Pehala Nasha

Here is a first attempt at singing and recording an old favorite. I shall try and dedicate this to someone...oh well, too many to choose from. Shall decide in a week's time. Okay, alright, just kiddin!

Due to the meager recording resources at my disposal, the bass effect is slightly uncontrolled. You need to switch on your speakers or listen to it using your earphones. The laptop stereo will do a bad job. And you might have to wait patiently for a few seconds before the song starts.

Enjoy!

And now, I am really off on my vacation.

pehlanasha.mp3

Wah Taj boliye

A mini-photo-blog of my mini tour of parts of North India (Agra, Delhi, Fatehpur Sikhri, Varanasi, Nalanda, Bodh Gaya) in Jan 2007. The ghats I visited in Benaras are the Kedar Ghat (which is so designed that the first ray of the sun from across the Ganges falls on the shrine of Kedarnath - a form of Lord Shiva) and Harishchandra Ghat (one of the two burning ghats amongst the 100 or more ghats in Benaras). It was too fascinating - Benaras that is. I was there on Shankaranti day; it happens to be one of the few days when there is a delicious variety of Malai sold there. Slurrrp! You bet I devoured that. More on that later.

Hope you like these:

That time of the year

It is that time of the year. Again.

It is like I come back in January each year, to be enshrouded and whisked away by the pallor of gloom, ice, snow and dense fog in Toronto packaged by the wonderful winter; slave away like the true mongrel for a good eleven months, scrape away and save each holiday to pack my bags come December and wuff-wuff my way to India. The regularity of the above event now sort of scares me. I am no longer sure what part of this act is scary: the departure scene - the teary eyed mom who is going to see her son after a good 12 months, the sheer acts of folly enacted by my fellow-Indians that I have to brave over the next 3.5 weeks, the changes in Indian society and coming to grips with the unexpected there or the sheer gloom of facing the Canadian cold again after lapping up the sunshine in India. Maybe all of these. Maybe.

Even as I prepare for the tour come early December, things are jolting. I know the prep has started because old friends, acquaintances start to ping me about my arrival date. The people who never used to drink now want me to get them some Port wine, Glenfiddich, wine from the Niagara wineries. Never mind the fact that over the past 5 years, I have never visited the Niagara wineries, though it is a short drive away. Some of them plan to take me out for all-night parties. Now that one was a real cause for concern. Nightclubs were non-existent in the Kolkata I knew. Now they are everywhere, I hear of hookah-bars, these clubs are open through the night they say. Yawwwn. Man, don't Kolkatans need to sleep anymore?

Whatever happened to the good ole Kolkata winters? You would hear : "Baap re, ki thanda! Amar Maaphlar ta kothai go?" [OMG. Its really cold. Where is my muffler?]. Families would happily go to the chiriakhana - read, the Alipore Zoo, the boudi leading the charge, sternly issuing orders to the disgruntled husband carrying the food baskets, children following in their monkey caps.

Now as they say, nothing short of Diesel goes. Tommy is everywhere. The Alipore Zoo is for the dehaats. The cool kids cannot condescend below the open smoking patios and hookah spaces at the Cafe Coffe Day outlets. When they get bored there, they grab a Mac sandwich and head to Sheesha. A 4AM bed-crash followed by the 11AM hangover from the nocturnal adventure can only be cured by the early afternoon cuppa at Cafe Coffee Day and a mini-shopping adventure at the Forum mall. By then Madhuri is definitely beckoning in Dhak-Dhak style at the INOXes; Aaja Nachle, she says. The cool ones oblige. This is followed by a frenzied bout at the numerous fitness centers that have sprung up, like the chai dukaans used to in old Calcutta.

I realize that all I pretty much end up doing is opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish throughout my stay in India : partly due to surprise, more due to some kind of a predicament mingled with my own naivete. The only times I am really comfortable is either when I am quietly relishing the tea in one of the old tea stalls or in the comfort of my home. Will be honest that the pollution really does not help. I am not weak or fragile by any means, but the pollution does get to you at times. The rest of the times, I really don't know what to expect. Get honked out of your skin by an Accord razing everything to the ground, the spoilt brat coming and knocking a pile of CDs at a shop and not apologizing, people treating their elders like shit, idle guys ogling at any female form in their vicinity, the illiterate paan-dukaanwala video conferencing with his mistress over his E90 communicator etc....?

But it is that time of the year alright. And I am off to India.

