The missus, whilst being a fanatical editor, quality checker and supporter of Dork and Cubiclenama, often says that I am too harsh on MBAs in general and management consultants in particular.

This, of course, is nonsense. And I have the PowerPoint slides to prove it.

Hah.

But, to be honest, at least one veteran consultant has written to me about how much Dork has touched one of his/her raw nerves.

So imagine how much pain a spectacular new blog post on the  the New Yorker’s website will inflict on them. Titled Christopher Nolan’s “Implementation”, blogger Gideon Lewis-Kraus mashes up management consulting and Inception to produce brilliance:

“If you fail,” says Watanabe, “you will stay in ‘limbo,’ which means spending the rest of your life developing dynamic solutions for leveraged market-driven global enterprise frameworks across downstream cross-platform industry. If you succeed, I will help you return to your former career as an independent boutique retailer of imported artisanal tapenade.”

Read the whole thing here: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/goingson/2010/07/christopher-nolan-implementation.html#ixzz0vXk3Ai46

Ayyo. Too much comedy.

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Defenceless prey

So we’re all trooping out of the in-law’s place in Ashok Vihar last weekend for a spot of shopping. We walk out of the door, past the stairwell and down the narrow drive way with low boundary walls on both sides.

Suddenly the mom-in-law freezes in her tracks. She cranes her neck over the chest-high boundary wall on the left. Like an alert documentary lioness, she has spotted something far way in the prairie grass of… er… Ashok Vihar BA Block. (Since the in-laws are staunch vegetarians let us assume that the prey is a wildebeest-shaped block of fresh paneer. Or kulfi.)

She turned around and asked us to be very quiet indeed. And then, following her lead, we all proceeded towards the car in a crouched posture. As soon as reached the car, we leapt into our seats nimble-fully and careened out of the colony at full speed, through the gates, swooped into the main road outside and then took a tyre-screeching u-turn before stopping at the Reliance Fresh on the other side.

Mom-in-law emoted the Punjabi equivalent of “Phew” and then explained how we’d just managed to avoid one of her more nosy neighbours, the retired VRS-accepted bank manager, uncle Zaphinder Singh Beeblotra (name changed).

Beeblotra, like Arnab Goswami, is renowned in Ashok Vihar for having an instant solution(s) for everybody’s problem and for tirelessly following up for months and years to ensure that his suggestions have been implemented. Failure to do so leads to quarrelsome discussions, incessant hounding, sting operations and, ultimately, prolonged feuds.

Which is why Bhatia from 4C refused to invite Pillai from 5B for Arunima’s wedding. Because Pillai put up a split AC unit, on Zaphinder’s tireless persuasion:

“Pillai saab…kya ajeeb batein kar rahe ho yaar! Window AC?? Chi. Huak thu! Aaj kal to zamana hi split AC ka hai ji. Chalo koi na. Aap busy lag rahe ho. Aap morning meditation continue karo. Main 11A hoke aata hoon. Sehgal sahab de Babloo di mummy de gift wali Scorpio da stereo kharaab ho gaya hai. O paagal Sehgal Kenwood lagva raha hai. Kenwood! Bewakoof na honwe taan!”

Pillai’s split unit then began dripping water down the outer wall and into Bhatia’s kitchen. Where it fell directly into steel pot placed under the Aquaguard. Which is how Arunima’s fiance’s entire family got dysentry when they came for girl-and-environment-inspection in February. (Bhatia rejected Beeblotra’s plan of making the ill drink the water of raw boiled papayas. But in exchange he had to let Idea Uncle choose the paan supplier for the wedding.)

So when the missus occasionally goes for walks around the colony she does so carefully. With an eye out for Beeblotra. There is no saying when he will leap out of a corner and plead with her to join swimming classes immediately. Because, just twenty-three years, ago the colony had gone on a bus trip to a beach somewhere and the Missus, who was extremely cute as a child I have been told to say, refused to approach the sea. For fear of being swept away. Beeblotra immediately made it his life’s mission to convince the missus to learn swimming. To this day.

In short I would faster attend an “Indian Students Tweetup” in Melbourne before teaching this man how to use Twitter.

As we trotted around the Reliance Fresh buying things, the mom-in-law recounted one of pop-in-law’s run ins with Beeblotra. (Apparently the incident was one of those family “in” jokes. You know the type. Where everyone is rolling on the floor howling just three words into the telling. Which puts immense pressure on you, the recently wedded-in, to laugh as much as everyone else. Which is a problem, as everyone else is from Jallandhar. And laugh like Royal Enfields.)

Scene: Pop-in-law generally hanging outside the house minding his own business. Whence Beeblotra pounces upon him from his secret hiding place behind the ironing-fellow’s push cart.

Pop-in-law: Woah teri!
B: Oh Kapoor saab! Kya haal jee!
PIL: Bas badhiya. Waiting for the workers to come!
B: Workers you say…
PIL: *ugh*
B: Carpentry work is it?
PIL: No no. Some masonry…
B: Oh ho! New room? New wall? False ceiling? Hamara Arvind Denver mein ghar ke andar jacuzzi banva raha hai you know?
PIL: Yes of course. No no. Bas we cleared the garden and some rubbish in the back of the house and soch rahe thhe ki what we will do with this extra space…
B: Oh Kapoor saab! Socho hee mat! Socho hee mat! Best suggestion deta hoon. Tussi majjan paal lao.
PIL: *Reply rhymed with “ittefaaq”*
B: Haan ji. Solid idea hai. Majjan paal lao. Space ka use bhi ho jayega aur sehat ke liye to badhiya hi badhiya! Kaash mere ghar mein aisi free space hoti… Main toh kukkad bhi paalta.

