Domain Maximus

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!”

After I was done with a little bit of research for this blog post I was left even more nostalgic, warm and fuzzy than I started. But let us cross the water when we come to the bridge shall we?

Regulars to this blog will know that once in a while, four or five times a year tops, I write a little post about growing up in the Middle East. It is almost entirely based on my own life with little… err… social commentary and random observations as with most other posts.

(I love that phrase. Social commentary. Makes me sound so Arundhati Royish. Page 3 BUT in Fabindia clothes.)

This is one of those posts that non-bloggers keep cribbing about. "Who cares what happened in his life? Besides the incident in the lingerie section at Shoppers in Bandra of course. The rest is utter crap."

So where was I. Ah yes the middle east.

The time is the mid eighties. Back when the middle east, by which I mean Abu Dhabi in particular and the rest of the UAE in general, belonged to no one in particular. The locals knew they needed outside help. The outsiders knew they were making certain trade-offs in life when they moved in and there was a pleasant, incidental and largely observed-with-satisfaction equilibrium in relations between the various ethnic communities.

Think of it like one of those multi-ethnic chawls they used to show in old hindi movies and new TV serials. Except here everyone minded their own business. None of that melodrama with the families fighting and the sikh family mediating and all that.

This is actually a trickier situation than you think. Especially for the media. What programming do you have on TV? Which languages? How does one cater to the Petroleum engineer from Dallas, the accountant from Lahore, the engineer from Bombay and the building supervisor from Dhaka. (This is well before the Filipinos flooded the place and taught us desis what kick-ass lifestyle was even with salaries of less than thousand dirhams a month.)

The most cosmopolitan TV channel was Channel 33. Dubai’s official non-arabic channel.

I use ‘non-arabic’ for a reason. This was because they played all kinds of programming: English English (Fawlty Towers), American English Upper-Middle (Full House, Charles in Charge), American English Lower-Middle (Bill Crosby, Different Strokes), Gameshows (Blockbusters) and, the point of this entire blog, Bollywood Masala. (Okay there was also wrestling, english football much before ESPN made it cool, and nightly news bulletins with fifteen minutes of news and fifteen minutes of names of pharmacies open for 24 hours.)

Thursday nights was Hindi Feature Film night on Channel 33. Dad had halfday on Thursdays and this meant we spent a few hours after lunch helping him water the plants, vacuum clean, dust, fluff, fold, align at right angles and so on. (He is a little bit of a freak that way. He used to wipe clean each individual leaf of each plant every weekend. We had to sit around and help him. Which explains why I am so easily amused. He has now bought plastic plants and on a fortnightly basis bathes them under the shower. Please don’t ask.)

Around five or six in the evening we would move to the living room and begin fiddling around with the TV antenna. This was a box behind the TV with a dial on top. You moved the dial a little and then waited while the antenna, perched somewhere on top of the building, slowly motored into place. (It seems high-tech and lavish to you. But we were big Bill Crosby fans if you know what I mean.)

Channel 33 was on TV while we nudged the antenna a little this way and that. Sometimes it took two hours to get it aligned perfectly. (Meaning that, with any more static, we would routinely confuse Mandakini with that guy who played Samba. The cool anglo-name guy.)

Finally after dinner we would sit with bated breath for the movie. ( I don’t think Channel 33 ever published movie details till actual showtime. The newspaper listing simply said "Hindi feature Film." Also "Wrestling". "Football". Hulk Hogan? Aston Villa? Tito Santana? No way of knowing. Full and full suspense only.)

The movies were all mid-late 70s and early 80s classics.

And thence we begat our knowledge of all things Indian and filmy.

There was no ambiguity of characters in the movies those days. There were the good guys and there were the bad guys. Both disagreed on everything. There was the rare traitor who, unsuspectingly, would change sides at the last moment. But we knew who it was halfway through the movie because of the way he kept speaking or smiling to himself in every other shot. But there was none of the gray fellows whose loyalties are wavering till the end. That was blasphemy back then.

Many movies would start with the credits playing over a ‘negative’ clip of the ‘Aha!’ scene: the scene where it becomes clear how Amitabh is actually Rishi’s brother and Pran killed their father raped their sister, threw their mother’s head against a corner table and scared away the domestic help. Also there was some funda about Kumar Gaurav also which we do not recall because, let’s face it, no one ever gave even two flying !*#$% about Kumar Gaurav.

This might seem all regular and usual for you guys. But for us NRI kids who knew our India from the CBSE and biannual leave trips, it was pure, unadulterated awesomeness.

We quickly got our hang of the formula though. Even when you were six years old you knew that the kid running on the road will grow up into the hero. While running on the road. That the first non-cabaret song will be the one that brothers identify each other with in the timber mill. Or ice plant. Or dockyard.

Brother one: "Tum. Yahan. Kaise?"
Brother two: "Auto. Frauded meter. Bastard!"
Brother one: "Dey! One movie. One social evil."
Brother two: "Sorry"
Mom: "Kheer anyone?"

