Domain Maximus

Prologue

It was four in the morning and the kid two seats ahead was beginning to throw up again. Every fifteen minutes he’d sudenly sit up straight and draw in his breath sharply. His mother, with the light-sleeping agility of a Ninja you read about in Lustbader novels, would leap into the aisle and extend a plastic bag into her son’s face in one fluid motion.

He would then heartily oblige. With gusto.

Adjacent the concerned father, deeply moved by his son’s agony, lay draped over the fully reclined  seat. He was snoring like one of those fumigating machines the BMC suddenly assaults your housing society with one night without warning. You know. Where you freak out when you come back from office thinking there’s been a fire and you’ve lost, gasp, the Playstation and the passport with the still valid UAE visa.

Nothing perturbed Puky Pukerson. He kept going.

A few minutes past three a.m. he may have violated the Law of Conservation of Mass. (Also known as the Lomonosovo-Lavoisier Law.) He had managed to puke a little over his complete body weight.

Yet… amazingly… there he was. Still alive. With Ninja Mama waiting to strike.

But if you thought that was the most disgusting thing about our hastily arranged bus journey from Mumbai to Goa you are mistaken. You are so mistaken.

Moments after the journey began the missus, yours truly and the other unsuspecting passengers were subject to a poorly produced DVD of that blockbuster movie, indeed epitome of film as an art form, Speed.

Not the Keanu Reeves, Sandra Bullock one. But the Aftab Shivdasani, Zayed Khan starrer (!) that set the box offices ringing with calls for refunds. And if that was not bad enough, after that movie, hours of fitful sleep and Captain Regurgitation, in the morning we were further subjected to a DVD of Dhamaal. (Famoursfor the song - Dhamaal.)

Now everyone wanted to throw up.

But wait one goddamn minute! Didn’t yours truly promise the missus a romantic trip to Jodhpur for a friend’s brother’s wedding? (Close enough to hog, distant enough to give small inexpensive gifts without guilt.) Followed by an overnight desert safari in Jaisalmer?

And here we were in a bus to Goa.

What gives?

Part 1: A Christmas in Waiting

Bandra Terminus, station code BDTS,  is so named not so much because trains stop there as much for the fact that your willingness to stay alive terminates as you step in. The 1:30 PM train to Jodhpur starts from platform number 2.

Or maybe 1. Or even 3. Who knows? The railways fellows surely don’t! And is there an overbridge across platforms? Of course not! That would make it convenient to catch trains and that goes completely against everything BDTS stands for.

So while you drag your bags, (one for the master, one for the dame and one for the woolens that weigh a freaking ton), through incessant porters, pollution, traffic and over puddles of stagnant water you have no idea where to go. Till, like a breath of fresh air, a porter told us that we’d have to go all the way back out of the parking, through the gate and across the tracks to platform number 2.

I was beginning to hate my double-lined, American-made, water-proof, mountaineering-intended Nautica jacket. Sure it had kept me virile through many a testy December in Ahmedabad and Delhi. But the freaking thing weighed many a ton.

The platform was almost empty when we reached there. We were an hour ahead of time. This was so that I could cozy up to the TTE when he turned up with the train and see if I could bump up our Waitlist 4 & 5 to at least an RAC.

The TTE, in his eagerness to help agitated passengers with WL and RAC tickets, came in plain clothes and slipped into the train without telling anyone. When I finally located the blackguard he was lavishly laid back on a berth eating only the aloo out of a dabba of aloo gobi. The philistine was saving the gobi for later. Or maybe he didn’t like gobi. Honestly I didn’t give a freaking f!@#.

I asked him for a berth. In a polite manner. He said he had no berths. Then, as I believe is the norm, I loosened my shoulders, threw my head to one side, popped a fist into a pocket (mine) and asked him in a more casual manner. Apparently, as Pastrami had prepared me, this indicates that I am prepared to pay a little gratuity for the help. He laughed at me and popped another piece of aloo in the mouth (his).

When the train started moving I ran out, and once again the both of us, missus and I, were alone on the platform with nowhere to go. Our dreams of a desert holiday and a five star marwari wedding in Jodhpur had gone to pieces. Also it was our first wedding anniversary in a couple of day’s time.

