Clipping 2: Then yesterday plans were revealed about the huge, awesome stand-up comedy venue coming up in Mumbai. The famed Comedy Store from London is coming! Whatay heart-breaking thing to hear just months after one resettles in Delhi. Damn. I foresee much low-cost flying from November.

Clipping 3: And finally, I was cleaning out the house yesterday morning when I came across this week old copy of the Hindustan Times lying behind the sink. Flipping through languidly I noticed a most bizarre Calvin and Hobbes strip. This time I truly did not “get” the C&H joke. The following is a clip from the e-paper.

Aai caramba!

p.s. As usual please maximize the Scribd thingies to read legibly.

But earlier this week we discovered the reason behind that electric feeling one gets as soon as one steps out of a metro train and touches down upon the hallow soil of the sub-city. Doubting? See this picture:

Volt-ay Phase

Of the two pillars the left one tells you in which direction you can find some of the major stations on the blue line. By which I mean the major stations of Dwarka, Dwarka Mor, Dwarka Sectors 14, 13, 12 and so on. And to a lesser extent Rajiv Chowk. The right one helps you find:

Electr-city

So if you are in need of 25,000 volts for some emergency purpose you know how to get it. It is somewhere in Dwarka on the blue line. Mind the gap and stand behind the yellow line.

Meanwhile this is a book that was spotted at the in-laws’ place two weekends ago. They tell us it is a masterpiece:

Da Vinci Code

How can you possibly not read a book where some of the letters in the title have dots underneath them? All Sanskrit fiends feel free to leave comments-aha.

Continuing in that cultural and historic vein we were impressed by this well-preserved sculpture at the National Museum last weekend:

Lunch break

While such sandstone pieces are are quite commonplace, it is exceedingly rare to find one with a tiffin box in such pristine condition. Thankfully our curiosity was whetted by the information on the plaque you can see in the picture. Close-up below:

Knowledge is power cut

]]> http://www.whatay.com/2009/03/04/recently-noted-around-delhi-part-1/feed/ 93 http://www.whatay.com/2008/04/21/the-unforgiven-srinivasan/ http://www.whatay.com/2008/04/21/the-unforgiven-srinivasan/#comments Mon, 21 Apr 2008 05:22:07 +0000 sidin http://www.whatay.com/?p=271 Today’s short blog post is a retelling of events (with extra Pshaws) observed at the Lilavathi Barista last night:

Customer looking at TV during IPL match: Who is that thin, dark, scrawny commentator?

Barista (the common noun): Oh that’s Srinivasan…

Customer: Srilankan dude?

Barista: I don’t think so. I have no idea. Only that he is Srinivasan.

Customer: Must have been a spinner.

Barista: I don’t know man.

Customer: Must have been a spinner or something. Thin fellow. Why do they get these country types to commentate?

Barista: I have no idea!

Customer: Pshaw!

Barista: Pshaw indeed!

Sigh. From “Srinivasan’s” Cricinfo entry:

At 17 years, 118 days he became the youngest Indian Test player against West Indies in Antigua later that season. He was not yet 19 when he won a Test match for India with 12 for 181 runs against England at Bombay in 1984-85 – by the end of the series he had 23 wickets and was adjudged man of the series. The icing on the cake came when he was in the Indian one-day squad that won the World Championship of Cricket in Australia in 1985 – he played a leading part in that triumph.

But thereafter it was downhill. He played one Test in Sri Lanka in 1985 and did little of note. He was an even bigger disappointment in Australia a few months later. The magic was gone and the little bowler, who seemed set to break all kinds of records, was but a shadow of what he had been 12 months before. He made a brief comeback as a member of the 1987 World Cup squad but he was not a success.

Nobody loves poor Laxman Sivaramakrishnan anymore. And here’s a link to a 1997 Panicker Rediff interview with the man on what went wrong. Click on the link at the bottom to page ahead.

p.s. That Barista guy sure knows nothing.

Also if you see me on MEEBO do say a hi. I am feeling all interactivity-like.

Still looking for swanky blogs for design inspiration. Tell tell.

No Tax Please, We are Indian

Today we are going to talk about something rather humourless. Something that is inevitable. Yet agonizing. It is a phenomenon that rears it head once every month in a minor way and then wreaks complete havoc just before the onset of summer every year.

You are absolutely right I am talking about virulent Dhobi’s Itch!

Ha ha! I jest.

No instead we are going to talk about the cruel phenomenon that is, shudder, Income Tax.

Now most of you new managers should be making a tidy little packet every month as salary. The job market is booming. So I assume most of you are cashing into the opportunity big time.

But even if you don’t, it’s ok. Don’t worry. Keep your focus, stay dedicated, and work long and hard hours. Your reward will come. One day, late into the night, your boss will depart early leaving you in the office alone with the fax machines, servers and other expensive office automation equipment.

There is a thriving black market for these items. If you have a large enough office you can even rent the place out for marriages, book launches and such.

But whatever your source of your income the reality remains: You need to pay your taxes.

Today we will talk a little about Income Tax and demystify the phenomenon. After all, financial rationale apart, you are a responsible citizen and must pay your fair share of the tax burden as well: between 20 and 30 rupees, every two or three years.