We knew without doubt that it will take the hero one month and four songs (one random first meeting, one disco type campus number, one semi item dream number, one impressive youth festival seductive number) to convince Kimi Katkar to go out with him, but exactly ten minutes to convince her that he is actually reincarnated and that his family in the pre-life was massacred by a bald man with a pipe and baggy cap and related to Kimi by virtue of being, according to her statements, ‘her father’.

Shortly after her tacit content to their liaison it would begin raining and two hibiscus flowers appeared on screen and gently quivered in the wind in metaphorical fashion. (In one mallu movie they used a dead lizard. Symbolically. I think. I hope.)

Of course her dressing sense rapidly changes from ‘screechy flourescent slut’ to ‘salwar suit with enticingly large back window’ as soon as they decide to go steady.

We also gleaned that the harder the hero gets beaten up as a kid the longer his revenge action sequence will be in the end: The Vadukut Inverse Thulp Theorem. "This one for my father" SLAP "This one for my mother" SLAP "This one for the little girl who lives down the lane" SLAP "This is fun! I can do this all day!" SLAP

Also someone always had to walk down the stairs clapping slowly during the climax scene. This was one of the great scenes of 70′s to 80′s bollywood. One that is sorely missed in movies these days. This was also signal for you to run to the loo finally after holding it back for some two hours. (Few advertisers wanted the SEC C Indian (Malabari) demographics. Sometimes Konica, Masafi, Al Kabeer and such like. Vicco Vajradanti on tape rentals.) After the clap a speech was due by someone and, in any case, we never knew enough Hindi to get those long speeches anyway.

Young Sidin: "Daddy… err… what is the meaning of Izzat lootna?"
Daddy: "Umm… err… talking to women impolitely and without any respect."
Young Sidin: "Oh. Nothing at all to do with the fact he just ripped her blouse of?"
Daddy: "Of course not…"

There are a million more such cinematic axioms from the 70s and 80s I could jot down. I’d actually begun to forget many of them.

But the fact is that as I saw Om Shanti Om at Imax a few days ago, all of those memories came flooding back to me. Cringing when the villains thumped the little kid while hanging his valiant policeman father. Punching the air when the hero wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and suddenly found new strength to fight. Clapping and screaming when the long lost brothers came together, settled their differences, jumped into the jeep and sped to the villains hideout amidst funky music and bongos. Holding my breath while the suitcase with incriminating documents flew in the air from heroine to hero just missing finger tips of bad man. Feeling a little jealous when a lucky child star roughed up a minor villain with  cricket bat.

For me OSO stood for everything that was good and great about old-fashioned heart-pounding Indian cinema. Call it parody if you will. Call it slick spoof. Marketing gimmick. Anything you want. But while watching OSO there were moments when I felt all those things again. When those axioms came to play again. Sure Karz’s ending song was better. But when was the last time in recent memory you saw a climax to a movie like that? Reincarnations are timeless! And I just knew there HAD to be a supernatural angle to it.

Next to me, in the theatre, there was an elderly couple. Both probably peeking into their fifties. The husband whistled and danced in his seat while his wife tried to hold him back smiling herself. All around us people erupted in laughter as Bollywood star after Bollywood star poked fun at themselves on screen. I may have whooped a few times myself.

OSO was not about Shah Rukh or Deepika. It was not about any individual or song or six-pack abs or anything. OSO was about a world and style of entertainment that probably has little space in our lives today. A style which politely asked us to keep our minds and troubles and hopes outside and step in for a few hours of pure escapist pleasure. Trash the movie and our kitschy heritage all you want. But no one landed a punch like an Amitabh scorned. No one has ever since proclaimed the greatness of mom dearest like Shashi Kapoor.

And really no one can dance on a giant rotating record wearing a silver jumpsuit and get away with it again quite like Rishi Kapoor did.

But what do I know? I was an NRI kid with his chin on the floor and his eyes glued to a grainy National TV screen.

And, sob, this is what my research on Channel 33 uncovered: Some three years ago the government of Dubai quietly shut-down Channel 33. Apparently the expat communities now had their own TV channels on cable and satellite. No more could they find a role for Channel 33 to play for the migrant hordes. Why keep afloat a universal voice when the more passionate individual ones are doing better?

And with that another pleasant memory of childhood had disappeared as well. But thanks to OSO, not entirely.

Viva La Disco! (Trumpets! Funk! Bongos!… aaaaand CRASH CYMBAL!)

Sniff.

My heart aches. I am fighting back the tears of indignation that well up. Cannot cry during Diwali, I tell myself, as I sob in time with the roaring of the AC in the office so that no one notices.

How could you people do this to me? How could you let me carry on this blog with two copies of the exact same blogroll on the sidebar of this page for two whole weeks without as mush as a peep.

All you people care about are the blog posts and the content and the wisecracks and all that. I am just  a piece of meat, with some words thrown all over it, for you guys.

I feel used. I have removed the extra blogroll. But our relationship is never going to be the same again.

ROAR! Sob!

In other news the missus managed to destroy the tryanny of under-connectivity perpetrated upon us by the vile people at Wilson Cable here in Wadala East. She is terribly proud of it and I think it only right that I tell you all about her moment of inspiration which now helps me, literally, to run around anywhere in the house and browse porn interesting material on applied sciences and contemporary sociology.