Wish my readers a Very Merry Christmas. Hope to chime in with some thoughts once I land in India. In the meantime, please don't be naughty and don't do anything I wouldn't do ;-)

F.Scott Fitzgerald

Here is to one of my favorite authors : Francis Scott Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940), the great American Jazz Age author, novelist, short-story writer etc. Don't tell me you have not heard of The Great Gatsby. No offense meant, but I will not hide my surprise. I have benefited immensely from reading his works and was dazzled by his attention to detail, which makes any landscape or situation float live in front of the reader's eyes. His portrayal of human relationships was stunning to me, to say the least.

On the aside, if you have ever wondered how beautiful, easy, difficult, blessed or anything the relationship between two sisters could be and ever wanted to experience that through words, take a peek at F.Scott Fitzgerald's Bernice Bobs Her Hair. One of my all-time favorite short stories.

Knightess in Shining Armour

I love desi get-togethers. They are the best zing that happened to mankind and human civilization after man climbed down from the trees or swam to the shores from the oceans. To keep myself properly motivated in life, I ensure I get invited to a few desi get-togethers every month or so.

You know how you end up with one cross-section after a not-so-healthy gap and people stand in a circle or a semi-circle exchanging words, when the old question pops up: "Where did you say you work? Sorry I know you told me the last time, I forgot".

"XYZ".

Ok.

Next month. Same crowd. Same question.

Gulp.

"Excuse me, you work for ABC right?"

"Right. I work for the same place I used to last month", I answer.

"How does it ever matter you infertile sod?" is how I itch to counter it though.

Before you can react further, a fellow desi with abundant nervous energy would definitely chime in. "He works for XYZ. Right Anand?". Having said that, he would sort of start in mid air, eyes twinkling, waiting for my reaction, proud at the display of amazingly high-definition memory and alertness and smartness.

Right. "Thanks so much you obnoxious bull". I gulp some coke. My wan smile issues itself and I reply "Yup...same old.".

First desi : "Ah I see...nice. I forgot. Really cannot remember where everyone works right?".

I slink away into my coke, my ego hairbrushed away nicely into bits and bytes by this display of attention. Why can't this moron get his drink and be happy for a bit? Why was it so supremely important for him to know where I worked. I do some internal calculations but cannot come up with an instantaneous, plausible answer. I store away this amazing problem to be worked out later. As soon as I reach home. The first priority is to escape from this hole, unscratched.

"Bhai, don't mind..", he comes after me.

"For some reason I keep thinking you work for Microsoft. You know Rosta na, from Goa? His brother works for M$ at Redmond." The fellow takes a second to beam.

"And you know Gayatri? Her husband used to work there too."

"Oh really?". I have no clue who this Gayatri is/was. "Nice! That is very nice".

We desis always know someone who works for Microsoft or IBM or Hewlett-Packard or the White House. If it is not one of those, we always know someone who is related to Shah Rukh Khan or who knows Abhishek Bachchan. If not that, then we definitely know someone with a sister who had studied with Aishwarya Rai nee Bachchan. If all of the above possibilities fail in a sinister plot by the stars or the moon phases, then we know someone who is related to Vajpayee or Advani or Mittal or the Dravids, Tendulkars, Gangulys or the Sehwags. We are desis you see. And what better vantage point to display this enormous network of connections than a desi party. Collect all information and dump it thumpingly, proudly on unsuspecting fellow-desis who have no connections in the world at all. Whee! We are desis you see.

"So tell me...how is business. You guys are also a pretty big company na..Number 3 in IT na?".

Gaaaawwwwwd.

How do you explain a 10 billion enterprise database business market to a moron in a minute?

"No yaa...they are No.1 in IT", the other guy clarifies.

"Oh good...things are good. They are too good to be true". You really don't want to answer at this point because the cockroach is not actually listening. He will ask you a question to engage in conversation. I am extra careful now. You only need to mumble a few meaningless words to your Coke before the next question comes at you like a Shoaib ka bouncer. You duck or take it on your body : the next one will arrive before you have time to react.

I have noticed that often, my night is saved by the Knightess in Shining Armour at such parties. There will always be one breathless beauty that will arrive a couple of hours late for the party. But as soon as she enters, the cockroach will leave me in a microsecond and rush to her side. That is also usually the time I bless the angel and bolt for the door.

God made these angels not without reason. I often leave unfinished glasses of Coke at the parties I attend. Wish I had not wasted all that coke.

Oh, the regrets I carry.

Love

One of my readers asked my thoughts about love. I decided I am the most inappropriate guy to expound on this complicated emotion...er..if it can be called one. But I hate to turn away the few faithful readers I have today. Hence this entry. On this thing called : Love.

