandparents happy on Thursday.

The only consolation - it doesn't look gay.

The Aftermath (September 25 - hopefully very soon) 

Ode to Pops

He's my father this man is and he's all of 24. He abruptly launched into a family some two and a half years ago and he's managed to keep it going ever since. He left to study Marketing and Branding at the University of Leeds on Wednesday and even though I haven't seen him since I left Bombay on August 30, I miss him like hell already. I don't usually rhyme, so it's even more obvious now that this nutcase is really important to me. Until we meet again in around a year's time, I hope this temporary goodbye message does justice to the occasion. 

You stand six feet off the ground

Your wisdom is profound

That gap between your eys and hair

Covers a brain beyond compare

You'll always be a failed engineer

Even though it's copy that you now hold dear

This you can't ever refute,

Like your wit I won't dispute.

The little thing in your pocket,

that you call a wallet

Hold a lot of notes and dimes

That I've begged for too many times

But you're a real miser,

Who loves his Budweiser

Sometimes you splash the cash

And throw a big bash

And get everybody thirsty

For a mad maaza party!

You're not my first pop

The list won't ever stop stop

But you've always been around

Whenever my world went round

From pulling up my pants

To reading all my rants

You've been at my beck and call

Despite being a baap to us all.

Now that you've gone to the U.K.

Thane won't ever be okay

Your kids may go to jail

But you'll come online to post bail

This may come late and out of the blue

But just remember I love you.

Travelling through Zombieland

Ever had one of those days when you feel you've left part of yourself lying on the bed in spite of feeling fully conscious? Over the course of the next 500-odd words i'm going to make a very big deal of not having slept enough last night. And the following not-heading-anywhere is completely justified since it comes from a boy that averages 9 hours a night and would like to keep it that way for as long as is possible.

I'm pretty sure I sleepwalked through today, some of the parts are fuzzy but I clearly remember eating two meals. I wasn't sure I'd wake up on time but somehow I was more than awake when the alarm rang. At that time it didn't seem like only five hours had passed since hitting the hay. But it was only around 9.30 am, after the first blast of wakefulness was wearing off and coffee failed that I realised my purpose for today. I was meant to disable the alarm and snore away till well past noon. I'm not sure what was supposed to follow but it did include shitting my pants upon realizing that I'd skipped an important submission. But as with everything else, I know I did nothing about it and just went back to sleep post the momentary panic and pant-soiling.

Let's step away from the hypothetical for a minute. What did happen instead was a lot of nodding and lolling, my head was dangerously close to falling off its hinges and into my lap every time I sat down, except when I was eating. My eyes couldn't have been more than half open for more than a few seconds at a time and when added to my general slob-ish appearance, I pretty much looked like something the cat dragged in after a particularly wild night out on the streets. There were times when I had no control over myself. I kept singing snatches of 'I Can't Stay' and 'Boots' by The Killers, 'Only the Young by Brandon Flowers, 'Ruby' by Kaiser Chiefs, Kings of Leon – 'Holy Roller Novocaine' and 'Pyro' and some other songs I don't recall in the middle of complete quietness, like out of the blue when I was walking towards and bathroom and back. Thankfully, I didn't bump into anyone I knew that could pronounce me loony.

Sure I can account for a lot of time when I register zero brain activity and general zombieness but today took that strange feeling to the limit. I was doing everything from buying tickets and crossing the road, to perfectig my QuarkXpress and talking to people very mechanically. I've never felt this detached from my body, it's almost as if I was observing myself moving about on a perfectly normal day from a distance. The entire point of the day seemed to return to the bed. Funnily enough, now that I'm two feet away, it suddenly doesn't seem inviting.

I left most of brain behind when I got off the bed in the morning, taking with me just enough to make it through the day safely, to guarantee an existence. I have every intention of sleeping in tomorrow and coming close to the 9-hour mark I'm comfortable with. I'd love to dream some kind of weird fantasy involving a young naked Will Smith and the Himalayas but my best dreams have never happened after being very sleep-deprived.

I've allowed this to become way longer than intended so I think I'll go hug my pillow now. Night folks. 

I missed it

I missed it. I plain and simple missed it, missed witnessing history. Missed being a part of a moment forever lost in time, an iconic moment I'll never get a other shot at reliving.

