Domain Maximus

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.

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.

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!

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.

(Latest Businessline column. Forgot to cross post it here last week. Hopefully will keep you occupied till I actually write a blog post one of these days.) 

I have some exciting news fresh from the mysterious vaulted chambers of the Ministry of Statistics and Programme Implementation, RK Puram, New Delhi. The inflation rate in our country has come down to a measly 3.52% over the last twelve months as against a whopping 5% as expected by the Reserve Bank Of India.

And boy am I relieved! This drop in inflation has far reaching implications on our economy, all of which you young managers must be well aware of due to the extreme focus and discipline you exercised during the macroeconomics classes during your MBA.

Ha ha! What a fun joke that was!

So without further ado we will leap headfirst into the tumultuous world of inflation and all the associated economic fundae and principals.

First of all inflation, in its most basic sense, explains one of the most fundamental tenets of life: Most ambitious MBA managers find love in secretly imported polymer dolls of outstanding durability that first need to be pumped up with air and then you gently…

Whoa! Whoa! Wrong inflation!

No I’m talking about the inflation that is a measure of how prices for regularly consumed commodities rise and fall over a period of time. It is a fundamental fact of life that prices for everything we use almost always rise over a period of time unless Chinese imports are allowed.

For instance pop over to your grandparents and ask them how much rent they paid for their palatial two-bedroom apartment downtown in 1975. They will mention some ridiculously small number in the region of ten rupees a month. The same apartment today is being occupied by a Tata, Birla or Ambani. And that too on housing loan.

Inflation describes the mechanics of these price rises and then, since this alone is so fundamentally simple to understand, economists connect them to other complex elements in the economy such as money supply, interest rates and global warming. Suddenly everything is so confusing and people are winning Nobel Prizes.

Let’s move on and understand inflation in greater detail.

First of all there are two, you guessed it, economic schools of thought when it comes to the causes of inflation. The first is the monetarist school of thought that believes that all economic activity can be described in terms of money supply. According to them if the supply of money is greater than the demand for money, then this gives rise to inflation.

This has never happened in my life so far.

(Warning: In order to avoid confusion I am overly simplifying the economics in this fortnight’s column. What you are reading right now is akin to describing Nuclear Weapons as follows: Boom!)

For a long time economists were cool with this simple idea of inflation till it suddenly occurred to some of them that there was a serious flaw with the monetarist theory: Potential to be understood by normal people.

They immediately rectified it by coming up with a new school of economic theory known as the Keynesian school named after the famous economist John Maynard Keynes who once famously said: “In the long run, we are all dead.” He was not quite the life of the tea party, if you know what I mean.

The Keynesian school states that money supply in addition to interest rates, and output (of something or the other which I will not detail now) all add up to causing inflation. Also, and I cannot reiterate this enough, a central conclusion of Keynesian economics is that there is no strong automatic tendency for output and employment to move toward full employment levels. In the ‘neoclassical synthesis’, which combines Keynesian macro concepts with a micro foundation, the conditions of General equilibrium allow for price adjustment to achieve this goal.

Phew!

This new definition was a triumph for economists everywhere because anyone without a PhD in Economics nodded along as they heard this theory and then, suddenly, requested for a bathroom break from whence they never returned. By this time Nobel prizes are being flung around like confetti in a confetti-flinging contest.

Suddenly there was increased interest in Economics at a scale never seen before. Universities opened departments all over the world, Economists where being hired in droves and everyone lived happily ever after.

But that is not the point of this column. In fact I encourage you to email me the point of all this when you find it. I meanwhile continue relentlessly.

Now first of all, a drop in inflation means that prices for several commodities are dropping. Which does not meant that you should immediately go out and do your shopping now while inflation is low. No sir. This is because inflation is measured in shops where these goods are sold but which are not open to public you and me.

It is measured from outlets secretly operated and observed by the people at the Ministry of Statistics and Programme Implementation. (Black suits, dark glasses and armed with lethal scientific calculators with graphing functions.)

A word is due here about what this 3.52% and 5%means. The MOSPI measures inflation on a periodic basis by using what is known as a ‘price index”. This is a weighted index of the prices of various commodities. The price of this basket of goods is measured over a period of time and the rise and fall of the total price is what is reported as inflation.

This means that even if inflation falls significantly over a period of time you may not save too much money because the drop in inflation could be entirely due to fall in prices of nuclear reactors.

So inflation can be a little confusing if we don’t look at it closely.

A prolonged and detailed scrutiny of the overall inflation in the economy reveals both the subtle mechanics underlying price movements and the fact that you need to go out a little more and meet new people.

Now that our fundae on inflation is crystal clear we move on to understand the impact of this in our daily lives.

First of all inflation has an effect in interest rates. If inflation goes up a lot the RBI tends to jack up interest rates. This is an important fact I copied ditto from Wikipedia.

In addition to this there is a tendency for exchange rates to move as well. Some of you may have noticed that the Rupee-Dollar exchange rate has become very low in the recent past. This will make many of you young managers very happy and patriotic. Which is a good thing as many of you in the Software industry are being fired as we speak.

Other things also mysteriously happen because of inflation. People tend to swap cash for other valuables like gold. In fact there is currently a huge demand for gold in the Indian market and most of it from my wife alone.

And let’s not even get into the impact of inflation on FDI inflows which, I have been told, is “huge”.

Man! After that prolonged treatise on inflation all I can think of is inflating this brand new, Pamela… err… read this interesting book on Indian Economic History and take down several insightful notes.

See you all next fortnight.

(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.
——–*——–