The Wadala East area is heavily under the control of a cable-internet cartel managed by the people at Wilson Cable. They may sound like a nice, warm and friendly outfit in the english countryside as depicted by Blyton or Herriot.

"Hey it’s the man from Wilson! Hello Tommy! Top of the morning to you laddie. Good show with that Set Top Box. DVD quality indeed!".

To which the real Wilson Cable people from Antop Hill would respond: "Oh why don’t you pop over with me to this khopcha and I could, perhaps, feast you on some of my special and copious  kharcha pani."

You take panga with these people at your own risk. They have their own TV channel and stuff. These are bad asses I tell you. Ms. D’Costa from upstairs refused to pair her bill last year on account of poor picture quality. Then one day she went to the airport to catch a flight and was never heard from since. (Some say she migrated to Canada. But we are not believing that story.)

And yet the missus prevailed. Woo hoo!

The thing is this. We have a 256 kbps connection laid to our home by the people from Wilson. Now they may be tough nuts but they are reliable people to do business with. The connection works well and more than once, minutes away from a column deadline, they have repaired a down line so I can mail off things.

Two years ago, when we first got the connection, you could plug in the ethernet line into any PC’s lan port and dial up. All you needed was a PPPOE connection. (Look it up. Basically it is a way to put a dial up connection on the end of a broadband connection so that there is some security and control.)

Then suddenly one day we received a call from the Wilson Cable office. There was a moment of discomfort in the home when we saw the caller id flashing. What did…. gulp… they want… with us? Gulp. Shudder.

"Ab ek hi MAC address chalega… Nahi… Sorry… Bas ek. Aapko kuch problem hai to aap ek kaam keejiye, Antop Hill Wilson office mein aayiye… Oh Ramu! Woh peeche waalah ‘discussion’ room khulwake rakhna…"

Apparently some genius had signed up for one of their unlimited internet connections and then, through a router, set up an illegal internet cafe. So they decided that henceforth they would have two types of accounts: cheap single user accounts for poeple like us, and more expensive multi-user accounts subject to location checking and vetting.

We did not complain and continued to use several laptops on our connection, all using MAC address spoofing but, of course, only lappie at a time. And we always paid Wilson Ke-bill on time. Heh! (Phew. That one’s been inside me for months.)

Then last week, the tech geek that I am, I decided to have a wifi enabled home. This way I could work online not only in the bedroom, but also absolutely anywhere in the living room. Imagine!

Two days later a shiny, cute Netgear wifi router was shipped in by Ebay and I eagerly unpacked it with dreams of complete domestic mobile computing in my eyes.

Eight hours later I went to bed with the sheer ecstasy of someone who had just wasted eight hours of his life and 2000 bucks (inclusive of VAT) of his hard earned money.

I had forgotten one simple fact. Stupid me. Even if I had spoofed MAC ids all over the place on both lappie and router, the network would still not allow more than one device to access it. Therefore even if I was hooked up to the internet, and the lappie was hooked up to the router I could do nothing with the network.

"Connection ek, aur computer do! Bahut na insaafi hai!" the network would say unnecessarily falling back on a tired Sholay cliche yet again.

Therefore I was adamantly left offline. Completely unable to get on the net and do anything.

Except, of course, obsessively update the software on the Netgear router.

But after four hours of this, the initial exuberance dims somewhat. "Goddammit you fool! NO NEW FIRMWARE VERSION! F&@# I quit!" was the sort of message the router was beginning to spew.

I gave up and went to bed. A sad, broken man.

Next morning I gave the wonderful people at Wilson a call to find out what was wrong.

"Aapne ghar pe ROUTER lagwa diya!" he said with undue emphasis on that exclamation mark. Apparently I had broken some unmentioned rule of the Cable Omerta. After a few moments of pregnant silence he said that this would not work and I would HAVE to take a multi-user account. At a little more than double the rent I pay now. "Main aapko ek aisa offer doonga jisko aap mana nahi kar sakte!" he said. I hung up immediately and ran for protection to the honourable Don Bosco chapel nearby.

Later at home I walked over to the router, packed it back into it’s box, then into the Ebay envelope and then placed it on the coffee table in the living room to forever remind me of my folly.

That evening, back home from work, the wife suddenly had a brainwave. The sort of idea that only comes to those truly gifted with IT. A eureka moment sans compare.

"Use the router as a node. Don’t let it dialup. Then connect to the wifi network with lappie and dialup as usual. Should work…"

I had tears in my eyes. I ran to her and fell to my knees as I tripped over the internet wire. But no matter. I got up and did exactly as she wanted me to: did the dishes and put out the washing to dry.

Then I worked on the router.

Would you believe it? It was working perfectly. Now we have internet anywhere at home. Everywhere at home.

Truly we are a tech advanced household.

If you want to see how it works you are welcome to drop in for a looksee. However we have hidden away the router behind the flush tank of the attached bathroom.

We don’t want them Wilson Cable people ever finding out. And don’t you be telling them a word. Silencio. Mucho secreto! Grazie.