Reminded of the incident PIL, MIL and Missus unleashed waves upon waves of uncontrolled laughter standing in the Biscuits and Cereal aisle. On hearing customers make such a loud mirthful commotion a Reliance Fresh employee came running to find out what was happening. And would you believe it if I told you that the badge on his uniform t-shirt showed his name to be Phani Prasad!

What are the odds right? Impossible no? Correct. I made that bit up.

All this while I am standing and wondering what the joke was all about.

“Majjan paal lao”.

What DID that mean. My Punjabi is ok as long as it comes to Sukhbir lyrics. Otherwise it’s all a little gal ban gayee. So I began to process it in my mind. While I fake laughed away gripping on to a large pack of Bran Flakes for support.

1. Majjan paal lao = Majjan + paal lao
2. Majjan = mazaa? Mazaa = enjoyment / fun / amusement
3. Paal lao? Perhaps the same as the paal lo in “Bhangra paalo”? Reasonable assumption.
4. Paal lao = take it / pump it up / do it
5. Therefore majaa paal lao = have some fun! enjoy it! rock the place!

What the…

Beeblotra was basically telling them to use it as a party room? A den of some sort? Some enclosure to play Dumb Charades, Pictionary and other all round enthusiastic procurement of the phatte and subsequent chucking of the same?

What in god’s name was funny about that? Why are these loving, doting people laughing like maniacs? Why do I not get the clearly ground-breaking joke?

All these things went through my mind as I wiped fake tears of joy from my eyes, like everyone else, and proceeded shopping for something called “kharbooza”.

Later the missus clarified.

What thought leader Beeblotra really meant was to convert the space in the back into, and no urban residence should ever be without one, a buffalo shed. (Majjan = buffalo. Paal lao = domesticate.) His hare-brained theory being that the family which had recourse to its own source of fresh, free range diary products could save money and stay healthy.

A simple and spectacularly stupid plan.

Thankfully PIL installed a roomy bedroom in the space instead which I regularly use whenever I visit. Beeblotra does not know of course. I would be obliged if you don’t tell him.

However later, on further rumination, the incident also generated this Malayali thought process:

1. Majja = buffalo
2. While alive = milk, paneer, ghee, butter etc.
3. After dying purely natural death from heartbreak or tripping and falling = first class biryani (Buffalo is beef for real men.)

So really, when you look at it from my perspective…

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When we first met and got talking, it sounded just like another one of those coffee-shop mouth-off sessions with Pastrami. (No. Not that Pastrami. This is about the other one. Different business. Same complicated personality.)

Every couple of weeks Pastrami, the missus, a few other mutual friends and yours truly get together to, by and large, make fun of each other. Take each other’s trip. Now you might be forgiven for thinking that this sort of routine gets lame after a while. How much fun can you poke at the same people fortnight after fortnight right? Right?

Wrong.

Pastrami and I once spent an entire overnight train journey making fun of a particular female friend’s nose. Five, maybe six hours of purely nose-based humour.

It was quite a remarkable nose of course. Long, pointed and with a mid-stream course correction that made it hook downwards, and slightly to the left hawkishly before ending in a well-tapered, not at all chunky point. It was not a freakish nose. Some people could have pulled it off. Alas our friend was not one of those. And when extreme boredom struck Pastrami and me minutes after leaving Aurangabad station, we quickly converged on the nose for amusement:

“So does it echo a little bit when you sneeze?”

“Can you touch your tongue with the tip of your nose?”

And the classic:

“How can you possibly head-butt anything at all?”

Alas this particular evening Pastrami had other things to talk about. Which, if I had known about, I would have made up some random excuse, something marriage related perhaps, to avoid meeting him.

Let me explain.

As soon as we settled into one of the tables in the corner at the Costa(lot for) Coffee at Connaught Place, Pastrami squirmed a little uncomfortably in his chair, as men do in such circumstances. And then he said: “Sidin. I have fallen in love. I have asked her to marry me.”

I kept scrolling through Twitter updates on Blackberry hoping that the moment would pass and Pastrami would move on to something else. But he did not. He repeated: “Dude! I am in love. I have asked this girl to marry me! Dude. Listen!”

And so I had to.

Now in most cases when a close friend falls in love and decides to propose to someone, this is a cause of great joy for the entire friends circle. And naturally so. Aren’t we all glad to see a friend find that someone special to spend the rest of his or her life with in love and affection, till some form of gaming console or broadband connection do them apart?

Not exactly. In reality there are several base, negative and downright selfish reasons why we are glad to see a friend hook up with someone.

For instance married men love to see single male friends hook up because there are really only so many times you can laugh off other people’s bachelor exploits before slowly crying yourself to sleep on your side of the double bed. Single men also love to see other single men hook up because, thanks to the weird probabilities that govern male life, your friend is going to date some smoking-hot Anjana Sukhani look alike. A babe who is SO out of your league that she is in some completely other sport if you know what I mean. (Anjana will then fool around with you because you are harmless and call her “bhabhi” all the time, when your actual mental train of thought is more along the lines of “slutty nurse”.)