The wife was beginning to show the faint beginnings of a dissapointed funk on her face when I told her those reassuring words that never fail to perk up any unhappy missus:

“Don’t worry darling. It was entirely my fault that we missed the train and our holiday plans have got destroyed beyond repair and not at all because you said we don’t need to book Tatkal tickets as any idiot, by which you meant me, should know that Waitlist 4 and 5 always gets confirmed…”

She was immediately cheery again, briefly mentioned how she found my honesty refreshing, and we trundled back home and sat in the living room, bewildered at what to do with the four days of leave we had already locked in with our employers.

We made a few calls to hotels in Mahabaleshwar and Panchgani only for the owners to laugh at us loudly over the phone. The 25th of December was not proving to be a good day to book rooms in hotels for the end of year holidays.

Sidin: “But darling… after all what matters is being together and spending time with each other and enjoying precious moments…”

Missus: “Shut up and call makemytrip”

Sidin: ” …calling up Makemytrip of course.”

A few calls, frantic internet searching, tripadvisor review readings and helpful dibs into the Lonely Planet later we finally decided that the only place that remotely had the chance of a free room was Goa. Some shack or tent somewhere had to be free right? Half an hour later, a last minute cancellation meant that a log cabin waited for us at the Montego Bay Resort on Morjim Beach.

Morjim, a little googling revealed, was one of the more secluded beaches far from the maddening crowds. This meant that the beach would be cleaner, quieter and most importantly I could take my shirt off without irreparable damage to the self esteem.(I carry a little bit of fat on me. Sometimes you can’t make out I’m wearing a swimsuit.)

(Later in Goa, as luck would have it, every time the missus and I decided to hit the beach for a walk or a read in the evening twilight a dozen or so foreign mens, most of them working in the underwear modelling, special forces commando and international gymnastics industries, would parade in front of us with their tops off and their flat-abs and six-packs showing. I would immediately leap off my lounge chair, pick up an empty Kingfisher beer bottle and thulp them over the head till they passed out entirely in my imagination.)

Since flying was out of the question due to my freelance writer livelihood, and we had already had our fill of the railway system we decided to opt for the many pleasures of luxury ac Volvo buses. Redbus.in was a handy tool and we had soon booked return tickets on Raj National Express. The cram de la cram of bus operators.

After a minor fifteen minutes delay, we were off to Goa at 8:15 PM. Morjim, the beach, foreign food, a run in with a world famous author and the most delightful massacre of the English language awaited us.

And onwards we bus to Part 2. Which will appear, I promise you, shortly.

Yes yes yes. Your conscience demands you go to Giveindia and do your bit now! Right now goddammit!

It was one of those dinners that happen way too infrequently nowadays.

Fungus was there. The author and the missus. Pastrami completed the four-umvirate even though he was only half the man he is normally. Bags under his eyes. Shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Mouth pursed in that weird way of those who have worked 36 or so straight hours on an investment banking deal that will yield rich dividend in time.

(While I sympathized with him, inside I leapt for joy. The more he worked, the more he made bonus and the more he paid for Long Island Iced Teas at the Hard Rock Café. He rounds his credit card bills to the thousands you see.)

Alas money is not everything. Nothing can buy back sleep once lost. Not even a lucrative buy back option. (Got it? Got it?)

But also it was Pastrami’s birthday celebration redux.

Earlier this week he had spent the night of his actual birthday hunched over his laptop at the office doing the things he does on tough deals. Making term sheets, creating spreadsheets, downloading porn, playing Poker on Facebook, hitting on the ladies in HR. They call it ‘the grind’. A party had been out of the question till the deal had been closed and both parties signed on the dotted lines.

Thankfully a couple of days later he emerged from his professional tapasya an exhausted but satisfied man. A quick round of phone calls later we were all at Tamnak Thai. Heinekens were being sipped. Pastrami was awake but looked grim.

Normally, regulars at this blog will know, Pastrami has a tendency to slip into precarious predicaments. There was the infamous time when his family realized he was gay. Also I did poke him in his eye once with my stylus.

But this time we assumed him grimness came from just having worked like a dog all through his birthday.

“Pastrami the usual?”

“Hmm…”

Thai green curry and steamed rice. The missus, another veggie but one bored of Thai green curry all the time, demanded a change. She ordered a refreshingly different Thai red curry.

These veggies I tell you…

Fungus wasted no time in ordering a herd-killing spread of lamb, pork and chicken. All cooked in the Thai fashion with generous helpings of lemon grass. Also much chilli.

We dug into our food with feverish gusto. (Note: The food would reciprocate fiercely the next morning. We are talking Krakatoa here. Lava. Pompeii. It still hurts. Freaking magma.)