Ciao.

After a long and unwelcome hiatus Pastrami suddenly burst back into my life yesterday. He had just returned from a trip to Jaipur recently. (Brother of Pastrami is getting married soon and Pastrami needs to keep popping up to Rajasthan once in a while to hang around the house looking delicate and sensitive with Blackberry in hand while the natives do all the hard work. “It is only what an elder brother should do…” Pastrami says.)But this recent trip had been very traumatic for him. He called to narrate a most unpleasant occurrence at his home, amidst his latest trip, that had him all shook up. I immediately suggested we pop over to the buffet dinner at the President and discuss it over smoked salmon. He agreed.

This thought came to me: Kaching!

Pastrami, for all the investment banking bluster and bravado, (“What do you mean you don’t have this Nike in my size? I will withdraw my Debt-convertible-to-Equity investment in your sorry ass retailing company right now mofo!”) is really a softy. Small things can shake him up badly and this story had his feathers ruffled much.

Sidin: “So what happened dawg?”

Pastrami: “So I am at home see. And they’re discussing the whole lunch buffet thingie…”

Sidin: “Day three?” (These extravagant North Indian weddings I tell you…)

Pastrami: “Day four. Daal bhatti churma and all that.”

Sidin: “Ah. Ok.”

Pastrami: “Now you know how it is with the kids back home and all their general questions about life and education and such like…”

Sidin: “Yes. You are supposed to be the resident genius yes?”

Pastrami: “Exactly!”

Context Update: Pastrami, the fabulously overpaid IIM A graduate, is without doubt the brains of the family. If anyone has any doubts with regards to any facet of life they immediately turn to the vast intellect of the Pastrami. This is particularly true of the little children who are encouraged to interact with Uncle Pastrami so that they too may grow up into outstanding pillars of society with a CA and MBA. In a lesser man this may have caused anxiety and pressure. But Pastrami takes this in his Bally-shod stride.

Until today apparently.

S: “So what happened?”

P: “This little fellow, one of my cousin sister’s children, runs up to me and demands to be spoken to. So I set aside my Blackberry and sat down for a chat with him…”

What followed was most mirthful:

Pesky Kid: “So Uncle Pastrami you know Harry Potter no?”

P: “Yes of course. I like Potter very much. Also the movies. Have you noticed how that Hermione Granger, of late, is turning into one… err… mature, educated individual?”

PK: “I like her also. But yesterday I saw on TV that JK Rowling has said that Aldus Dumbledor is actually gay…”

P: “Ahem… cough… cough… yes…”

PK: “What does gay mean?”

P: “What??!!”

PK: “Gay. Rowling said that Dumbledore is gay. I want to know what is gay. What is gay?”

By now our Pastrami is getting a little concerned. The word “gay” is not bandied about with such (hehe) gay abandon in the normal Rajasthani household. They frown upon such things and beyond a point can get all worked up till, when they can handle it no more, they go stand in a pool of stagnant water, blindfold themselves and try to dislodge trinkets from the feet of doves only by throwing sharp daggers…

Oops. Right location. Wrong story.

But back to the original story. Pastrami is heating up under the collar and the pesky kid is turning into a pain in his Rajasthan if you know what I mean.

PK: “WHAT IS GAY? WHAT IS GAY? WHAT IS GAY? WHAT IS GAY?”

P: “OK OK OK OK. I will tell you…”

PK: “Thanks uncle…”

Pastrami called the kid aside and began at the very top. A complete and explicit description of what love was, how a man and woman come together and how children, the fruits of a consummated marriage, were conceived and born.

PK: “That’s awesome uncle. So you are saying that right after marriage my father and mother decided they must have a child…”

P: “Yes…”

PK: “And then downloaded me from the internet…”

P: “Ahem… exactly…”

PK: “But mom told me that it was a very painful and long nine months before I was born…”

P: “Yes. Well… err… ahem… aha… see the internet was very slow in those days… you know how long it takes to download just one video file… That Paris Hilton thing for instance…”

PK: “What?”

P: “What?”

PK: “… anyways… so now tell me what is gay…”

P: “See gay is when a man likes another man… or when a woman likes another woman. And not just like but also love.”

PK: “Like mom and papa like you said?”

P: “Correct. So they hug and kiss and all…”

PK: “So wait… all those girls in Chak De India… they also hug and kiss after goals and everything no? Are they also all gay and loving each other in their hostel rooms and all?”

At this moment Pastrami paused to let that entire picture form in his mind and play itself out over several minutes. In great vivid detail. Especially Preeti Sabarwal. And that goalkeeper.

Pause for reader introspection.

PK: “Or all those boys in Rang De Basanti…”

And that image came crashing down in Pastrami’s mind.

P: “No no. That is just close friendship.”

PK: “Oh…” Puzzled…

P: “Gay people like each other a lot. They want to live with other people of the same sex. Boy with boy. And girl with girl. But this is not liked by everyone. They say it is a bad thing and not how people should be. Most people think that men should love only women and women should love only men.”