I am not one to hypothesize how women’s minds work. But when a girl decides to hook up with a guy, I believe her female friends’ mental flowchart is as follows:

1. Wow she is going out with someone!
2. The bastard better agree to marry her…
3. Because she would look so AWESOME on her wedding day (leading to the most important and critical next thought…)
4. AND THEN I CAN GET MEHNDI DONE!!! WOO HOO!!!

But in Pastrami’s case things are not so. When Pastrami tells me he is in love, my train of thought is along the lines of:

Oh. Shit.

This is because, for all the years I have known gentle, sensitive, prone-to-auto-accident Pastrami he always, without fail or exception, falls for the MOST CRAZY ASS WOMEN in the world.

I do not jest. These women are freaking night-mare inducing, restraining order generating insane. Stark raving. And that is saying something for that gender.

For instance there was the one that would always drop in, to say hi and possibly make out a little, by barging into his room without warning Kramer-like. Initially this was a cute quirk that temporarily suspended Pastrami’s “I will be naked when I am alone” habit. Later we discovered it was because she wanted to know if he was ever with any other women in person or on the phone.

Then there was the one that, in her spare time, wrote jolly comic verse about people who wanted to commit suicide.

And who can forget that crazy girl from Goa who’d break up one day, drop in for the night the next, then break up again. And then sex chat with him on Google Talk only to break up again and then make up again and then sex chat again all in the space of a brief afternoon. She left poor Pastrami a mess of mixed messages and hair-trigger emotions for weeks. I’d ask him if he wanted to do coffee and he’d ask, reflexively, if it was because he’d ”screwed up something again without knowing.”

And in each of these cases Pastrami wanted to marry them immediately and have children and a house in the hills. Alas it would be left to his friends to pick up the pieces and console poor Pastrami and nurse him back to sanity. Largely by making jokes about unrequited love around him till his sorrow was spent and he laughed along.

So when he sits in a cafe and breaks the news that he is in love yet again, ideal responses would be to talk him out of it, hit him over the head with that humongous cup at Costa and hope he develops retrograde amnesia, or stab yourself in the throat with that ridiculous cheese twisty thing they serve there and then die a slow death. Anything but the crazy woman you’d have to handle for him.

Alas I was just in the middle of Retweeting something on the Berry and, before I could pick up an ornamental polished marble ball from the potted plant, Pastrami blurted it all out.

The young lass was well-known to all of us having been a year junior to us in college. She was of sound mind and had a penchant for some emotional poetry. And a looker to boot. So prima facie there was nothing to suggest a mental imbalance other than the usual womanly foibles. (Stuff like “You just like Yoda because he talks funny.”)

And then Pastrami began to speak of how they’d been in touch for a long time over email and chat—the lass works abroad. And how after a recent visit by her to Delhi he’d decided that they were meant to be together forever:

P: “Sidin, she came all the way to Delhi just to meet me. For a few hours. From XXXXX!”
S: “No shit. Did she say that? Did she say she came JUST to see you?”
P: “Well not in as many words. But she has no other friends. No other family. Only me. ONLY ME! DON’T YOU SEE! IT IS FINALLY HAPPENING!”
S: “Are you’re sure she did absolutely nothing else at all in Delhi?”
P: “There was this friend’s wedding. But otherwise every minute of her day was Pastrami-time!”
S: “Oh shit.” (Reaches for cheese twisty.)

And if that wasn’t weird enough Pastrami then narrated, in great unnecessary detail, about all the conversations that they had and all the subsequent insights into her personality.

For instance he was going to propose to her in Paris (The city. Ha!). Because that’s the place she’d got on her “Which is your favourite city in the world?” quiz on Facebook. Also he had discovered that her favourite poem in the entire world was Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning. So he’d asked for her hand in go-out-ship by quoting the “Grow old along with me, The best is yet to be.” lines from that poem.

Pastrami also said that the few moments they’d spent together in her hotel room was heavy with sentiment and emotion. They had hugged at some point and according to Pastrami it felt “just right”. And even the woman said that she “loved the hug”.

So far things seemed normal. Apart from a penchant for poems that are over 190 lines long, our lass seemed largely harmless. And then, just when I thought he’d finally found a sane woman, Pastrami said:

“Just yesterday she called me at 4 in the morning and asked me to write a poem for her on the spot. It was magical Sidin. This despite the fact that she is yet to come to a decision whether she loves me.”

Completely unlike the CBI, I was stunned by this new evidence. What? She did not love him yet?  She was still making up her mind? Extempore poetry at 4 AM? WTF?

Apparently, Pastrami explained, our girl was still coming to terms with the fact that someone was in love with her. Apparently she did not know if she was ready to reciprocate. She was still not getting “goosebumps” when she thought about him. Also it seems she was sill trying to find out what the “concept of love” really meant to her.

Pastrami asked me if I got goosebumps when I thought about the missus. Because the missus was sitting with us at the time, I told him that in many parts of my body the skin was permanently goose-bumped, like a durian, from intense affection. I then asked Pastrami how HE knew that he was in love. He said that the magical moment had been when he had escorted her to Delhi airport.