But before we jump into the complicated machinations of tax management we must get our fundas on Income Tax in place. Where did the tradition of Income Tax begin? How did it begin? Who established the first tax system? WHY IN GOD’S NAME WOULD HE DO SUCH A THING??!!

Income Tax was first established way back in the year 10 A.D., a year renowned for its sharp winters, remarkable Chardonnay and astounding ease of representation in Roman Numerals. For the first time ever an unprecedented tax of 10% of profit was levied by the Emperor Wang Mang (real name, possibly sad childhood) on Chinese professionals and skilled labour.

(Just two days later, on a Wednesday, the concept of “Consultant”, “Expense Account” and “Section 80C” was also invented by the compulsively innovative Chinese.)

And, as a harbinger of things to come, the Chinese promptly packaged Income Tax with a manual in lousy English, wrapped it all up in bubble wrap and exported the idea all round the world at abysmally low prices.

Governments around the globe were ecstatic:

King: What the…??!! We just decide on a percentage and the citizenry coughs it up… no questions asked?
Minister of the Exchequer: Of course they can dispute it…
King: But then we could behead them or something…
Minister: I was thinking more of a stint in the dungeons. But hey whatever works for you man…
King: So be it. Declare a 30% flat rate and a 2% education cess
Minister: Yipee

Soon nations around the world rapidly caught up with the Chinese and began to tax their citizens. Of course in return they offered them services like Social Security, Armed Forces, A Vast and Inefficient Government Machinery and, most importantly, Public Sector Undertakings that gave astounding market share and ever increasing profits to private sector competition.

Independent India also realized the need to tax its citizens in order to fuel the fledgling nation’s rapid growth. So, shortly after independence (around 4 p.m.), our founding fathers sat around to decide on a taxation system. They mutually agreed to devise a fair and balanced tax system that would also ensure efficient tax utilization.

Then after a hearty laugh they quickly decided on the cruel and crippling tax regime we have today.

Now some might feel like questioning the right of our government to tax its citizens.

I would not recommend this line of thought.

The more knowledgeable among us know that the Central Board of Revenue has powers conferred by section 295 of the Income-tax Act, 1961 (43 of 1961), and rule 15 of Part A, rule 11 of Part B and rule 9 of Part C of the Fourth Schedule to that Act that allows it to tax anybody, anywhere at any time of the day including bank holidays. Any dissent is punishable by a fine equivalent to three time your net worth AND/OR forced reading of the ENTIRE Income Tax Act of 1961 including ALL annexures, maps, diagrams and companion multimedia DVDs.

So really you have no option but to pay your taxes. If you know what’s good for you.

However the government does allow you to plan out your income and use of money in such a way that your tax liability is brought down to an absolute minimum. Let us see how we can plan our Income Tax in the most optimal format.

Now by income the government means any money you make from anywhere: salary, house property, business, capital gains, other sources, selling of employer’s assets, supari projects undertaken on alternate weekends for friends in Mumbai underworld to make ends what with all this rising cost of living and all… etc.

Now you don’t need to pay any tax as long as your income is below a certain minimum amount. But subsequent to this Rs. 75 you have to pay tax on a slab-wise system.

Then of course there is the deduction up to Rs. One Lakh. This can be in a variety of savings instruments, insurance policies, loan repayments etc.

You also get rebates on housing loans and a little extra benefit if you are female or an elderly citizen.

So the first strategy is to prove to the government that even though you are a management trainee fresh out of business school you are, in reality, a 70 year old woman who is simultaneously buying several homes in Nariman Point and Chanakyapuri.

That should take care of most of your problems. The next step is to have an open and frank tete-a-tete with the finance/payroll guys in your company. With some persuasion they will understand that while you may be receiving your salary every month in the bank there is NO reason why you should be receiving YOUR EXACT payslip. Nor must they use your exact PAN number.

The finance/payroll guys normally see your side of the argument but get them to do all the paperwork before they have had one too many Margheritas.

So there. That was a nice little overview of the Income Tax system was it not? I hope you put it to good use and quickly become a master of your own tax liability.

Or move to Dubai.

P.S. The wife says hi!

Can the answer be half a million? Perhaps.

This author can also not be faulted if he sits back and often wonders why God (Knopfler) would give him so many organs in pairs. He (the author) is often philosophical, sometimes whimsical but always well intentioned. He would be open to selling one of his kidneys if push came to credit card default shove. For how much?

Can the answer be half a million Gandhis? Perhaps. (Throw in a PS3 will you?)

So here I am rambling away. You the reader thinking “What the…?”

Well there is a purpose dear friend. For if you leisurely scroll down this page till the hit counter emerges on the right you will see a number. What number could it be? (Hints galore…)

Half a million? OH YEAH BABY…

WOO HOO. Balle Balle Shaava Shaava. Throws your arms in the air like you jusht dont care…

For this blog has finally, after what… three years?… logged up half a million hits. HALF A MILLION! Not bad eh?