PK: “Oh! So THAT is why everyone is upset that Dumbledore is gay… Everyone thinks it is not… correct…”

So far so good. Besides the obvious discomfort Pastrami had actually managed to endure that trial in great form.

Sidin: “Not bad at all Pastrami. I think you handled it well. Sure you gave that kid a skewed view of sexuality, he will say something stupid in school, other kids will make fun of him, his childhood will be scarred. He may even become an outcast. No one will mix with him or be his friend. But then he is going to be a CA anyways…”

P: “Point…”

S: “So why are you so worked up dude…”

P: “Well remember last week you send me an SMS asking me if you could pick up a DVD from my library in Bandra?”

S: “Yes. Thanks a ton for that man…”

P: “Remember that you send me an SMS back after I said ok?”

S: “Yes…” I gently waved at the waiter for the bill. My spider sense began to tingle…

P: “Pesky kid picked up the Blackberry while I was away tasting the Tawa Mushroom…”

S: “Oh heck…”

The waiter placed the bill before me. I pushed it across the table.

P: “Why did you have to send me that man…”

S: “Well I meant ‘I Love You Pastrami’ in a platonic sense man. But you have my photo on the Blackberry don’t you? And photo caller id?”

P: “Hmm…”

Pesky kid, filled with emotion, picked up the berry and ran into the living room where assorted elders had communed to taste the rehearsal lunch.

“Uncle Pastrami is gay, Uncle Pastrami is gay, Uncle pastrami us gay, he loves a man, he loves man, he loves a man…”

We both got up and walked slowly towards the coffee shop door. I put my hand around Pastrami’s shoulder in a comforting fashion.

He mumbled under his breath: “Don’t do that man. Not now.”

I nodded as we both walked out with a respectable distance between us.

(Disclaimer: Very long. Only begin when you get time.)

Latest transcript of emails exchanged between budding script writer Blossom Babykutty and control-freak soap baroness Ekta Carrefour.

Email 1:

Wednesday 13th July

Dear Ekta,

As mentioned in our telephonic conversation of last week please find below my outline for a mega-serial that can be produced by your production house. Unlike conventional serials this story is rooted in reality and talks about the genuine problems faced by a simple family of parents and children struggling to come to terms with everyday life. I think it will be a refreshing break for your viewers. Do respond with your feedback on the same. I am assuming you will want to make a minor few changes.

I am also obliged that you have given me this opportunity to work for a prestigious establishment like yours.

Thanks and Regards,
Blossom Babykutty.

Attachments: Script

The Joglekars are a simple middle class family living in a modest housing complex in Ghatkopar. The family consists of a father, who works in a bank as a teller, a wife who is an out of work school teacher and two children. The elder son has just finished twelfth and is waiting for his entrance exam results. He wants to be a engineer. The younger daughter is still in school and an excellent dancer. She wants to go for classical dancing classes but the family cannot afford it. (Very real don’t you think?!)

Their house is a simple one bedroom affair. The home is clean and bright but in a spare sort of way. They live in a nice neighbourhood with an eclectic mix of neighbours: malayalis, tamilians, gujaratis, all of whom live in peace and harmony. (My script idea has no villains actually! I think that’s a really cool thing. It also makes the serial a much more feel good experience. Your thoughts?)

The serial starts off with the wife and children sitting around the dining table waiting for the father to come home for dinner. He is later than usual. The wife is beginning to get worried. Finally, just when the family is about to panic the father walks in looking very very tired and hassled. He sits down to eat but manages to eat very little.

It is bedtime now and we are halfway through the episode. The kids have dozed off but only after the daughter begs her dad for a little money to join dancing classes. The father smiles bitterly and promises to do it next month when he gets paid. The kids turn in and are asleep in a flash. The husband turns to his wife and confesses what is bothering him.

The loan repayments are piling up he says. The loans for the house, the scooter and the one they took for her hospital expenses last year now leave him with very little money. (The hospital angle will evoke curiosity in the viewer. They will want to know what happened!) Now with the son wanting to do engineering the father is distraught. Where is he going to get the funds? He explains that he was late tonight as he was making a round of his friends and colleagues hoping for a loan to tide through the next few months.

The wife comforts him and cradles his head in her bosom. (This image is so riveting no?) She tells him not to worry and to take one day at a time. She is even willing to sell all her jewelery for their children. (Emotion. Tears. Genuine!) He hugs her tighter as she speaks. When the episode ends we bid farewell to ‘Everyman’s Family’ and eagerly await for next week when we find out how they manage to slowly pull together and get on with life.

I was thinking we can call the serial: ‘Kya Zindaggi. Kya Khushi.’ It reflects the bittersweet quality of everyday life.

The End.
——–*——–

Email 2:

Friday 15th July

Dear Babloo,

Thanks for your email. It was nice. I did not immediately remember our telephone conversation. But what the heck. I have read your great script and have made my minor corrections and notes, just below parts of your original scripts. The changes are only minor as I really like your thought process and the way you have structured the entire story.

I have not yet given you an opportunity to work for my organization me. Also please address me as ‘Madam’ or ‘Producer Jee’.

