Of Guitar Lessons and Urban Ghettos

A friend of mine wanted to learn guitar. He comes from a fairly 'respectable' and 'well-educated' family. There were two options before him. He could learn it from a very talented maverick residing in a shady red light district for 5 grands or from a popular teacher in an affluent neighborhood for 10 grands. He chose, as most of us probably would have, the second option. No one overtly influenced him. But did he take the decision himself? Or was it, in some way, taken for him? Does a certain collective entity - faceless, nameless & memetic - often serve as the proxy for individualism?

Some weeks back I was chatting with an aquaintance in Bombay. I told him that I was living near Crawford Market. Pat came the response - "Oh! The inner Fort area..isn't it? That's a veritable mini Pakistan...lol."
There is another friend who stays near Bombay Central. The other night we were having dinner together and it was getting a little late. She told me she had to return fast..."I have to pass through a predominantly Muslim area before reaching my place. You know...it's so unsafe.."
Racial discrimination, Religious segregation, Urban ghettos....seem to be chapters from the history book. Do they have a place in the 21st century? Apparently not. Are they only the fanatics - a miniscule minority- who fan such chauvanistic emotions? That's one of the biggest myths of our times. Beneath the swanky buildings and fancy cars of the modern cities, camouflaged by the guard of cosmopolitanism, there is an unsavoury underbelly. Urban ghettos all over the world testify to the fact that even the educated elite house archaic stereotypes in their minds about other religions, castes or races. It has just become unfashionable to openly speak about them. But as they say...fashion has an odd way of turning itself around...

longing

the voice, the touch, the fights, the passion, the misunderstandings, the explanations...
the walks in moonlit nights...the moments of silent intimacy, the world through the eyes of each other
the cute little drawings we made, the songs we sang....i miss everything about you... everything that we did together
i still hope you'll come back....all the dreams we saw would come true....i'm willing to be everything that you wanted me to be..and more
it may remain just a hope after all...your hand on mine...but it's at least something to live for
my trust in our love...and in you...may it spark forever

rumblings of a bored soul...

what the heck im doin? writing blogs when i should be studying the weiner processes and a recovery rate model. sounds like some esoteric disease and its treatment. i feel like such a nerd...studying finance - something i have as much aptitude for as paris hilton has for rocket science. still i come to office everyday...study the documents dilligently..and eventually may even manage to churn out a decent report. but doesnt it suck? doing something you dont want to...and having to pretend how you love it more than your first orgasmic experience. but who am i complaining to? is that not what i have always done? trying to fix blame on someone else whenever i have f****d up my own life? now why do i have to blank out the four letters from that word? dats what one does to avoid censorship from the venerable moderators who often use smart little software tools to scan for 'bad' words but whose smartness is defied by the armour of asteriks. doesn't really make sense. does it? what purpose does it solve? as if people wouldnt know what word is that. if they wouldnt why the f**k should i mention the word at all? but it is a practice, a custom. customs are like that. you follow them even if they dont make sense. in fact thats why they are made...to save you the effort of makin sense of a whole lot of things so that perhaps you can put your sense to some more lofted cause. im staring at the screen so intently my guide thinks im deep in work. all im thinking about is which movie to watch after returning back from here...i have exhausted all the 60 movies i had brought along on my hard disk. wondering what new place to explore in bombay. last evening was great. the sound of jazz is still ringing in my ears. soul fry casa is heaven on earth. this city never ceases to amaze. the hairscape of the department head is intriguing too. there is this broad superhighway running along his scalp. but a few strands have been spared right in front. like a lone tree in the midst of the saharan desert. freak of nature. there is this another person in the department whose biggest frustration is probably that he is tucked away in a corner cubicle while even his junior collegues are smarting inside cosy cabins. he lets that out by shouting his way to glory all day long. if all people in the department start following his lead, auditors may just have to sit in the lobby and monitor the entire proceedings through the day. such queer characters. not that im any less queer. looking absorbed in work...but writing meaningless stuff hardly anyone would care to read. but its fun. meaningless stuff are like that. fun..more often than not. like dancing the night through at a disc. the other night i was at this hip and happening place - voted the best nightclub in bombay (as we were constantly reminded by dj akeel); the place is called poison. what a name! good heavens. for a moment i thought akeel was actually a snake lurking in the dark corridors which would spring on you if you happen to gawk at a girl a little too often. had to be a cool place though. packed like the local train on monday morning. even as the protruding parts of your body are under permanent encroachment, you are head over heels to get to the bar counter to order a drink that is likely to cost you a grand. being hep is like that. either put up with it and conquer the style frontiers or be perpetually labled a fashion-retard. its another matter that the diffence between the two is the same as that between a kingfisher and a peroni. all beers taste practically the same. dont they? the label decides the price. and the price decides the class. the class of course decides the customer. the purpose is to differentiate - the rich from the middle class, the fashionable from the nerds...This need to differentiate is key to human nature. almost intrinsic. we work harder to earn a better salary to be able to dine at a better restaurant, own a better car, sport a better address and wear smarter clothes which would impress a better girl and eventually lead to a life that appears more gilted than most others. all to invite better reviews from the faceless millions around us we call the society. so much for individualism. im of course not sayin that discs are bad. hell no....its close to 4.30 and i have been at my desk for some 3 hours now. i ll cut the ordeal short for you if at all you have managed to read though the post...time to catch a fag (dont raise ur eyebrows...i just mean a cig)...adios

Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan

As the plane touched down, I went into a small reverie....couldn't help thinking that I was about to join my first paying job...albeit for two months. I had of course expected Bombay to be a busy city. So I lighted a cigarette and nested myself in the taxi seat expecting a long journey. After spending more time in the cab than I had done in the plane...I arrived near a shabby row of shops selling leather goods and assorted utensils. This, I was told, was the Crawford Market...and I had thought it would be the CP of Bombay! The hotel looked unassuming to say the least; but the rooms were pretty decent for the price tag they sported.

I had a much needed sound sleep through the night and woke up fresh on Sunday morning. After trudging the streets of the Victorian Fort Area...I and my roommate decided to try out the posh neighbourhood of Colaba and locate our office too. Tall residential apartments and office buildings characterized the business district of Bombay. But a rustic touch was omnipresent. The buildings were far from being the architectural wonders one would find in Nuevo-Modern third world cities like Shanghai. We found our office in a sky scraper in Cuffe parade at the tip of the peninsula. Together with Nariman Point this area is our very own Manhattan...but as a photo-essayist mentioned...with a fishing village attached. The coastline here is at the mercy of the Colaba fishermen. The slums dotting the sea front against the backdrop of the sky risers are a blunt rejoinder to the realities of the developing India. It is hard to say which one of these dwarfs the other.

A week of luxurious stay later, we moved to a modest hostel near Byculla. Of all things, we had least expected deafening traffic noise and irritating bed bugs would top the list of our problems through the month. Eventually we managed to shift to the hostel of St Xavier College. In spite of the late night curfew, it is a peaceful place to be in.

Having stayed at different locations and looked for accommodations almost everywhere around south Bombay, we were a little more privy to the idiosyncrasies of the place than your average back packer would be. The down-market eating joints found in almost every street are so similar in architecture, decor and taste of food, they could teach a lesson or two in standardization to the KFCs n SUBWAYs of the world. It was amazing to see how buildings were put to multiple uses - all during the span of a single day. For example, the extreme end of Crawford market is a stinking broiler wholesale house in the morning, a fragrant flower market in the evening and a repository of leather goods later in the night. Pavements in Bombay, of course, are not just mere walkways. Fashion Street near Colaba and the linking road footpath market in Bandra are sprawling enterprises on pavements. The double-decker buses and the horse driven carts are some of the relics of the yore.
Thanks to Harvard, the Dabbawallas of course are legends.

Amidst all the filth and the smoke, the Marine Drive brings in a whiff of fresh air, literally. The cool ocean breeze and the beautiful Queen’s Necklace would force even the stone-hearted into romantic contemplation.

In Bombay, beauty often comes with flaws. On the pavements and railway platforms, it isn't shocking to see a homeless person lying collapsed from drunkenness or hunger. Amidst spank structures, it is not uncommon to see a dilapidated apartment worth well over Rs 50,000 in rent.