As I type, thousands upon thousands of Indians are reveling in Anna Hazare's victory. I'd left home today with the sole intention of being there when Anna Hazare would declare, “Hum Jeet Gaye!” to a rapturous crowd. I'm not a part of this movement, as a journalist-in-the-making it is not my job to take sides. But when you're within walking distance of history every day, there is no excuse for missing it.

I knew Deshmukh was headed to Ramlila Maidan to give Anna the news and that all hell would break loose. But the fact that Anna wouldn't be ending his 12-day long fast tonight held me back. I suppressed my instinct. At all times I knew I was a 15-minute walk away from a very very emotional experience, but I held back. Now that it's starting to crash over me I can't bear to watch the TV coverage, I'm almost grateful my roommate's chosen to completely ignore the magnanimity of the situation and watch 'India's Got Talent' for the past half hour. A single glimpse of NDTV would make me dunk my head into the toilet bowl.

I've been known to display exemplary stupidity on countless occasions before, but this tops them all. So it seems just that the cook disappeared when I got home leaving behind a solitary roti. I deserve to go to bed tonight without eating my fill. Hopefully it will serve to remind me that later in my career, such errors will result in many nights where I'll have to go completely hungry.

The Angry Mob and the Peep-Show

“Indian public maadarchod hai”, spits out the policeman. He’s among the seven cops that are trying to keep people from getting too close to the MV Wisdom. The 9000-tonne discarded cargo vessel – headed originally to Alang shipyard in Gujarat – has now been sitting pretty at Juhu beach for four days. And over the weekend, word has spread.

You wouldn’t associate Wednesday evenings at Juhu with an excited rush of assorted Mumbaikars and fake Koreans who are actually North-East Indians. But there they were, all over the place, not deterred by wave upon wave on filth spewing from the sea. It was a scene reminiscent of the water near Mahim Durgah turning ‘sweet’. To an outsider, the sheer size of the god-awful crowd would be scary. But in this country, it’s just another spectacle.

Sure, you could bet that most of those assembled had never seen a ship up close, let alone get near enough to touch. I didn’t count how many hands slapped the massive rudder of the rusting hulk, I don’t intend to either. What did I observe with rising panic was how rough the waves were, not at all helped by the fierce showers.

By 5 pm, about a hundred people had ventured beyond what is the safe zone at Juhu during a low tide and more were coming. They looked through the turbine, looked under the water, paused to extract sundry pieces of plastic, timber and gunk from their slippers, and generally messed around in some six feet deep water in a sea roused by the monsoon. The joked and yelled, they played with beach balls, clambered upon the ropes that until Saturday, connected the ship to MV Seabulk Plover - the tug it broke loose from.

And then they spotted a rope ladder dangling some distance away from the ropes. Another few feet into the water? No problem. Within five minutes, men and boys were fighting the waves and each other to haul themselves upwards, scampering like monkeys towards the ultimate achievement, “Look ma, I’m standing on top of a toxic cargo ship!” Cameras flashed as some twenty jackasses grinned stupidly 60 feet above the water. And all this with not a single policeman around, and the BMC lifeguards rescuing whatever fools that didn’t look capable of making it back. My first enquiry told me two people had drowned.

The Juhu beach police station was empty, with its doors locked and windows shut, a solitary ceiling fan running in the patio looking out to a bust of Shivaji and an unoccupied ATV. They weren’t where you’d expect to find them when you needed them the most.

Back at ship, two cops had appeared out of nowhere ready to take charge of the situation. Following them were the BMC lifeguards and the members of the Juhu Beach Ganesh Visarjan Samiti - the unofficial lifeguards who knew the waters (and the garbage) inside out. By now, all of the beach visitors, except the hordes that couldn’t be moved from Chaupatty’s culinary delights descended upon the spot and rickshaws were ferrying them by the dozen every minute.

They’d come here to watch an exciting rescue-mission and they wouldn’t let two slightly built cops stand in their way. On they went hugging the rudder, clicking their photos and mingling with the vomit that foamed every few seconds. Right at that moment, they didn’t feel the fear of law, not even when three more uniforms joined their partners.

The public got what they’d skipped their evening meals for. There was drama – hundreds crowded round a hysterical woman as she pleaded with the policemen to find her relative. There was action - the two individuals were rescued and each of the idiots removed from the ship. And inevitably there was comedy, as cops scattered crowds only for them to reclaim their spots seconds later. Right of Chaplin that one.