They’d reached well in advance of her flight and he’d taken her to that shady south Indian restaurant near the terminal for a coffee. After snacking and chatting, presumably about weird poetry, they got up to leave. Both of them approached the cash counter and she’d insisted she’d pay. Suddenly her mind went blank calculating her bill, she fumbled for her wallet and, according to Pastrami, “she just looked so darned adorably silly fumbling with a simple bill.” Pastrami immediately swooped and picked up the tab.

She said that her brain was suited more for poetry than mathematics while Pastrami’s mind was so analytical and fast. Never to let a moment like this go waste, Pastrami uttered a line that has never been used between a man and a woman in a romantic setting before:

Multi-faceted

“Darling I just love to see you doing silly things. And fumbling with math. Frankly my dear, I think my left brain is in love with your right brain…”

She was left speechless. Also all of us and one passing-by Costa waiter.

It was clear that Pastrami was quite pleased with his monumental pick-up line. He sat back in his chair at Costa and smiled smugly. He asked me what I thought. I told him that it was a great line. And then made a joke about how Pastrami and Poetry Babe had at least one good brain between the both of them.

The rest of the night all of us just sat and mostly made fun of Pastrami’s brain. Or the left half in any case.

As for their love story it progresses gradually. The lass is still waiting for her moment of epiphany when she suddenly gets goosebumps and realizes her passionate love for good old Pastrami. Pastrami spends most of his nights, pen in hand, ready to create magnificent poetry for her at a moment’s notice. This is what he wrote that day at 4 in the morning:

To understand a love that is unrequited
Consider a candle that is, at one end, ignited.
If you respond that it’s the standard way it is conflagrated
Wait! I’m not done. Let me make it a little more complicated.
This one-side-lit candle, further, balances about a delicate axis
and, as one side wanes the other, relatively, waxes.
And this creates an imbalance which, as we know, Nature abhors.
But what is to be done when one party is indifferent while the other adores?

And the only thing keeping this world from going completely crazy
is that while A loves B, B loves C all the way through till Y loves Z.
Though the As, Bs, Cs, all the way through till the Ys will complain
that, with one-sided love, imbalance is, only, a minor pain.
And when A speaks of B
you can clearly see
that B’s mere presence
justifies A’s existence.
But when B speaks of A
suffice to say
from how A is derided
Love is, clearly, one-sided.

Unrequited love also, it seems, makes the skin thick.
Words from B that would, earlier, have cut to the quick
no longer seem to affect A in any way.
Also rendered ineffective is any passion A might display
What A and B fail to realize
is that as each candle diminishes in size
A and B, inexorably, draw near
and where A ends and B begins becomes unclear.
And while B is resisting and A is pining
even this dark cloud has a silver lining.

Let the Lovers and the Loved always recall
that ‘tis but one wick that connects us all.

Yes. Pastrami is really, really in love.

Crap.

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Now I can finally tell you peeps why the blog slowed considerably over the last one year. Look what came in the mail today: (I’ve blacked yellowed out some bits due to contractual obligations.)

Paper work

Couple of things to point out:

1. Yes my name is still causing trouble. Sigh. I might change it to something else so that it looks better in book stores. Like “Dan Brown Vadukut”.

2. Will update on expected dates, title, excerpts and so on as soon as I get inputs and go-aheads from the Penguin people. Currently I am thinking of calling it “A short history of nearly every five point someone slumdog white tiger’s letters to Penthouse”.

3. A very big thank you to all you guys. This blog is quite the community story you know. So collective high-fives all around.

4. Set aside money right now to buy it when it eventually comes out.

Yay!

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After the thumping success of the inaugural season of the Indian Premier League last year, many people in India have just one thought on their minds right now: Is there any way to up the 1000 bucks per couple we charged last year for unlimited warm beer, vulcanized chicken tikka, and service with a smile when customers leave? Because when I say people, I mean the guys who run that bar at Phoenix Mills in Worli, Mumbai.

The rest of us, however, are already beginning to dust off our team jerseys from last year, ready to once again support our favourite franchises. Unless of course we have just moved from Mumbai to Delhi and recently found the missus, an ardent Daredevil fan, browsing this on the web:

Organized retailing in New Delhi

Now we are sooo into the Daredevils, it is not funny I tell you.

But what can one expect from the next season of the IPL? Will the Rajasthan Royals once again surprise everyone by emerging as underdogs and winning the tournament? (No. Because technically now that they have won it once already it shouldn’t be that surprising if they do it again no?) Or will the Chennai Super Kings finally listen to the pining of their ardent fans, rise to the challenge and get a team kit in a colour other than “Supernova Lemon Rice”? Or will the Deccan Chargers impose their cricketing superiority on… Ok wait, we can’t even type that with a straight face.

So we here at Domain Maximus spent the last many days and nights analysing every element of the second IPL from administration to team structures to even the current state of global cricket. We are pleased to say that we have drawn up a stunning, audacious list of detailed predictions for what is going to transpire over the course of IPL 2009. While every effort has been made to make up virtually every single point in the predictions, readers are encouraged to take these forecasts with utmost seriousness.