Thanks,
Ekta Carrefour

Script with revisions by Ms. Ekta Carrefour:

BB: The Joglekars are a simple middle class family living in a modest housing complex in Ghatkopar.

(E.C.: Good start Babli. But make a minor change. Let them be the Meswanis who live in a haveli on Malabar Hill. In fact their haveli is Malabar Hill. That fits in well with the rest of the changes I am making in the script. However the domestic help Bablu, who I added in just now, does live in Ghatkopar.)

BB: The family consists of a father, who works in a bank as a teller, a wife who is an out of work school teacher and two children. The elder son has just finished twelfth and is waiting for his entrance exam results. He wants to be a engineer. The younger daughter is still in school and an excellent dancer. She wants to go for classical dancing classes but the family cannot afford it. (Very real don’t you think?!)

(E.C.: Excellent mental picture Billoo. But for ease of filming and presentation I want to make some modifications to the family structure. There will be a grandfather who will provide the comedy angle. But he will be terminally ill from cancer, AIDS or both. I like the banking idea. So the father can be the owner of an international banking company. Like World Bank or something. His wife can remain as an ex-school teacher but is now a freelance jewelery designer. I too thought that two children would make the story more compact and clean. But plot potential? So let’s make the family have seven children. Three boys and four girls. We can add later if required.All the boys work in the bank. The women all hang out in the kitchen. But they can all dance! And sing too.)

BB:Their house is a simple one bedroom affair. The home is clean and bright but in a spare sort of way. They live in a nice neighbourhood with an eclectic mix of neighbours: malayalis, tamilians, gujaratis, all of whom live in peace and harmony. (My script idea has no villains actually! I think thats a really cool thing. It also makes the serial a much more feel good experience. Your thoughts?)

(E.C.: A haveli on Malabar Hill, you will appreciate, must have at least 10 bedrooms. This not only gives us flexibility with the sets but also gives each person their own room. Scope for character building! I hope you see how my changes are adding more substance to your basic storyline which we will always stick with and hardly ever deviate from. Your basic idea is great Bindu! Since the estate on which the haveli sits is very large, alas, we may not be able to accommodate neighbours for the time being. But what we can do is make casual references to the malayali or gujarati neighbours once in a while. We can introduce them in the second season if required.

I really really think the no villain idea is path breaking and innovative. However what I think we can do, for purely scripting ease, is make the driver, Inayat Khan, a terrorist. Like you wanted this is not a villain in the true sense. But a much more sinister presence. But the ‘no villain idea’ is excellent. I really like the idea Baljit.)

BB: The serial starts off with the wife and children sitting around the dining table waiting for the father to come home for dinner. He is later than usual. The wife is beginning to get worried. Finally, just when the family is about to panic the father walks in looking very very tired and hassled. He sits down to eat but manages to eat very little. He looks around at his wife and kids as they tuck into the food heartily. (I was hoping they would eat roti, dal and some simple bhaji. Bhindi or something. Reality!) We can sense something is wrong. But we have no idea what. (The tension should be palpable by now.)

(E.C.: This is where I want to make the first serious change to your script. The episodes need to be spaced out better. Since it is a large family, like you wanted Bunty, I think we should give the viewer the plot little by little at first. A detailed episode schedule is given after the script at the bottom of this email. But back to your script. The father is late for dinner and the rest of his family are waiting for him. The table is laden for evening tea with kulchas, khadi, khakras, kachoris, koftas, kaali dal and kaju burfi. All in little silver katoris. Very domestic! He eventually walks in, followed by Inayat Khan, looking very worried. Inayat places his bag on a shelf and walks to a corner of the room but only after shooting an affectionate glance at the youngest daughter! Intrigue! Suspense! Just like you wanted Beena!

They begin to eat joyfully but there is some grimness on the father’s face. At first no one notices. And then the wife sees it but mentions nothing. Viewers squirming with suspenseful agony. Post the meal everyone catches an auto to their respective rooms.)

BB: It is bedtime now and we are halfway through the episode. The kids have dozed off but only after the daughter begs her dad for a little money to join dancing classes. The father smiles bitterly and promises to do it next month when he gets paid. The kids turn in and are asleep in a flash. The husband turns to his wife and confesses what is bothering him.

(E.C.: Each child retires to their respective rooms to remove their jewelery and change into silk pyjamas before turning in. Here we can slip in a shot of one of the girls secretly pulling out a photo of any superstar film personality (Tushhar Kapoor?) and longingly looking at it. If only I could make it in Bollywood, she hopes. How is that for your ambitious daughter angle? Well done no?

Back to the parents. The father enters the Master Bedroom with his wife and walks for ten minutes till he reaches the wardrobe. As he changes he has a conversation with the wife. There are issues at the bank, he says. Someone is trying to buy up all the shares but he has no idea whom. Also secret internal dealings are leaking out to the public media. The bank is in some trouble from some large loans taken by one of the sons. <Perhaps we should make this son a married fellow and under the command of his scheming evil wife. I like this!> The mother comforts him saying that there is really no need to worry and she has done something special for him. She walks to the balcony and points downward. He looks out to see brand new Honda Accord parked outside. This is for you, she says, to take your mind off the bank problems. He whoops with joys and hugs her tightly. See how I got that very important hug into the script! You must be enjoying this Brinda!)