Now I’ve got a few questions. What is it that makes us Indians think we’re the masters of our own fate when we can’t even cross the road without nearly being run over? What makes us want to take unnecessary risks and pay with our lives? What makes us defy authorities that set regulations and boundaries for our own good? I haven’t seen the television coverage MV Wisdom received so I’m not sure if it was touted as the city’s new amusement park. I’m all for a good time at the beach, but must it come at the cost of self-preservation?     

The great Indian crowd. Uncontrollable, unashamed, voyeuristic and just plain stupid. The last thing you want when a member of your family is presumably drowned is to be subjected to, “Kya hua?” “Kaun gaya?” “Doob gaya kya?” and also distant cheers of, “Click my pic naa, naam ke saath.” The insensitivity and immaturity to grasp the gravity of the situation isn’t even the point, the griever is trapped in the company of barefaced revellers that move from one attraction to the next. We haven’t changed at all since 22-year-old Leisha Choan was stabbed in broad daylight at the Gateway of India on August 14, 2005. If anything, we’ve only become hungrier for spectator sport.

Imagine yourself as the abovementioned foul-mouthed cop in this situation. Its seven against a few hundred overeager spectators. You’re armed with a lathi and an overflowing belly. The other side is brimming with curious young people that won’t listen to you. What would you do? Let me rephrase that? What could you do? You know that one misplaced strike will start a full-scale riot. And yet you need to keep chasing after them and waving your weapon menacingly in the air every few minutes because you don’t want anyone else to come close to dying. How do you convince these blockheads that you’re shunting and swearing at them for their own safety? You’re glad when its getting dark and the tide is coming in. No one in this city is afraid of cops. But everyone’s afraid of a little rushing water. Whatever happened to the 90’s when people respected the Vardi? Or was that just for the box-office?

With no clarity on how long the ship will remain lodged before a tugboat finally shows up, I’m actually glad it came to a rest at Juhu. Imagine how much worse this could have turned out to be if it had hit Aksa beach instead. A rotting ship would only spike the number of drowning there as the monsoon warms up.

I met a retired Naval Commander just before heading home. In his career, he’s sailed ships for the Shipping Corporation of India to the ends of the earth.  The old sea dog said it doesn’t take four days to move a cargo vessel. As the Coast Guard, the Port Trust and the state government scratch their heads and seem more a lot more interested in making the owners pay and move their ship rather than the other way round, I wonder how many daredevils and yahoos I’ll see dancing half- naked on deck tomorrow.   

We was robbed!

Another week, another controversial Spurs match. Once again Tottenham have been felled by the mighty Blackpool. True Defoe made sure we still retain a miniscule chance of beating Man City and Liverpool to 4^th place, the latter will be possible only if Danny Murphy’s Fulham stick it to the Merseysiders.  

Back to Tottenham. The day began great, Everton deservedly beat City and Tottenham needed to seize the initiative and thrash the Tangerines. But up stepped referee Lee Probert and allowed the visitors to maul the home team, and that’s putting it mildly. Even a neutral could see that the Blackpool players were getting away with bad fouls. It didn’t help that Alan Curbishley praised Probert for his performance. I know I shouldn’t be taking the former West ham manager seriously at all, but that’s how outraged I feel.

Charlie Adam has been exposed as a thug. If he’s put Gareth Bale out for the season, he’s a dead man. If he’s broken Bale’s foot, I hope he gets a taste of his own medicine in next week’s fixture; he’s one man I don’t want to see on a football pitch ever again. 

One day Hurelho Gomes will reveal to the world how his brain works. One moment his saves brilliantly from Adam’s first penalty after Dawson had been clearly pushed in the back as that bastard Probert looked the other way. But then the bumbling Brazilian collides into Taylor-Fletcher, although it looked like a dive to me. We were plain lucky that Defoe scored his 101^st league goal to equalise although there were plenty of chances to win it too.

In the end, we passed and passed and passed the ball to no end and thanks to some lousy finishing, a puzzling inability and unwillingness to score, unbelievable heroics from Gomes, Blackpool’s lets-break-some-legs gameplay and Probert’s blindfold took the game away from us and set it up nicely for City to rest on their superior goal difference should Spurs win their last three games. Once again, we threw it away.     

Assistant Referee and Gomes conspire in Chelsea win

It’s hard to like Hurelho Gomes these days. He makes things really difficult for himself and has managed to sink Tottenham several times in his flip-flop season. He’s an eccentric; he puts in fantastic saves one minute and commits schoolboy errors the next. Certainly, consistency between the sticks isn’t his strong point.