—***—

Remarkably detailed and individually dated predictions for IPL 2009:

April 3^rd 2009: During a press conference to unveil the second edition of the IPL, Chairman Lalit Modi is suddenly attacked by a masked assailant who, screaming the words “Saale illegal monopoly businessman! Mere joote da jawab nahin!“, hurls shoes at the cricket administrator before tearing out of the conference room and disappearing into the the crowds outside. Questions are raised about Modi’s popularity amongst the media and cricketing fraternity as the assailant was able to throw over 11 pairs of shoes at Modi before members of Rajasthan Cricket Association pounced upon the guards who had come to pounce upon the assailant. Kapil Dev expresses surprise and concern at the development when media ambush him at a Bata showroom a few hours later. Thankfully Modi is able to duck almost all of the shoes except the last four.

April 10^th 2009: Cricket fans all over India wake up in shock to see the Bangalore Royal Challengers on top of the Indian Premier League 2009 league tables. And then everyone laughs sheepishly when they realize that the tournament hasn’t started and the team names have been displayed in alphabetical order.

The inaugural match of the tournament is between the Kolkata Knight Riders and the Chennai Super Kings. For a long time it looks like the Knight Riders have a solid chance of winning before the Super Kings finally arrive from the airport after a delayed flight and beat them by 73 runs.

April 12^th 2009: On the same day as a Rajasthan Royals vs. Mumbai Indians match, rebel cricket league honcho Kapil Dev shrewdly convenes a press conference to divert attention. At the conference he outlines ICL’s strategy to overtake and crush the IPL to the assembled press, namely, one Mr. Parthasarathi Kalasalingam from Anna Nagar Weekly. After Dev’s address Mr. Kalasilangam asks the following question: “Mr Kapil Dev, can you kindly direct me to the room where the vegetarian buffet is being served?”

Dev breaks down.

April 16^th 2009: TV viewers have a treat today as Aussie great and senior Chennai Super Kings player Matthew Hayden joins the commentary and analysis crew looking bootilicious in a tight sports t-shirt and low waisted denim jeans. Hilarity ensues when the star-struck Bollywood starlet, hired to add sex appeal to the crew, goofs her lines all night and keeps saying “sirf Sex Matt par! Deewana bana de.” with longing glances at Hayden.

April 17^th 2009: After the first week of fixtures the league is intriguingly placed with the Rajasthan Royals, Mumbai Indians, and Delhi Daredevils all sharing first place. Bringing up the rear is the Deccan Chargers who are yet to find their groove in the tournament. So far the tournament has surprised everyone with its success. Stadiums are full of people and the cricket has been of a consistently high quality.

To celebrate, BCCI president Sharad Pawar organizes a celebratory parade for Lalit Modi on top of an open-top BEST bus from Wankhede Stadium to Bandra in Mumbai. The turnout is abysmal and Modi reaches Bandra in thirty-five minutes flat. None of the players come along to join in except Andrew Flintoff and Yuvraj Singh. However both players turn back in minutes when organizers clarify that they did not mean “topless bus parade” in that sense.

April 23^rd 2009: With sponsorship money dwindling Vijay Mallya decides to step up promotional and brand building activities for the Royal Challengers. In an internationally televised exhibition match the Kingfisher Calendar girls take on the Royal Challengers in a Twenty20 match which the models win by 32 runs. Monikangana Dutta takes 5 for 17 in a spell Laxman Sivaramakrishnan describes thus: “Oh… yeah… oh yeah… baby… throw that ball.. throw that ball to daddy…”

April 24^th 2009: Vijay Mallya replaces the entire Royal Challengers with models from the Kingfisher Calendar. The cricketers are spun off into a B-team called Royal Challengers Red which will play without uniform, cricketing gear or any catering. However tickets to their matches costs only Rs20 each (taxes and fuel surchages extra. Conditions apply).

May 1^st 2009: In a controversial but innovative move Lalit Modi announces that all Third Umpire decisions will henceforth be decided by the public via real-time SMS polls. The system is first tried out during a Mumbai Indians vs Delhi Daredevils match. JP Duminy tries to take a quick single when a direct throw from Gautam Gambhir rattles the stumps. The umpires immediately signal for an SMS poll by using a brand new gesture: they hold up a mobile phone. After three minutes of hectic SMS polling, with millions of votes coming in from West Bengal and the North-eastern states, Debojit Saha is once again chosen as Indian Idol.

May 3^rd 2009: Something happened to the Kings XI Punjab today. But it did not involve Preity Zinta. So nobody cares.

May 5^th 2009: Shahrukh Khan announces to the media that due to an uproar from knight riders all over the world, the name of his team was being shortened to just Kolkata. This however has no impact on the performance of the team which loses its fourth straight match and slumps to the bottom of the table just above the Deccan Chargers and the Kings XI Punjab.

May 6^th 2009: Just when everyone thought they had seen all the crisis they could handle in IPL 2009, a new one erupts at the Wankhede Stadium. As the Mumbai Indians walk back to the pavilion after beating the Kings XI Punjab, Harbhajan Singh is caught on camera whispering something to Sreesanth’s ear and shaking his fist in the sensitive Malayali’s face. Sreesanth is soon in tears. Lalit Modi orders an immediate enquiry.