After traveling in cabs for a couple of days and realizing how painfully slow and prohibitively expensive they were, we had to take the recourse of that ubiquitous symbol of the Bombay bourgeoisie - the local train. It is the cheapest, the fastest and the most reliable form of transport in this overcrowded sardine-box of a city. At first sight, one would be almost offended by the veritable sea of people near VT and Churchgate. The mad rush during the peak hours is unbelievable. But getting used to it is the only option for the majority of the teeming millions here.

Bombay lives on with the proverbial heartbeat of its stressed-out workers. Life is difficult here. But it is exciting too. One can't help noticing the contrasts, the contradictions - the old and the new, the high rises and the slums, the stink and the fragrance, the gilt surface and the rotting underbelly. But people still come into the city in alarming numbers; perhaps because it is one of the few places in the country where individualism gets rewarded. The common thread that runs through all in the city is the quest for survival and success. The poor desperately trying to make both ends meet, the common man haplessly going about his daily routine, the multimillionaire looking for his next venture, the stock broker following every crest and trough of the Sensex curve, the aspiring actor looking for his lucky break or even the page 3ite crane-eyed for the obliging scribe - no one rests in this city. Bombay is a great leveler. It has some poignant words written on its walls - No matter how rich or privileged you are, put your feet firmly on the ground. It puts you on a balloon but keeps the pin.

In spite of its flaws, it is impossible to write off Bombay. The highest shrine of enterprise in the country, it gives everyone a chance. It forces you to work hard but also allows you to party harder. It grows on you. Your wallet may well become light enough so it could fly but the smile is seldom robbed off your face.

Here, nothing is simple. Every story has two facets. It is hard to not overanalyze such a complex environment. It is hard not to see Bombay in a national and global perspective. It is hard, especially with politics on the mind, not to see every image in light of economic and social policy, to eye its complexities at face value. For a young intern and aspiring manager, a pilgrimage to Bombay offers a chance to - pardon the platitude - grow.

The Tempest

Its so calm outside...the storm brewing inside me seems incongruous...the entire span of my life is dwarfed by the goings on in the past one year. It's quite an experience to face snow and scorching sand at the same place. Almost organsmic pleasure to emotionally shattering moments....I hve seen them all... At times the boundaries in time became so fudgy that it was almost like living a dichotomous roller coster. At XIMB, I have gained friendships to last a lifetime, fallen in love (literally!) and recovered. Above all, I have altered the course of my life.

After nurturing the dream of persuing Masters in soild state physics for the better part pf my engineering, my joining an MBA course was more of a travesty than a choice. It took me quite some time to come to terms with something which I believed I was not cut out for. MBA seemed to be a delightful distraction...a sinful indulgence....I felt like having an extended holiday....until the rigours of the course finally put me firmly on the ground.

The striking new addition to my life after coming to XIMB was the almost unlimited freedom....and with it the urge to try everything at least once. The subjects were demanding....but the temptations were stronger. Midnight escapades became common, intoxication came in different forms and cupid became an eager teacher. With time, however, the gilt faded from the scheme of things...mellowed thoughts set in and I realised the need for moderation.

To echo Amundsen, nobody has probably stood at a spot so diametrically opposite to his original ambitions....But had Amundsen been to the North Pole, he wouldn't probably have been any more famous.

At the end of the day I would thank the cosmic conspiracy that made it all possible....'coz in the midst of this tempest I have at least read myself better...emerged stronger and better armoured....

The City of Joy

I had been to Calcutta to take the GRE. This was my second visit to the place. My stay was a short one. I decided to spend whatever time time i had in the streets of calcutta.

I have been to several big cities. But Cal is different. It shocking and even repelling..but intriguing too. The stinking dumps of waste in the heart of the city, the roads overflowing with traffic, the air polluted with vehicular pollution almost make you cringe. But I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer range of activities taking place around me. I found all kind of vehicles plying on the roads...luxury sedans, vintage models, buses, trucks, garbage carts, a sea of cabs and the veritable trademarks of the grand old city...the rickety trams and the hand-pulled rickshaws. Each square inch of the busy thoroughfares was utilised.