BB: The loan repayments are piling up he says. The loans for the house, the scooter and the one they took for her hospital expenses last year now leave him with very little money. (The hospital angle will evoke curiosity in the viewer. They will want to know what happened!) Now with the son wanting to do engineering the father is distraught. Where is he going to get the funds? He explains that he was late tonight as he was making a round of his friends and colleagues hoping for a loan to tide through the next few months.

(E.C.: After the hug the father walks over to the bed. He tells the wife how he was late because he stayed back to see if there was a spy in the office. CUT IN A CLOSE UP OF INAYAT KHAN! THE SUSPENCE BOILS OVER! He says how he went to his local country club to talk things over with some of his industrialist friends.

Cut to a comic interlude between the grandfather and the domestic help Bablu. Bablu’s son wants to do engineering and Bablu is trying to filch some money off the aged patriarch. This comedy angle can go on for several episodes. I was intent on keeping your engineering student issue. It is central to the story and a serious element. Good thinking!)

BB: The wife comforts him and cradles his head in her bosom. (This image is so riveting no?) She tells him not to worry and to take one day at a time. She is even willing to sell all her jewelery for their children. (Emotion. Tears. Genuine!) He hugs her tighter as she speaks. When the episode ends we bid farewell to ‘Everyman’s Family’ and eagerly await for next week when we find out how they manage to slowly pull together and get on with life.

(E.C.: The wife is a very traditional woman. She pats her husband on the head till he falls asleep. Once he sleeps there is a sudden change in her countenance. She walks over to any one of the seven telephones in the room and places a call. We do not know who is on the other side. She mutters in a sinister fashion: “He has got wind of it. I am sure Atul’s wife is behind it. You must be careful. We will worry about Inayat Khan later. Bring me a glass of vodka with a twist of lemon”. She hangs up. As she turns around her saree parts lightly and we see a flash of low-cut denim and pink thong peeking out. GOOD GOD WHAT IS ALL THIS! I MUST KNOW WHY THIS IS HAPPENING! THIS IS NOT A TRADITIONAL WOMAN! That’s what you are thinking exactly right? I know Babita! Your serial, with these minor changes, is going to rock!)

BB: I was thinking we can call the serial: ‘Kya Zindaggi. Kya Khushi.’ It reflects the bittersweet quality of everyday life.

(E.C.: Like most of your other suggestions I agree to this completely. It really does reflect the simple issues of an everyday family we are going to depict. I like this Bineeta. I love it!)

Episode Guide For First Fortnight as Recommended by Ekta Carrefour

Ep. 1: Family sitting around table. Focus on Kachori, Khadi.
Ep. 2: Kulcha, Kaali Dal.
Ep. 3: Kaju Burfi, Father entry.
Ep. 4: Inayat Khan glance at daughter.
Ep. 5: Wife notices. Mentions nothing.
Ep. 6: Tushhar head shot.
Ep. 7: Father walks into bedroom.
Ep. 8: Father reaches bed.
Ep. 10: Episodes Recap with focus on Tushhar head shot.
Ep. 11: Wife removes jewelery.
Ep. 12: Father sees Honda Accord.
Ep. 13: Shot of Inayat’s face.
Ep. 14: Father sleeps. Wife raises phone.
Ep. 15: Wife speaks. Cuts. Denim/Thong shot.
Ep. 16: Denim thong shot
Ep. 17: Denim thong shot

So what you can do now is this: If you agree to my changes and think we can go ahead with KZKK give me a call on my mobile number and fax me a copy of your kundli. It is on my card which I gave you. If you want to make some further changes then please mark them in this email and then mail it to <doesnottakehints@balajisoaps.com>. I look forward to hearing from you!
——–*——–

Email 3:

Monday 13th July

Dear Madam,

I was thrilled to hear from you. I have faxed my kundli as requested by you. Also I spoke to your secretary on your number. She gave me an identity number and details for the meeting. Before I meet you in person next week I wanted to express my sincere gratitude for the opportunity.

You have really been able to give my ‘real man’s story’ a very constructive and original spin. I think the story is stronger and better now. I was afraid you would overpower my suggestions (Ghatkopar, Engineering, Dance, Hug, Dal) but you have left them all in.

I really look forward to meeting you and working with your company.

Thanks and Regards,
Script Writer No. 237

P.S. I will be bringing a pink thong when I come as mentioned by your secretary for the script discussion.
——–*——–

Dear Mr. Flintoff,

It was my privilege to see the India – England Twenty20 match last night live on TV. You will agree that it was quite a memorable match of cricket especially because India won and once again proved without doubt that England should restrict itself to inventing games but not actually expect to win any of them. This is a small selection of such sports and games for your perusal:

- Football
- Cricket
- Tennis
- Hockey
- Rugby
- Badminton
- Anything that involves running (except running industry to ground), throwing (except throwing up outside pub) and jumping (except jumping on head of supporter of rival football team).

I am not trying to rub this into you in any fashion except that, when I really think about it, I am.