May 12^th 2009: A crisis is averted. In the course of the enquiry Harbhajan’s case is explained by Sachin Tendulkar who was standing right next to the pair as the incident happened. Sreesanth is represented by the CPI(M) Politburo. Tendulkar goes on to explain how the whole thing was a misunderstanding. He clarifies that Harbhajan was not abusing Sreesanth. Instead Sreeseanth misheard a word while Harbhajan Singh was, in fact, singing the old Punjabi classic: “Tutak Tutak Tutak Tootiya.”

The impartial arbitrator, Vinod Kambli, accepts Tendulkar’s explanation and dismisses the case. The CPI(M) immediately calls for a nationwide strike in West Bengal and Kerala.

May 16^th 2009: Driven to desperation Vijay Mallya sells the entire Royal Challengers operation via online bidding to Bollywood heart-throb Shakti Kapoor. Kapoor, in classic private equity style, dismantles the company into parts and sells everything except the cheerleaders part of the business.

May 19^th 2009: The season is building into a tremendous climax. The Rajasthan Royals, Chennai Super Kings, Mumbai Indians and Deccan Chargers have made it to the final four. Oh wait. Scratch that. I can hear my wife coming down the hall. When I said Deccan Chargers I mean Delhi Daredevils. These four teams have qualified for the finals.

And it looks like the Delhi Daredevils will win IPL 2009. I cannot reiterate this point enough.

May 23^rd 2009: After the semi-finals, champions Rajasthan Royals and challengers Delhi Daredevils stand firm. Both teams have lasted through a gruelling season of Twenty20 matches and fans are all set all over the country for the thrilling finale scheduled to take place in a few days time…

May 25^th 2009: … when disaster strikes. This morning a personal fax is received by media outlets all over the country from the desk of Lalit Modi. In this fax he says that for the last seven years there have been irregularities with the finances of the Indian Premier League and the league was no longer in a position to continue. The tournament would have to stop with immediate effect. He apologized to all the players and the viewers and said that things had gotten worse and worse and it was like “a lot of money just kept coming into my account and I just never knew when to stop and get off.”

When the news breaks, the Sensex immediately crashes 23%. However it bounces back sharply later in the day ending on a slight positive on the back of fresh FDI inflows, strong currency markets and good volumes in open interest.

May 26^th 2009: Madhur Bhandarkar announces his newest film project at a press meet in Mumbai. The movie will be called “Cricket”. One of the assembled press, Mr. Kalasalingam from Anna Nagar Weekly asks him: “What will be the theme of your movie this time Mr. Bhandarkar?”

Disclaimer: Everything in this blogpost is meant to be satirical. So don’t send me hate mail. I love IPL. Also Test cricket.

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Teen Patti

Now that Diwali is over and the in-laws have returned to Delhi after gifting me a PSP (yee-haw!) I can narrate recent Diwali related developments in peace.

As most of you may know Diwali is that annual festival where Hindus celebrate the return of Lord Ram, millennia ago, to Ayodhya. The natives, Ramanand Sagar reminded us so vividly, stood around looking overjoyed and waving their hands in the air (like they just didn’t care) but not so much that their fake wigs and beards would fall off.

And to celebrate this momentous occasion in our cultural history we invited the missus’ parents over from Delhi.

Some of you may know that last year we had celebrated our debut Diwali in Dilli where yours truly was subject to several bouts of point blank ambush laddoo feedings and excessive kurta wearings. Also I had to light many fireworks, some several megatons in explosive strength, with quivering knees while the young Punjabi nephews, as is their way, calmly lit hot dog sized sparklers with one hand, juggled exploding strings of firecrackers with the other while their mother fed them katoris of dahi balles as evening snack.

Unfortunately due to a respiratory system that has been week from birth I was soon overwhelmed by sulphur fumes and had to retire to the living room where aunts (bua-jees) attempted to revive me with laddoos. Their voices said “Koi nahi beta, koi nahi…” but their eyes said “Hey bhagwan (wahe guru!)… please don’t let the neighbours see our lily-livered javayi. Oy hoy!”

Or something to that effect.

This year, therefore, I jumped at the chance to bring the in-laws down to aamchi Mumbai to give them a dose of that good old Mumbai hospitality to people from the north of India. Of course the in-laws are possibly the sweetest people in the world and there was much fun and games and shopping from Fabindia.

On the way back from Fabindia in the car I suggested ways of spending a relaxing evening at home: “Perhaps we could see a movie or some sitcom. Or one of the Planet Earth DVDs. Better yet we can watch people lighting fireworks from the safety of our living room windows WHILE watching sitcoms…”

The missus interjected: “Nope. We are all going to play teen patti!” Everyone else immediately sounded their approval with shouts of “Oy Hoy”. I feigned tremendous enthusiasm as well of course.

The thing is this. I don’t really get that teen patti game. And by extension I don’t get poker as well.

As long as a card game involves strategy, planning and no betting, as is the case with 13-card rummy, UNO and Top Trumps Monster Trucks, I am not so bad and seldom finish last. But as soon as a gambling component is involved I completely lose my composure. I simply cannot process that level of probability under those levels of pressure with those levels of speed. Combine that with the worst poker face in the galaxy and you have Sidin Sunny Vadukut: the Tilak Raj of Diwali night card playing.