Probably the most overused, overabused, overpitched, overloaded word in history. It can be linked to almost anything and everything : wars, politics, scandals, mythology, brand marketing, product releases, family life, relationships etc. And yet, like anything mystical, it is something that defies all definitions and attempts to bind it to any one given meaning, emotional state or form. Ask anyone you know. Each of them will define love in a different way. Once you start defining love, it probably even ceases to make sense.

The many women I have had the privilege of knowing over the years have defined love differently from the men I have known. Most women have typically defined love as : "The man loves me if he can accept me the way I am." Most men I have known have linked love with respect, caring and even sex (though unofficially. If she has sex with me, I know she has feelings for me. Could be true. Once your wife starts cheating on you, chances are she won't be getting cosy in bed with you). But it is generally agreed upon that men are idiots. So the definition hardly matters.

But look at what the women above say. "Accepting the woman the way she is" is a diplomatic and political masterstroke. It effectively is the ticket to happiness forever. Each morning, each day, she might turn a new leaf inside out; and the statement still holds true. Brilliant! The moment I first heard this (I believe it was my college senior who said this to her boyfriend while I watched and listened in awe at the lady) I knew it was a clincher. I felt elated and knew that is the kind of love I wanted. A girl who could simply accept me for who I am. It was a new dawn in thinking as far as I went. That was 1992. I have met a variety of women since. And most swear by this concept of love.

But probe a bit further and get doomed. Would you be happy if your partner accepts you the way you are but is not caring? Would you be happy if your partner accepts you the way you are but flirts with other women? Would you be happy if he accepts you the way you are but really doesn't care too much for the relationship? The women probably meant all of the above things and probably some more when they talked about the acceptance part. So love cannot be acceptance alone. When I was 21 this definition seemed quite practical and I loved it. But soon realized it was as theoretical as anything else.

Like all ideals and notions my concept of love has definitely evolved and changed over the past decade. I think when people talk of love, they mean two things: one in the context of what they have in their minds (the theoretical concept that they know deep down will never happen : we all have probably read One and The Bridge Across Forever by Richard Bach and have at one time or the other subscribed to the concept of a soulmate) and the second in the context of what they have in life and what they know is probably within their grasp. For example, it is all well for the woman to say acceptance of her true self is paramount but if unfortunately she ends up with a real skirt-chaser, then her concept of love tends to revolve around faith and sincere attention. If she ends up with a workoholic her concept of love would typically rest on her guy being attentive towards the relationship, herself and the family.

Fundamentally all I have known is that factors like the above are people's reactions to circumstances and the esteemed ego. My concept is very practical. To me love is the feeling you have for your partner which brings you back to the person each and every time you are on the brink of breaking away. It is what holds you two together. Fevicol ki majboot jhod kind of thing, you know.

If you look carefully, the feeling that keeps two people from drifting apart actually is an emotion that encompasses a whole lot of other emotions and more. It overlays almost all definitions of love I have heard, one's ego, one's anger, one's hurt. It is a pure emotion that tells you what you'd rather have in your life and what you are prepared to give up. It enforces the faith you have in the person and shows you the single focal point of your life at the crossroads.

Everything else is the Masala. Without the meat there would be no need for the spices.

Khamoshi

Khamosh nazar ki zubaan, Kuch kehti hai mujhse,
Kahin se ik pukar, har taraf bulaye jaise.

Aao paas, par raho yoon bhi door,
Samandar ki gehrayion ne, Kinare ko apnaya jaise.

Silsila ek pal ka, faasile umr bhar ke,
Dikhaye zindagi ke rang, darakhton mein aaeena jaise.

Pal pal doori mein, Uski yaadein bikhri aise,
Kisi ke haath se gire, Motiyon ka haar jaise.

Dilon ki zubaan ab khamoshi bole,
Kahin khushi kahin gham dole,
Tham gaya waqt kuch yun hi,
Pal mein Muddatein beeti hon jaise.

Kahin To Milegi

Sometimes you hear a song a couple of times. You then unintentionally lose track of it. It stays in your memory somewhere, you yearn to listen to the song, but it fades away over the years not being a popular item by any means. You make half-hearted, feeble attempts to locate it knowing very well not many have heard it nor would be interested. You know deep down you really cannot find it after all these years. In fact, it would be embarrassing to even go to India and inquire about it. But then one fine day, most unexpectedly you end up issuing a Google query for that very song. Finally after over a decade, you do locate it. I have to bow to Google's spiders, their Page Rank algorithm(s), their clustered boxes working overtime. Held together wonderfully and made my day.

I refer to the year 1995 and the movie called Milan. Not a movie to remember, honestly. But man, was that song good (at least to me). You know how it was in those days. One of your buddies (that is more resourceful than the rest) buys a cassette. The whole gang of friends would then pounce on it like a bunch of leopards on the same prey. We used to be quite fascinated by the cassette releases. Borrow it a couple of times amidst fierce competition. By the time it could come back to you for a second listen:

"Yaar, woh Milan ka cassette to de".