He’s got a number of names, with Mr. Octopus the kindest among them. He’s lived up to it once more and pretty much ended his side’s hopes of piping Manchester City to 4^th place.

India’s favourite independence day film Lagaan (that starred Aamir Khan who leads a village cricket team to victory against British officers) shows the villagers practicing catching the ball by running after chicken. Perhaps Gomes needs something like that because Tony Parks’ best efforts aren’t paying off. After a great last season he’s back to his nervous old self reminiscent of 2008. Quite why he suffers sudden bouts of extreme stage fright is a mystery. Surely, strikers don’t charge at him wearing hideous gorilla masks. Or does he perhaps require opposition players to say, “Are ya scared lad? Don’t worry we’ll be dressed as teddy bears and won’t give you a fright with any hard balls”.

After spilling Cristiano Ronaldo’s sitter earlier this month and now allowing Lampard’s shot to squeeze in under him, he’s put paid to the dreams of Spurs fans. Of course, he was supported by that jackass Andre Marriner and his fathead assistant, neither of whom was close enough to tell if the ball had crossed the line. I’ve got no complaints against the second goal – one of those inexplicable lapses of concentration – but there’s no doubt Chelsea were lucky to win.

To be fair to Gomes, he’s had to face flak for his high profile errors whereas his team mates have gotten away with their lacklustre performance in the league, they’ve simply underperformed against powerhouses like West Brom, Wigan, Newcastle and West Ham. They got too carried away with their Champions League fairytale to give the focus on their bread and butter. But then, I wouldn’t expect them to finish 2^nd the same season as they played demanding CL fixtures, Spurs just aren’t that prepared to challenge on multiple fronts yet. I’m just glad they’re getting there and if they keep up the progress, I’m more than willing wait for the two or three seasons it’ll take to become one of the best sides in the country. 


Until then, ‘pehle murgi pakadna seekh Gomes’ – roughly translated as ‘learn to catch chicken fist Gomes’. Couldn’t resist. 

To my ideal woman

Ever since the days when I was a juvenile delinquent wreck hooked to Sid Meier’s PIRATES for hours on end, my fantasy woman has been Spanish. Whether it's because the game made Spanish women seem hotter than the French and the Dutch or maybe because I feel an inexplicable love for that country I don’t know.

I've never been one for experimental relationships because as Sam, this exhausted Briton I met at the airport last year told me, I’m waiting for THE ONE. He did say a lot more, but under the influence of expensive alcohol, so I won’t repeat it. What it boils down to is a dreamy film sequence that shows two strangers making that decisive eye contact that will decide the rest of their lives.

As optimistic as I am of my chances of bumping into THE ONE before my knees go wobbly and I have more grey hair on my head than I can count – in short in the prime of my life – I really can’t be sure if I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning, our world is just too dangerous today and Bombay isn't exactly a peaceful settlement.  

Hope you don’t mind if I address her directly now.

So considering all the possibilities – that you’re waiting for me too, that you live somewhere in the depths of the Amazon, that you’re stuck in outer space, that you aren't yet conversant in English, that you are indeed Spanish, hot and a mix of Penelope Cruz and Selma Hayek and that you are reading this I’ll let you know what life with me can be like.

As is mandatory I’d like to start by telling you that I am not inclined towards drinking and smoking and I hope you aren't either because if you are then –

1. You’re not THE ONE
2. I’ll smash the nearest bottle on your head and stick a cigarette up both your nostrils.

Call me conservative, but it’s just not cool.

Do not expect me to make the first move. If I do, you know I’m dead serious about my intentions. I am going to take an exasperatingly long time about it though, only after I’m a 100% sure, until then bear with me. I know I shouldn't be pushing my luck but I hope you’re a writer/aspiring journalist too; we’d make a fantastic team and imagine how awesome winning a Pulitzer together would be. Of course being a fan of The Killers, Kaiser Chiefs, Bob Dylan, The Arcade Fire, The Kinks and Juno and Tottenham Hotspur would only be a bonus, but no pressure, I’m pretty flexible that way.