The footpaths, apparently, were home to myriad vocations. Make-shift ateries serving meals to people seated facing the walls present a unique sight. Assorted items are sold - starting from hairpins to electronic gadgets. I was walking down one such footpath, on my way to college street, with a hung head (you have to look down lest you fall pray to one of the countless knolls and dells). When I looked up, I was stratled to see a man flashing a wide grin at me. But as I found out to my fascination, he was having his teeth polished. The enterprising individuals offering the service were also skilled at cleaning ears and picking lice, as I discovered a few yards ahead.

As most people know, College Street is a treasure trove of books - particularly used ones. I stopped at one shop and strated browsing the books assuming that the shopkeeper wouldn't know about the ones I was looking for. But as I was clearly not making any headway, the guy smiled and asked me what was I looking for. I mentioned a few authors and titles, almost expecting a frown from him. But to my utter surprise he got me a dozen books in a jiffy. Seraching for Kafka, Camus, Vonnegut, Marquez, Keneally, Steinbeck...? Looking for obscure titles? You mention them and chances are they will get you the books.
As I prepared to board a cab to the station, I couldn't help have more than just a fleeting glace at the Indian Coffee House - supposedly the cradle of intellect that the city's congoscenti frequent.

I still don't know whether I love or hate calcutta, but the city of contradictions certainly put me under a spell.

How Kavya got charmed, got wooly and got the boos

Kavya Viswanathan's seems to be a plain case of a plagiarist trying to strike it big. But there is more than meets a wary eye.

Book writing and publishing, apart from being an exercise in creativity and intellect, is also a lucrative business proposition. Like any other business proposition in America, it has been put through the scanner by scores of entrepreneurs to look for hidden udders that can deliver the ever elusive extra moolah. As an innovative result of these efforts, a third layer (apart from writers and publishers) has taken birth, got organized and mature. This layer is the interface (read middlemen) between the writers and publishers. These agents get the material mostly from relatively unknown, first-time writers. If they find some promising stuff (read potential money-spinner) they turn it over to the publishers. All for a fee of course.

The system works fine unless some smartass editor employed by an interface company decides to over-exert herself, as happened in Kavya's case. The same interface firm that Kavya employed had also reprented the author who was the victim of the plagiarism effort. The coincidence doesn't stop here. The same person edited both the books. The rest can be read between the lines.

Can you blame a starry eyed youngster if her editor borrows some passage from the works of an obscure author that she happened to edit before? But it seems there aren't enough admirers of dusky beauties in the land of whites. Enquiries started, a media churning followed and Kavya got damned. Irrespective of the book's worth, as a result of this "unintentional internalisation" Kavya can at least be credited for one of the most creative euphemisms in the English language.

Rights Reserved

It is obscene for any student not to have an opinion on caste-based reservations. Here are my two cents. While it is very convinient to condemn reservations in any form, its apt, perhaps, to consider the issue in equanimity. The current system is flawed but the concept of providing some rational support to the disadvantaged sections of the society is not.

There are several communities in the country who have been buried in ignorance and diffidence owing to years of isolation or oppression or geographically skewed development or a combination of these factors. These people need to be supported to compete with their more privileged counterparts so that more hands will come forward to strengthen the force of progress. Having said that, I must add that this support must be in a proper form and must be well-directed. This is obviously the most important part of the scheme that our politicians gloss over. Hence the resentment and the protests.

A large chunk of the seats in the reserved catagory in educational institutions and in jobs remain unutilised. Decades after the reservations were introduced we still need them. While these factors point to thefailure of the present system of reservations, they also buttress the fact that these people are indeed disadvantaged. A more rational support model for these people needs to be developed.

One such model was suggested by two social scientists recently. They proposed, to put it in a nut-shell, to compute a competency figure for each candidate. It will have 80% contribution of merit and the rest 20% will comprise of various disadvantage factors like caste, gender, economic status etc. This will ensure implicit support for the needy while ensuring optimum utilisation of available seats or jobs. The implementaion of such a model appears difficult but the details can certainly be worked out if the best brains in the country deliberate on it. But since here the support is implicit, it will certainly be short of brownie points that act as the opiate for the political parties.