But while I try to wipe the grin off my face I also want to highlight the crux of this correspondence. The essence of this letter is to prevent you from committing again, the very grave mistake you did yesterday.

I am referring to that moment before the nineteenth over when you walked up to Mr. Yuvraj Singh and told him something that made Mr. Singh very very angry. If I remember correctly Mr. Singh approached you rapidly with cricket bat in one hand, I think right, before the umpire restrained him and saved you from buying a new English face post-match.

Of course we all know what happened next. Mr. Singh went on to thulp six sixes in the next over which was lovingly presented to him by one Mr. Stuart Broad. I do not know how this comes across in English but in most parts of North India they would say that “Yuvaraj Singh made England’s mother and sister into one…”

I know you are now regretting this move and wished you had not riled Mr. Yuvaraj Singh so.

Earlier today it occurred to me that you may have committed this folly because of a certain ignorance of the finer aspects of India’s great ethnic diversity.

So I have taken it upon myself to inform and educate you on how to avoid such mistakes when playing against India again.

The first thing you do, when you feel garrulous on the field of play, is that you gently check up on their surnames.

Let us take the case of Yuvaraj Singh.

If you observe carefully you will notice that his surname is Singh.

You can do it. Try again.

When you observe this surname on an Indian person in a competitive setting, such as a cricket match, traffic or in a crowded disco, you do not rub them the wrong way. In fact you avoid conversation at all costs. I would go so far to say that you complement them on their looks/wealth/health and relieve the location of your presence immediately.

While I am not a Singh myself I have had the opportunity to interact with several Singhs many of whom, inspite of my jokey, sarcastic demeanour, did not impel me to undertake critical surgery of any kind.

But that is because I said NOTHING. NADA. NIL.

This is a very good policy to follow with Singhs.

Singhs, by and large, are some of the most jovial people in India. They love a good meal, heady drink and back slapping good humour. They work hard at whatever they do, party all night to the most infectious music and believe in living life to the fullest.

I know some Singhs who have two washing machines at home: one for washing clothes and the other for making Lassi. (True Fact.)

But within this merry, albeit cholesterol full, demeanour hides a race that can rapidly combust when angered. When the average Singh has been driven to wrath he often throws things, throws things at things and sometimes drives things through other things. Such one other thing, once I observed, was a tractor.

And it’s not just action but also words. And whatay words!

Rivaled in his insulting fervour only by a hardcore Chennai Tamilian from a suburb like Washermanpet, the average Singh can run through entire generations of Flintoffs, bestowing individual terms of endearment, without ever using the same abuse twice, or waiting to catch his or (this is the scary part) her breath.

I am, incidentally married to a lass from the Punjab which contains many many Singhs. Whenever I leave laundry lying around or forget to pay the Power bill she immediately updates me of my responsibility by reminding of who I am, where I came from, what will happen to my tender parts and where I will end up in the long term all in one succinct, crisply delivered sentence that would make an average member of the Barmy Army fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at which point she may let him off with a minor rap across the knuckles with a fridge or sofa.

She also has this fearsome backhanded slap across the face that you hear moments after it hits you because, when sufficiently angered, her palm moves faster than sound.

You may also like to know about one Mr. Navjot Singh Sidhu who used to don India’s blue many moons ago and is today a well-known cricket commentator and TV presenter of ill-repute.

Mr. Sidhu once had a minor tiff with another individual in a traffic-related situation. Now I am aware that Englishmen also get into traffic tiffs and then resolve it by hurling abuse at each other or a little pushing and shoving.

Mr. Sidhu, after due thought and introspection, killed the other man. Kaput. Khallas. Phineesh.

Which is why you should be thankful that Yuvraj Singh hit that ball for six so many times rather than, oh off the top of my head, your kneecaps.

And finally I must tell you about an old friend of mine in engineering college. A Singh of, until this incident, mild repute.

Somehow it transpired that a friend of his was made fun of and minorly slapped about by a ridiculous fellow in the NRI quota who, like you, was unaware of surname based profiling.

My friend, on hearing of the news, walked toward the perpetrator’s room, picked me up on the way to clean up after, along with a large hollow concrete brick the size of Gladstone Small and barged in.

He swung, I jumped up, perpetrator passed out, he missed and the brick proceeded speedily through an entire wooden bookcase, right through a Sony stereo system and a stack of CDs before ending up wedged well between my legs. Thankfully it missed my belly by a few inches and hit me full on the cojones (ka-ho-nees).

At the time it was not much fun. Over the weeks we learned to laugh at the whole thing but not too much because I had bladder control issues for a while.

So, in closing, I ask you to refrain from such verbal excesses in future. Currently we have Mahendra Singh Dhoni, R.P. Singh, Harbhajan Singh and of course Yuvraj Singh in the team. And perhaps in time, because there is no logic or cricketing reason to do so, BCCI may pick VRV Singh as well.

Keep your trap shut.

Namaste London,
Sidin Sunny Vadukut

p.s. Next week I will write to you to tell you why you should also be wary of South Indian Cricketers even if they are named after popular breakfast and tiffin items.

Picture courtesy Cricinfo.com