Know that once I’m into you, you will be my world, although I will be dragging you along as I try to save the Earth from destruction. Which doesn’t mean putting up with me for as long you live will be by any means easy, I do have some quirks –

1. I can’t be separated from weekend football and I shout and swear loudly if Spurs aren’t winning and no amount of shushing will ever change that.
2. Similarly, I am a sore loser. Unfortunately this isn’t restricted to football games played thousands of miles away that can’t affect our relationship. I don’t like losing, at anything to anybody unless that loss is going to benefit me somehow. You’ll see me at my worst after a loss. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen too often.
3. I can suddenly and without warning, lose interest in life completely. Weird bouts of depression. When that happens I just need to know that you’re around, trust me to heal myself, can’t say how long that’ll take. On the bright side, I bounce back pretty well.
4. I’ve got too many theories about everything under the sun which don’t always make sense out of my head but I defend them with my blood whenever their complete worthlessness is exposed.    
5. I like to think of myself as a really funny guy, always cracking up those around me. And in the time you spend with me (all your life) you will be the number one target of my gags and sarcastic and often cruel tongue. Maybe I’m asking for too much if I appeal for you to put up with it, I normally know my boundaries. I occasionally cross them and instantly apologise, but you’re more than welcome to let all hell loose if I go too far. But on the whole, I’d like it if you laughed along. Making you laugh would be my greatest source of happiness, I’m having fun as long you are. I don’t shine if you don’t shine.
6. I’m proud of the fact that I posses very little if any of the famed male ego. The only time I have one is when I write. Hope you’ve seen the problem here, writing is what I plan to do every single day that I live from this day on.  
7. I don’t get angry, I keep my cool at all times or at least try to. This kind of means that there are times when I betray very little emotion. I fully expect you to find it freaky if I don’t react to certain situations with as much emotion as people are expected to. It’s just that I can’t risk losing my control. The only times I’ve come to regret my actions – few and far between – is when I let my emotions get the better of me. I cannot ever let that happen, for fear that I’ll do something I won’t ever be able to repair. Hope this doesn’t put you on your guard, just thought I’d let you know why you’ll find me a little unemotional.

Hmm, might have overdone that one slightly. Anyway, here’s a confession. My goal in life is not to become a phenomenal writer, I am that already. I want to become a father. Pretty rich coming from a 20-year-old, but there you are. Think I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get over the awkwardness that must have caused.

But since I don’t have all day, forgive me, I must continue. You might be reading every word with suspicion now but I’ve got to finish sometime today and move on to making fun of the chumps in European football.

If and when we do own a nice little house by the sea I plan to quit my job to look after the kids. My real job will start then, but that won’t stop me writing for The Rotten Egg and send in stuff on a weekly basis to some or the other rag to help you keep the bread coming in. If, by a stroke of luck we have twin girls, I’ll be returning to working full time much later than expected. If you find this daddy obsession a little creepy, know that I need to prove to myself that I can be a good pop. But that has never been my sole motivating factor and you’ll know that in time it won’t matter at all once we’re past the preliminaries.

The anthem of my life is ‘All these things that I’ve done’ by The Killers, don’t mistake an unmelodic humming of that tune as a sign that I’m off my rocker and have begun talking to myself. I do that, just not aloud.

The only promise I can make to you is that I will be there for you always and no matter what. Not because that covers almost every aspect of our lives or because it sounds grand enough, but because that’s what I do. Because I know you are never going to give me a single reason to leave your side. Because you can count on me to help you get out of the muddiest muddles and make you think that you’ve done it all by yourself. That’s because even in the worst of fixes you are going to make your own decisions, I am never going to make them for or on your behalf. I’m just going to make sure you don’t fall while instantly picking you up as many times as is required.   

If you kick the bucket before or after I do, life will be boring, I doubt I want to spend even a second of it without you once I finally meet you, where’s the fun if the lead actor disappears? The only fitting end I can imagine is of that old couple on Titanic who stuck to their bunk in their cabin and were shown to be engulfed by the onrushing water. Not that I want us to end in tragedy, just together, whatever the situation. Only, if I do go before you, I’d like the following songs played at my lavish funeral in the exact opposite order as played at our modest beach wedding –