Pastrami continued to be silent. He chewed in slow motion. He was completely quiet except for a brief moment, which gave us hope, when he asked for a diet coke. But he went back into his shell again.

“Dude. Something wrong?”

“Hmm…”

“Bad day at work…?”

“Hmm…”

I reached for the Thai Red Curry. The missus dissuaded me with the pointy end of a fork between the third and fourth knuckle.

“Arrey yaar. What is this reticence? Why don’t you talk to us? We are your friends no?” I said fighting back tears bravely.

“No I don’t want to. It’s embarrassing.”

Whoa! Embarrassment and Pastrami? A blog post loomed. If only he would open up. And I could type.

Fungus chirped up: “But tell no? Sometimes it’s good to share things with friends.”

Pastrami took a deep breathe. And then narrated his short but lively tale while we sipped our Heinekens and tried not to think of permanent tendon damage.

Pastrami had been called to attend a meeting with his boss late the previous night. The meeting was at a client’s office and it had something to do with Corporate Finance or Slump Selling or some such topic I remember flunking with aplomb.

The whole team, some seven or eight people, stuffed into a small conference room. Once everyone was settled Pastrami’s boss flipped open the laptop and began the presentation. Pastrami was expected to note down the client’s reactions and questions.

A few moments into the presentation Pastrami notices that the client CEO’s laptop screen has quickly moved into screensaver mode. The way they sat in the room, only Pastrami could see it.

The screensaver was a version of a recent Swimsuit Calendar. The CEO had one of those VAIOs with 19-inch screens and vivid life like images on the LCD screen.

Pastrami is only human. He was distracted. In the beginning he pulled his eyes away to the excel sheets and models and Powerpoint on the large projector screen. But in time he began to anticipate each model on the screensaver. The way her hair blew in the wind. The way the sand stuck to her bum. The way her voluptuous…

“Pastrami! What do you think of the slideshow? You’ve been quite interested in it! Which parts did you like?”

The client CEO boomed with a smile on his face.

“What?” Pastrami frantically clutched at conversational straws.

“What do you think of the slideshow? Anything you liked in particular?”

“Well…”

“Don’t be scared of your boss. Give me your honest opinion…”

Pastrami figured this guy was a real stud. Not harm in playing along if it meant the deal would go through.

“Well I really liked Deepika’s picture. Sheetal was a little too aggressive if you ask me. That little tigress! Sarah Jane would have rocked. But that’s just my opinion. Ha ha ha!”

The room reverberated in deathly silence.

On the drive back Pastrami’s boss spoke to him: “He was referring to my…”

“I know…”

“You thought?”

“Yes…”

“Oh shit…”

“Yeah…”

“Little Tigress… damn…”

“Hmm…”

Just as he ended the story the Tamnak Thai people brought in the cake we had ordered for him. There was a candle on it that had already been lit.

And around the candle our message:

“Happy Birthday Pastrami! May 2008 be your year with the LADIES!”

He flinched.

We winced.

“Happy Birthday Pastrami!”

“Shut it…”

Sigh.

p.s. Do a good deed today. Sign up at GiveIndia and support one of the certified NGOs there. You don’t have an excuse not to.

Geeeaaaaaaaaaweewaaaaaaa…

Ah! Nothing like getting up after a truck load of work and then stretching and screaming in relief no?

No seriously. I actually do that. The wife hates it. Apparently I never did it before marriage. “You have changed Sidin!” she says while I download photos of Matt Damon and take large printouts.

Anyways it’s been a really tight couple of weeks and I’ve finally managed to salvage the time to bring your attention to an evil which is slowly eating away at the very social and moral fiber of our society. Something that is beginning to rear its evil head more often than it ever has in the past. A vile presence that sits like a benign granuloma on the spinal cord of our society and restricts the blood flow of unity and communal harmony to the population centre that is our brain stem leading to the subacute sclerosing panencephalitis that is mass cultural myopia.

(Many many House MD DVDs. Sorry.)

But before that, I would like to say that henceforth each blog of mine will come with a little banner for GiveIndia embedded in it. GiveIndia is a website that makes it easy peasy to donate money to your charity of choice. They don’t pay me money to do this, of course, and I hope the High Networth Engineers and MBAs amongst you will rise to the occasion by clicking through and doing your bit wherever you see fit. Charity begins at home page no? (Ha!)

So where was I? Ah yes mass cultural myopia.