The reservation bill is ready for introduction. If the politicians succeed in their machinations, which the self-styled Nehruvian Samaritans most certainly will, the obituaries to meritocracy will officially be written. I believe the only people who can possibly provide the last ray of hope are the corporate India. Even as the anti-reservation protests keep on intensifying, if the bigwigs of indian industry come together and prepare a concrete plan for robust basic education throughout the country, complete with the budget estimate (of which they must be prepared to contribute a major chunk) and implementaion details, we would at least have the satisfaction of putting in our best effort.

Prahalad's B'Day

Prahalad had his birthday on 9th. He had slipped away to Berhampur (his hometown) a couple of days before. We decided to give him a surprise. Apurv, Raj, Chandan, Apul and I were in the scheme of things. We left early morning and landed at his place at around 8.30am. Prads was visibly moved by the gesture. We had a lot of fun. The trip to Vairabhi and then the one to Gopalpur were memorable ones. The beach at Gopalpur, though smaller, was a lot cleaner than the one at Puri. It was really amusing to see Chandan run scared of water...something that belied his frame.
How can I not mention the food we had at the bday boy's place. Some treat that was!! ...the best of Marwari cuisine. We were fed to the brim. I had to skip the breakfast and lunch the next day!!

Had a great time!

We, the class of '06 (Electronics n Telecom, KITS), had a picnic last Sunday. It was an event that had to be pushed through sec=veral procedural odds. There was limited participation. But it was undoubtedly the best outing that we had in the last four years. Even the weather changed, perhaps in silent approval of our plans. It was scorching hot the day before. Nobody had expected that it would rain the following day.
The picnic spot, Narayani, was nothing spectacular.It was just the ambience that made the event special. The ambience was due to the wonderful attitude, the enthusiasm and the camaderie of the students. It was quite a revealation too, at least for me. I never knew, for example, that Mr L P Mishra could be so sportive...or that Jeeta could look so stunning in jeans....that Mamta could be so sociable...that Snigdha could dance...that Abantika had a cool attitude...that Apul could be so effuively enthusiastic.....
New bonds were forged, old ones strengthened and at least one that stood corrected.

no more procrastination

I have always wanted to be regular in my blog postings. Somehow I keep putting it off most of the times. There will be no more procrastination.

Long time...

It's been a long time really...since I last posted something here. The last couple of months have been revealing of sorts. For the first time of my life I have been made to choose...but not one out of the devil and the deep sea. The choices are equally attractive for a change. The coming few days will force me to take decisions that would decide the course of my life. It's difficult. But still I'm enjoying the goosebumps...

Freewheeling

Nothing is for ever
Least of all life
So why are you permanence after
Why all the strife

Choose your poison
Decide a flavour
It could be sweet
It could be sour

Flirt with danger
Live on the edge
Tired of being sober?
Be wild for a change

hmm....

A few days after my third semester exams were over, I met with a girl in a chat room. I had expected it to be nothing more than an inconsequential event. Hardly did I realize at that point in time that this was the prelude to a wonderful relationship.

My exceptionally good marks in the next three semesters and my selection in the campus recruitment process, among other things, were connected in a way. All these events were inextricably linked to my association with that girl.

I don't believe in superstitions. But every single decision of mine preceded by her wish turned out to be a prudent one, every single venture of mine in which she wished me luck turned out to be a success. She was a veritable alter ego to me for those six months. Those were perhaps the best days of my life.

I had a hunch that all this would end one day though it didn't seem possible at that time. It was too good, just too fantastic to be true. The dream ended one fine morning. But I was prepared for it. It's true that the end was painful. I had to stop thinking that I could include her in everything. But there are no regrets. I have moved on. Now I view the memories of my days with her sans the events leading to its end. These thoughts invigorate me when I'm tired, lift me up when I'm down, bring about a smile on my face when I'm depressed. Thank you, dearest, for being a part of my most cherished memories, for being the kind of friend you were. Thank you for everything.