1. Kaiser Chiefs – Ruby
2. The Kinks – All day and all of night
3. The Kinks – Waterloo Sunset
4. The Kinks – See my friends
5. The Killers – Bones
6. The Killers – When you were young
7. Goldspot – Friday
8. Goldspot – Foundations
9. The Killers – Romeo and Juliet
10. The Killers -  Mr. Brightside
11. The Killers – The ballad of Michael valentine
12. R.EM. – Supernatural Superserious
13. Kasabian – Fire
14. Mott the Hoople – All the young dudes
15. Dil Se – A.R. Rahman
16. Roja Jaaneman – from the soundtrack of the Hindi film Satya
17. R.E.M. – Everyday is yours to win
18. The killers – Smile like you mean it
19. The killers – Read my mind
20. The killers – Bones
21. U2 – Vertigo
22. The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony
23. The Beatles – Hey Jude
24. The Beatles – Baby you’re a rich man
25. Hoobastank – The Reason
26. Queen and David Bowie– Under Pressure
27. Foo Fighters – Resolve
28. The Arcade Fire – Wake Up
29. The Arcade Fire – Goodnight Boy
30. Kings of Leon - Pyro
31. Kings of Leon - Back Down South
32. Kings of Leon - Red Morning Light
33. Kings of Leon - Molly's Chambers
34. Something Relevant - What's Done Is Done
35. Something Relevant - Tomorrow
36. Something relevant - NH4
37. Something Relevant - Love Me Like You Do Me
38. Junkyard Groove - Been So Long
39. Junkyard Groove - Folk You
40. Junkyard Groove - Imagine
41. Junkyard Groove - Save Me
42. Junkyard Groove - It's Ok

        

By touching upon the funeral I’ve brought this little memo to its natural conclusion so I’ll go back to waiting now as I wait for you to find me / find your way out of the Amazon / return to Earth / learn sufficient English / ditch Javier Bardem and Francois Henri Pinault respectively / or any other outrageous possibility I haven’t yet considered. My patience is wearing thin now so be snappy about it. 

The Roundabout in Nariman Point and a couple of hours in the sun

My stark ignorance as regards the city in which I’ve been born and bred hit newer lows today. I can say that I know a fair bit about Mumbai - notwithstanding its history – but there are plenty of grey areas and today’s adventure added another one.

So ever since I gave my final year mass media exams earlier this month, I’ve been without a job. Of course, that’s a normal situation for any individual freshly freed from the shackles of worthless education. But it’s not a good feeling to count yourself among the millions of unemployed Indians, to be reduced to just another stat and importantly, to add to it. But that was as inevitable as Suresh Kalmadi’s conviction the other day. (Cheers to the CBI)

So I had an interview at Times Ascent at 2 pm, which means I had to enter the Times of India building, located opposite Victoria Terminus Railway Station. Now that building has never appeared in my dreams, for until last summer I didn’t know what its front entrance looked like. But ever since then, it held promise. It’s as art deco-y as those high society chumps keep saying, vintage and modern at the same time. It’s a shame they’ll be shifting to a nondescript high-rise in Lower Parel real soon.

The minute I got in, I couldn’t keep my eyes fixed to one spot for more than two seconds, I had to take in every inch and I knew I wouldn’t be waiting at the reception too long. Anyone standing beside me would call me shifty to say the least.

The 2nd floor (my destination) is like something out of a colourful medieval Indian dream, the interiors are a cross between the fantastic Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur and an art gallery. It made the cubicles resemble a hedge maze bang in the middle of the Diwan-i-khas in Fatehpur Sikri Fort. It looked the sort of place where a tiger could erupt out of a flowerpot and you could expect to find drunken cobras slithering around the minimally carpeted floor. There was a magic about the place that I just didn’t have enough time to explore.

The interview was cakewalk, the customary written test even simpler, but I was too focused on surveying the office to concentrate completely. I’m not sure if I’ll hear from them, it’s not like writing about HR, and professional opportunities and playing soothsayer to jobseekers in print and on a website isn’t something I can’t handle, I just don’t see myself doing it too long, I need to be out on the streets all the time, dishing up the story of the century every week or twice or thrice a week whatever.

I crossed Azad, Oval and Cross Maidans to get to Marine Drive where the crazily expensive towers looked like imposing slabs of concrete in the gritty summer sun. I still had time to kill before my appointment at The Indian Express so I said to myself, ‘kill it nicely’. Five minutes later I was sitting on the promenade gazing mindlessly out at sea when I realized I hadn’t checked my mail all day. Over the past week, I’ve never missed my date with hotmail – nothing useful on yahoo, just spam from Suzanne Mubarak – and I sure wasn’t going to miss it today. Five minutes of internet on my phone would surely zap me off all my credit so I set off towards finding an internet cafe.      