"Oh..abey...woh cassette to ghis chuka".

Shit! Damn! For some reason, cassettes were still an expensive buy for me and my friends in those early college days. It was also not inexpensive to record such a song in one of the cassette shops that would throng Rashbehari Avenue in the then Calcutta. The cost of a khaali cassette followed by the price to record about ten songs in there would always elicit a Baap Re. Ironically, I remember being ready to dish out upto 30$ USD for this song when I used to be in San Francisco. You can argue that the reason for my apparently foolish stance was my conviction I wouldn't get that CD/song in SFO. I leave it entirely upto you, unwilling to question my dedication to the songs I love ;-).

But in spite of the economic factor and the bigger risk of time whisking the jewel away into oblivion, I guess my memory won this battle for me.

Here is that song. Hope you enjoy it. Even if twelve years late.

Hi, howz it goin?

The thing common to all my work-related fronts over the years has been a studied smile and a vibrant "Hi!" that I have had to put up every single morning, at every corner, every corridor, every coffee corner, every cafeteria I have visited. Yes, I am at work. I live in a social world. But then I am supposed to be working. Am I not at liberty to concentrate, in my very own way? I like to look at the cracks in the ground, even talking to them. I like to stand in a coffee line staring at nothing but the coffee, thinking about the tasks I need to wrap up in the next hour or so. But behold, there will come that perfectly timed "Hi" from the perfectly unwelcome colleague at that very moment.

He will come along merrily, finding the perfect day, march right upto me and say, "Hi! Howz it goin?". "Very good, thanks. And you?", is usually my customarily polite reply. Now this is when it gets tricky. There are two paths from here. From my grim look and tone, a normal human being would shy away, leaving me to sulk with my coffee. But usually the people I refer to are made of sterner stuff. They can draw you into some conversation thread effortlessly. By the time the conversation is over, I feel like heading home, with the end-of-the-work-day kind of feel.

"So did you watch the game last night?", pat comes the question back. I want to bolt. But somehow it never is feasible. There is someone else at the next corner. All escape doors are locked.

"Er, um...no.", I murmur. He knew very well I don't watch basketball.

"So...I heard you guys have a team lunch lined up."

"Um...sorry, I don't remember. Need to check my calendar again".

"You are not married are you?". The guy smiles dangerously. At this point I have my coffee half raised to pour it on his head. You know you are dead duck at this point. There is no escape. Worse still, he is going to walk with you all the way back to your work area, right up the ten floors in the elevator. OMG.

"Ah, I understand...a girlfriend problem huh?", he continues, as I wear a weird mixture of a startled deer and a constipated kangaroo kind of a look. Much as I want to say something, all I can manage is silence. You pray and wish the silence works. But most often it only encourages the intruder. "You know what dude, these women are the same. You gotta treat your car and your woman right...It is all about the cat and the string theory". Right. That was precisely what I needed to know first thing on Monday morning. These are the pearls of wisdom that will help my work week, help us launch the product on time and save the world.

Nerves frayed already, strangling the coffee cup, my muscles taut, my brain aching, I begin to think of very strange things at such junctures - like how beautiful it must be to see this rodent stranded in outer space, orbiting some planet that died a zillion years ago with a tyrannosaurus tied to his pelvis. Admittedly it is a fascinating experience. You the reader might think I am a sad puppy, a tired soul, a dreadfully boring workoholic, but you know what, on Mondays I couldn't care less. You have a dazed smile on your face, an opponent chatting away and hell-bent on destroying you and you cooking up his worst possible punishments, while nodding away, well, like nodding was what you were born to do. Nod away to glory and you shall see my point of view. Someday. Alright.

At moments like this I wish and wish I had worked from home. The walk back to my work area is equally treacherous. At every step you will meet a person who you hardly know or want to know. But there has to be the quick exchange of plesantaries: the "Hi" followed by the "smile". My facial muscles ache by the time I land in the safe comfort of my chair. There are a thousand tasks pending, but I have conveniently forgotten what project I have been working on...

And you know what, I hate weekends. I know most people love their weekends. I dread them. The number of "Hey, how waz your weekend?" questions I have to repeatedly answer on Mondays makes me want to stay put sick at home. Mondays are holy for me. They are meant and meant for work alone. And that is the way I like it. It is me, my work and my brooding over my first hot cuppa in the early morning. No "Hi's", thank you.

But hey that is my goddamn problem.

To you: "Hi! Howz it goin"?