And all thanks to you and the hundreds of people out there who linked through to me and clicked on Domain Maximus every once in a while even when I was AWOL, flamed me, left vile but amusing comments and were jolly good in general.

I love you all. Mwaah Mwaah. So from my side to all of you here:

But what I CAN tell you is that I have joined a gym. A proper one with treadmills and exercycles and dumbbells and spindly things with weights and handles and steel and chrome and all. Yes I have joined a gym all over again.

Sigh.

Avid readers of this blog, yes all three of you, will know that Sidin Sunny Vadukut has always been most robust when it comes to matters of the waist. He has always enjoyed a good meal of tandoori chicken, rotis, dal makhani and custard followed by a soup and main course and has often been described, in friends circles, as ‘cuddly’, ‘well-fed’ and ‘cute in a healthy sort of way’. If anyone looked at me and quipped that the pounds were gathering around me in little jiggly ripples of cheer I would merely, and coolly, shrug them off the first time and then roundhouse kick them in the face the second. (Well not as much roundhouse kick as smother them between my elbows. I can’t actually lift my leg that high.)

It was not a bad life really. With the right wardrobe of loose Fabindia kurtas and open-minded draw-string pants I was managing to maintain my self esteem nicely. (Yes there was that incident in that Air Deccan flight. But I ensure you I did not mean to get stuck like that and delay the onward sector by two hours.) Nothing to complain really. And yes pass me that Dal Makhani please. And a nan please. With BUTTER!

But of late, because of this personal thing I was referring to earlier, I had to wear a lot more of those stodgy inflexible formal pants. So off I went and bought myself a few pairs of regulation navy blue and dark brown formal pants that no self-respecting man’s wardrobe is complete without. (Unless you are Bappi Lahiri perhaps. But I doubt even he respects himself. Awwa awwa it seems!)

Then two weeks ago I suddenly noticed that something strange had happened to my pants. My feet went in alright and the shins and knees managed to enter without incident. Things began to get a little ‘testy’ higher up. By the time the fabric had been pulled up to my waist things were looking very very bad.

When I mean ‘tight’ I don’t mean hold your breath in and slip in the button’ tight. Oh ho ho no. I mean ‘scream in agony, get at least one hernia and pass out’ tight. I immediately did what a man had to do. Especially if he wanted to stay one. I ripped off the worsted wool, settled into a lungi and let out a sigh of relief among other things.

Except for one pair of jeans, which I could fit into by getting my roomies to hold the pair up open while I jumped feet first into the cavity from the dining table, the rest of my legwear lay crumpled around my bedroom laughing at me mockingly. Nothing irks like a deprecating length of corduroy.

(Enter hip-hop type loop here. Rap following lines…)

Things were getting out of hand.
And my waistband.
I was forced to understand.
No more room to expand.
No more the gourmand.
Between long term health and death unplanned…
this, mofo, was the final stand.

(End loop. Wait for women to get off you and applause to die. Continue.)

The very next day, after a pizza lunch, I ran to the gym next to my place here in Wadala. I stepped in with a heavy heart, a heavier wallet but with considerable determination.

If you are one of those people who like economics a lot you will note, in addition to the fact that you have very few friends, how several economic theories are based on human beings being
‘rational’. This means that they make logical decisions, are predictable and that he or she is a ratio or quotient of two integers, usually written as the vulgar fraction a/b, where b is not zero.

Well then, step into any gym, go stand next to the billing area and you will see why the above reasoning is absofreakinglutely wrong. A gym membership is to disposable income what a blackhole is to light, a Vadukut is to spicy fish curry and a Bush is to crude producing nations without democracy. These memberships grab impressionable young men and women in their evil sweaty tentacles and suck them dry till the victim is left with no personal wealth except small change and Sodexho passes in awkward denominations. (When this happens you can only either have Idlis or Murgh Mussallam and nothing in between. It sucks.)

Yet, in spite of the inevitable financial challenge, everyday thousands of young men weighing millions of kilos fork out hajjar for gym memberships. And they do this with rosy visions of high impact cardio programs, macho free weights routines, six-pack abs and, most importantly, for a decent shot at the hot dietician who comes in once a week.

But for a person like me, with the aerodynamic quality of a teakwood sofa-cum-bed, the gym, alas, is the last resort. I just had to regain the perfect posture and endless stamina that had abandoned me, after years of neglect, sometime in kindergarten.

So there I was. Melancholy yet intense. Sitting in a chair while I waited for the gym manager to initiate me into my gym routine. He was going to measure every measurable dimension of my body and then weigh me. After this I was supposed to get up, step over all the tiny pieces of my self-esteem that lay scattered across the floor, and go meet the dietician who would go over my readings and give me a review.

Her eyes ran over the tiny ballpoint pen measurements while I looked at the weighing scale sitting ominously in a corner smirking.

Is Sidin’s weight loss too big to solve? Will he ever be able to regain his self confidence and esteem? Will he ever be able to fit into his flat-fronted corduroys again? Will the dietician see the sensitive human being inside the cellulite? Is she single? Will Sidin ever write part two of a two-part blog?

All that much more in Daily Exorcise – Part 2… Coming soon…