The second I crossed the street, a million diamonds were glittering on the surface of the filthy Arabian Sea, shouldn't have turned to look back. Now Nariman point is the biggest commercial district in the country and if you emptied up the coffers of all the ritzy corporations contained in it and even the Mantralaya and Vidhan Sabha for good measure, Sierra Leone’s financial future would be secured for the at least a decade and there’d still be money left to buy a couple of islands in the Pacific Ocean off French Polynesia. Ten minutes into my quest and I figured that it’s impossible for a seedy internet cafe to exist among the stately premises of the State Bank of India, the Oberoi Trident Hotel, the Union bank of India and countless other boring 101-storeyed structures. While I passed Vada Pav stalls, a sandwich-maker operating out of what looked like an improvised pigsty, chaat vendors and numerous other lowlifes selling food to the workforce and lifeline of the country’s financial nerve-centre, I still hadn’t found my frigging cafe.

I had to eventually settle for a dingy print shop that extorted Rs. 10 for a 10 minute session interrupted by a creaking door, the mood swings of dial-up internet and a bucktoothed girl looking over my shoulder as I instinctively deleted Facebook notifications. By the time I walked out of there, rounded freedom Fighter Ramnath Goenka street twice, said hello to Free Press House, flirted with the possibility of returning to the sit next to the water and finally pushed out that thought to enter the spidery Express Towers one thing was clear – I’d scared off Yuva by mailing them the posts from The Rotten Egg and been completely ignored by Time Out Mumbai. The journalist I finally met at Express told me offhand that I had the rest of my life to work and there really isn’t any rush. Wish she had something slightly more cheerful to say about what I’m going to do in the meantime. 

Goa Shmoa

It’s been four days since I returned from Goa and I’ve been waiting to pine for it, to crave for its sizzling sands and expensive coconut juice but the feeling is yet to come. I woke up around 3 pm on Sunday aching all over. The room was just as I’d left it a week ago, bed sheets kissing the floor and curtains half open.  By the time I got down to some grub, the magnanimity of the situation still hadn’t hit me – I’d just been on my first week-long Goa trip with my best friends! (like Vegas is to Americans) It’s a vairrrry big deal. I should be moping around with glazed eyes and no appetite. I should be texting my companions non-stop to see if they’re awake and indulging in group mourning and reminiscing.

A couple of hours later, a really close family friend lost his battle with cancer. As the cliché goes, the old man had lived a clean life, you couldn’t point a finger at that upstanding citizen and you’d have to dig real deep to find any chinks in his character. He’d lived as honest a lifetime as is possible and yet had been struck down by cancer. Sure, he was diagnosed pretty late, when he was beyond saving and yes he’d been reduced to a piteous skeletal hermit in the past few months but no one expected him to go on a peaceful Sunday evening. I can’t say I was exactly close to him, he was never much of a talker. Selfish as I sound, the passing away of that old man took away whatever little was left of the post-vacation blues. I am in no way belittling the grief his family is now in, just putting into context his demise with my existence since that is the only perspective on offer to you here.

In the meantime my friend Radhika Mohandas got around to uploading our Goa pictures http://www.facebook.com/media/set/fbx/?set=a.10150557058455274.652117.568270273, but the whole thing seems too distant now, like I’d worn a permanently happy mask for the week that I was there. Goa was a drug, it was the perfect vacation, the getaway I needed and had earned after an exhausting graduation year. Even as the train left Mumbai behind, the rose-tinted glasses were coming into place. Goa surpassed all expectations; it was exactly how everyone had said it would be. You aren’t just in another land, but another state of mind. Something about the geography of that place soothes you and quietly packs away all your worries to some distant corner of your brain where they’ll stay until you’re back home. It doesn’t matter how uptight you are, in Goa you’ll be trippy to say the least, going with the flow and letting loose, the place will compel you to concentrate on one thing – having fun.

For me, the only relics of Goa are the Facebook album and a sore back that came from colliding with sand too hard. My back isn’t tomato red anymore, but healing slowly and peeling away at snail’s pace, it’s like my shoulders are slowly exfoliating and I can’t help picking away at the dead skin just to know what it feels like to be an onion.     

I’m going to remember Goa as one of my best vacations ever, it’s going to difficult do any better, not for lack of trying though. I just wish there was time to gloss over it, to laugh over our shenanigans there, to respond to a life-changing experience as normal people do. The welcome back has just been too harsh.