As soon as we reached home, and while mom-in-law (a dear loving woman I might add who religiously reads every single blogpost I read before making fluffy aloo parathas that no hotel can replicate) cleared the living room floor, I confided my teenpattiophobia to the missus in the bedroom behind closed door. She assured me that she would keep an eye on me, and ensure that everyone involved me in a sporting manner. “After all it is just some good-natured Diwali fun. It’s not about winning or losing honey…”

An hour later, when I lost my fourteenth straight hand, the missus understood completely and threw my Guitar Hero 2 guitar at me.

Even accounting for my gambling ineptitude I was performing spectacularly badly. And not just because I suck at cards. The atmosphere was crackling a little too much you see.

So we sat down on the floor, doled out chips and began to play teen patti. Three minutes later the brother-in-law burst into song and punched the air with clenched fists… and this was just because he got to shuffle the cards. The in-laws and the missus–sane, normal and completely lovable people otherwise–suddenly turned into hyper-excited, adrenaline-overdosed, back-slapping, high-fiving, air-dhol playing card fiends. And the aakhri nail in the coffin was the that exquisite punjabi-hindi-card-lingo:

“Gole ka trail! Gole ka trail!” followed by “Sau ki salaami! Sau ki salaami!”

“Mere paas duggi ka pair…”

“Chaar ki chaal hai Sidin… CHAAR KI CHAAL!”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD… Now first of all I don’t even know what a Gola is. There used to be a Gomathi Lakshmi in engineering college who we all lovingly referred to as “Gola” when she was around and as “The girl with the…”… okay that’s besides the point and she probably reads this blog.

So no, I had no idea what a studious Electrical Engineering babe had to do with my father-in-law’s killer hand that wiped the table clean and made the entire Kapoor khaandhaan explode like a can of Diet Seven-up that had been left in the freezer overnight*.

At first I tried to fit in inconspicuously by folding my cards every time before I had to bet at all. But after four or five times the missus caught on and screamed her head off telling me to be a sport using only her eyes in the way that wives can after three months or so of marriage.

So I tried to play along by making the minimum possible bets and waiting for someone to say “Chalo show karo sab log…”

Of course I would lose every time because one of the Kapoors had a “tiggi, duggi, ikka ka (ki?) sequence” or a “figgy ki trail ki chaal ka hukum”. Or some such thing. I always did exactly what my wife did and all was well. One round I won twenty-four rupees and a huge “sabaash bete!!!” but I cannot explain how.

Then after three hours or so everyone got fed up and my heart leapt for joy secretly when the wife suggested we play “Mufflis”. But then when I tried to clear the cards the missus lightly rapped me over the knuckles with the PS2 and told me that “Mufflis” was merely an alternate version of teen patti where the person with the worst cards won.

“Ab to javayi jeetega bhai!” said the father-in-law excitedly.

I got three aces in the first hand and was almost about to slit my throat with one when the missus stopped me and told me to use one of the discarded jokers instead.

A little after one in the morning, when enthusiasm had finally drained away from everyone, the in-laws decided to get up and then settle into the couches for a few hours of Diwali Dumb Charades. After a few cans of Red Bull I was feeling quite up for it actually. After all, Dumb-C was one of those events that yours truly excelled in at the inter-school and inter-college levels. And even when we all decided to do only Hindi movies I was still very upbeat.

Of course, I was randomly chosen to start. But my joy was short-lived. The mom-in-law whispered the movie name and my crest fell.

“Bedard Zamaana Kya Jaane” she said in my ear.

Oy hoy indeed.

*This actually happened later that night.

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One of the nicest features of social networking site Facebook is the ability to check out hot babes who are friends with the women who work in your office intermingle with other professionals in the same industry and swap ideas on, in my case, writing and publishing and so on.

Another wonderful thing about Faceboook is how, with just a few clicks of your mouse, you can leave a private message for the missus but unfortunately, due to the three million potential places to click on the Facebook page, you screw things up and update your status to the following:

“Darling, I have cleaned the kitchen like you wanted me to. But I may have lost that box of mysore pak that was in the fridge and I was allowed to eat a small piece at a time. I have no idea where is it. Also I have a tummy upset.”

But my favourite feature in Facebook is the facility it extends to individuals like you and me to get to know ourselves better. For instance it is only after the advent of Facebook that I learnt that of all the characters in FRIENDS I am most similar to Chandler Bing:

You may have a hard and sarcastic exterior, but deep down you have lots of emotion and sympathy, and know how to make a relationship work. You are a loyal friend, and a fun guy who knows how to have a good time!

And then tragically it added: “You also have some Ross in you.”

Read together in rapid succession this was disturbing at so many single and double entendre levels.

Nonetheless Facebook has told me so many things about myself. And all through the clever use of such multiple choice questionnaires that somehow peer deep into my personality: I have recently come to learn, for instance, the following:

1. If I was one of the seven dwarves I would be Fatty
2. If I was a character in Sholay I would be the water tower
3. If I was a character from the Tolkien books I would be a nameless orc that died a quick death from blunt force trauma early on in a pointless ambience-creating battle
4. If I was a product marketed by Apple Inc. I would be a pair of replacement iPod headphones
5. And finally if I were a popular Indian management guru I would be… (sigh) … Arindam Chaudhuri

This insight has helped me immensely in my day-to-day life. Just yesterday, for instance, when the missus told me that all the guys in her office were fit, wore formal clothes to work and shaved everyday I told her: “But I am the number one in international exposure and I gave you a free laptop for your birthday dear!”