What’s with this sudden upsurge of national political correctness? Haven’t you noticed it? When suddenly people are afraid to say what is blatantly obvious? Just so that they avoid the possibility, however minor, of offending someone.

Of course political correctness can be convenient in certain harmless situations.

“Of course your baby is lovely! No the moustache is cute.”

“No no. That is a good IIM too!” (Guahaha.)

Yet nothing drives me insane like one of those media reports, especially on TV, where they try to pass off “People from two communities had a go at each other yesterday with sub-machine gun fire. Riot police later controlled the crowd from a distance using only mind power as made famous by the Bapna brothers in Competition Success Review.” instead of just coming clean and admitting that the Buddhists and Bahais are at it again.

First there was that Aaja Nachle thing. And then the Sikhs of Lucknow filed cases against poor Anilbhai. And now the recent discoveries about my cellphone.

What did you say? No idea what happened to my cellphone? None at all?

Sigh. Socially networked society it seems. Citizen journalism will change our world they say. Pshaw!

Texting messages is one of the great modes of communication of this day and age. After a hectic day in the office nothing warms the heart like sending a message of extreme naughtiness to the wife. But then “Darth Vader Woman in HR” is just next to “Darling” in the phone book and often hilarity ensues due to digit-al mishaps.

So imagine my chagrin when I discover that the Brick, as I affectionately call my P990i when I wear hip hugging jeans, has a predictive text input that is so prudish that it makes an Indian parish priest look like an American parish priest.

Let me explain.

My cellphone uses what is known as a T9 dictionary. This is the thing that gives your predictive text input thing work. So you don’t have to go punching forever on your teeny mobile keypad to get simple words out. (Try doing the phrase “I was flabbergasted when I perused the entry for appendicitis in an encyclopedia my dear Parthasaarathy!.”)

Yet I know the smartest people who don’t get the hang of predictive text input. High funda software engineer processes Laplace transforms and does Matrix multiplications in his head over a Hazelnut Cappuccino. But tell him to sms you what he’s sipping and watch the genius sweat over his keyboard.

But all the difficulties of T9 pale in comparison to the indignation I felt when I discovered that the Brick comes factory-installed with a dictionary that has all the good words pruned out of it already. Is this another sign of the moral decrepitude of our times?

I am afraid so.

For instance when I am thoroughly angry with someone I need to send out a message like “NO! YOU are a dial head!” This is because the word I am looking for (rhymes with drick) is not available on my phone. The closest available choice is ‘dial’. I could call it Richard. But that could become an annoying habit.

You’ve been late with a column submission and got beaten black and blue by the newspaper person? The best you can do is “I got batch-slapped by that Hindu person again today!” This is because my phone does not believe in the existence of the female of the canine species at all. “Where do puppies come from?” is not a question my phone ever asks itself.

No reference can be made to the posterior region of the human body with any suitable word except ‘booty’and ‘butt’. Words such as ass / arse / fanny / back-end / doublebubble are simply missing from the T9 dictionary. If this was before marriage I would have asked aloud in agony: “What is wrong with the posterior for god’s sake? I think it’s mighty fine and deserves wide appreciation!” Today I have no interest in such things at all. In fact you should ignore this last point completely.

I cannot call anyone a ‘moron’, ‘nincompoop’, ‘imbecile’, ‘slut’ or even ‘dufus’. All perfectly good words in the English language. But my phone will have none of it. Apparently such words are beneath it.

Instead it cheerfully throws up such conversational gems as ‘incontinence’, ‘Hilcote’, ‘tundra’ and my personal favourite: ‘hernia’d’.

‘hernia’d’

Definition: The situation of having a hernia thrown at oneself at great speed without warning.

Use in a sentence: “Sidin was writing a poem about the Asiad, could not find a rhyming word for some time, before he picked up his phone and observed ‘hernia’d’.”

Important Note: Be EXTREMELY careful when sending T9 composed message to any girl named Rashmi.

Yes my phone has ‘screwdriver’. But no mention at all of plain old simple ‘screw’.

As you can this has shaken my faith in the world at large gravely. Who knew such a vile conspiracy was afoot within the bowels of the mobile phone industry?

Is this happening to your phone as well? Is the phone trying to prevent you from speaking freely? Is it curbing your freedom of expression?

I think we should form an Orkut group and fight this immediately. When I pay for my phone I should get it complete with a full quota of words whether they seem unsavoury to the phone maker or not. Let us put an end to this menace.

Or as my phone would say “I’ve had enough of this asap. Time to kick some cps!”