Terror

Shivered limbs, bodies charred beyond recognition, devastated minds and burnt spirits - the hand of terror has painted the capital black. Some would call it the face of Satan. I call it the absence of reason.

Thousands of people get killed every year. But so do terrorists. The people we demonise are matyrs in the eyes of their comrades. The faceless perpetrator of terror is not to be blamed. The people responsible are the ones that invent justifications for these dastardly acts, who fabricate causes to kill and die for. 'Jihad'-that's what they quite ostensibly call it. It is perhaps the most satiric euphemism known to mankind.

Terrorism is not a malady by itself. It is the manifestation of a venereal disease that runs deep in the societal folds. Years of neglect, acute poverty, the agony of not being heard breeds desperation and turns the victims into soft targets of brainwash. Instead of looking for symptomatic relief, there is a need to examine the deeper problems of poverty and unemployment.

It's time we realised that the fight against terror is, in effect, the fight against poverty. It's time we worshipped only one God...and called it Reason.

Every person we lift out of abject poverty amounts to one soldier less in the terror bandwagon. Every single refusal to join in religious jingoism is a tribute to peace. However cliched it might seem, it needs to be reinforced in our mindscape from time to time so that we don't lose any opportunity to contribute in our own way to the cause of eliminating terror.The ability to be rational in the face of reversals is perhaps the ultimate test of toughness.

Durga Puja in Cuttack

Cuttack during the pujas is a claustrophobic's nightmare. The cramped city doesn’t allow the luxury of expansive pandals that one would see in Calcutta or even in Bhubaneswar. In spite of that, in Cuttack, however small the pandal is, the idols therein are invariably beautiful and the filigree background exquisite and resplendent.

When one enters into the crowded streets on a two-wheeler, despair sets in. the streets are filled with cars, motorbikes, bicycles, rickshaws, not to mention a veritable sea of people on feet. The routes are one-way. It requires an almost meditative attention on the part of the uninitiated to traverse the labyrinth. After some time, however, one gets used to it. The beauty of one pandal spurs you to go to the next.
It's another matter, however, if your vehicle breaks down in between.

The resident of Cuttack celebrates the puja with a fervour inconceivable by the naive outsider. Being a witness to it will always remain a memorable experience.

Lies

I’m lying to you, don't you realise? My overflowing emotions are just a pretension, can't you see? I'm being downright cruel to you. I'm using you as a stepping stone to my ambitions. When you cease to be of any help to me, when I can milk u no more, that very moment you'll cease to exist for me. Why can't you read my mind?

You can't see through my designs. That's good for me. But for once I wish you were perspicacious enough.

Happiness

Have you ever experienced absolute freedom? All inhibitions gone, all beliefs suspended, all worries in abeyance....? Of course you can't lead life this way. But if you have had such an experience, even for some fleeting moments, then perhaps you have experienced bliss in its true sense. These moments serve as the revitalising tonic when you are absolutely stressed out or drowned in grief.

Taking a few minutes off from a brainstorming session to appreciate the lawn in front of your office in its verdant splendour....
Helping your sibling prepare for her debate competition, forgetting for a while that you have your majors tomorrow...
Dancing wildly to loud music when you are alone...
Speaking your mind out before the mirror...

Maintain a log of all those moments that have made you happy when no happiness seemed possible and you will be surprised at the entries when you look back.

Sketching

It's kind of amazing that my best sketches have been made during times when I have been inordinately pre-occupied or been busy with something else. But the activity has always relieved me of stress.
I feel unusually light, refreshed and even thrilled after completing a sketch. During these times sketching doesn’t seem to be an effort to me. It's spontaneous enough to make me feel as if I’m witnessing the forms take shape on their own. It gives me my moments of clarity and deliverance. Decisions become easy to take. Problems get solved and burdens turn lighter.

Tequila

Are the stars saluting me?
Is the sun bowing b4 me?
Forces oh so strong take over my person
Before voices alien I fail 2 see reason
I’m under a spell
My conscience somnolent
And inhibitions gone
The flowers seem to have bloomed for me
Even the nature's song seems to be a eulogy
Rendered just to me

Is the universe really at my feet?
Or am I dancing to the tequila beat?