So last night I decided that I must make a questionnaire also so that, like me, readers like you can also gain great, deep understanding into your personalities. For the purpose of this personality-revealing questionnaire I have decided to use the context of the latest industry-farmer controversy in Singur in order to isolate personality types.

Please answer the following questionnaire as honestly as possible. Mark the first options that satisfies you. Do not spend too much time thinking over the answers. It will only corrupt the accuracy of this instrument. (Giggle giggle. Instrument! Giggle.)

A. Which of the following is your favourite colour?

1. Pure, intense red.
2. Anything but red. Red is the colour of corruption and incompetent governance that has strangled the people of this state for far too long. I HATE RED. In short, anything but red. I will kill anyone who picks red.
3. Minimal Moroccan Yellow, Sicilian Sky-blue, Thrifty Tahitian Tangerine and Midnight Black. Limited edition available in Vector Value Violet. (Author’s note: Option C has been asked to tone down the marketing spiel.)
4. 900 acres. Non-negotiable.

B. What immediately comes to your mind when I use the term “Parizaad Limesodawatersweetnosugarbottlewala”?

1. I do not know the answer to this question. My cadre will approach you for clarifications. (Author note: This is the right answer.)
2. This is a stupid question. We have burned your house down. We have saved our farmers.
3. Parizaad is one of the teeming masses of this country that worked for years and years without being able to purchase an affordable means of transportation for herself and her family. Now finally I will be able to…(Author’s note: OK ENOUGH WITH THE PR ALREADY!)
4. My secretary. Or maybe my cousin. It can be so difficult to tell for our people you know.

C. If three people can do a piece of work in fifteen days and seven people can do a piece of work in eleven days, then in how many days can 24 people do the same amount of work in 4 days?

1. Lunch break. Will open at 4:30 pm. Very briefly though.
2. You are going to employ only 24 people? TWENTY FOUR PEOPLE? What will the other starving masses of this country do? Bund has been declared with immediate effect all over the country by which I mean Kerala.
3. Forget how much work there actually is to do. Imagine a world where you can go to your work place in your own, low-cost, high-mileage, laughable-quality vehicle that is… FOR GODS SAKE NOW!…
4. Let me rephrase that question: If three people can do a piece of work in fifteen days and seven people can DO THEY HAVE 900 ACRES TO WORK ON?

D. John walked four kilometres towards the west, then six kilometres to the north, then three kilometres towards the east and then two kilometres again towards the west. How far is John from his starting point?

1. Ideologically John has strayed too far to the west. We see no point in supporting John any more. We have all withdrawn support. Except Somnath Chatterjee… bastard.
2. John is standing on fertile farmland that has been stolen from farmers. We give him a five second head start. 5…4…3…2…
3. With a kerb weight of just 600 kilos and a 623 cc engine, distance is never a problem for my… CHHUP!
4. John has not managed to go anywhere from his starting point. He is right where he was when he started. If I were John I would be giving up hope by now. And god only knows what John’s vendors must be thinking. This is all such a bloody waste of time. Oh no. That Gopal Gandhi is coming.

E. Just one last question before we reveal your hidden personality: The Trichy-Cochin Express starts from Trichy at 6:30 PM. The Aleppey-Bokaro Express starts from Aleppey at 7:25 PM. Both trains are approaching each other with a relative velocity of 200 kilometers per hour. Which train has a pantry car?

1. This is a high level decision that I leave to the supreme body Brinda Karat. Ha! Kidding. I mean Prakash Karat and Politburo.
2. Nonsense! When I was Railway Minister both trains were redirected to start from West Bengal. There is no need for car when there is train.
3. Speaking of parking and maneuvering, did I tell you how because of a steering radius of just three meters I am able to easily… SLAP!
4. Yediyurappa!

Score key:

Mostly 1′s: You are a wizened, old veteran of the communist establishment with many years of experience in administration. You are clean, relatively of corruption except for that one incident involving land allotment which, in the light of vast numbers of CPI(M) cadre available at your beck and call, we don’t think was anything more than a mistake in accounting. Or maybe a typo.

Mostly 2′s: You are an inspiring leader for many thousands of people trying to shirk off the yoke of Communism in West Bengal which stifled industrial development. Instead you promise a new future where the same people, now refreshingly yoke-less, will prosper thanks to umm…err…wait…one minute… Will prosper.

Mostly 3′s: You are the world’s cheapest car. (We mean that you cost the least. Not in the sense that you regift things you get in office diwali hampers.) However it looks like that you will make the Tata Group lose so much money that they will start transferring funds to your project from TCS. This will enrage TCS employees who will one day walk into your factory and lynch you en masse. Oscar Fernandes will then say something completely inappropriate.

Mostly 4′s: You are one of India’s most respected business leaders. You are always impeccably dressed, smart looking and clean-shaven. But you also remain unmarried. Are you thinking what we are thinking? What we are thinking is this: You may have some Ross in you.

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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!

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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.

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3. Fiendish Operating System: 1 – Sidin Sunny Vadukut: 1

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.

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