When it was alive it had lived a charmed life. For starters, it could wake up anytime it wanted to and do whatever it pleased to do.

Fat aunties who had no business commenting, wore a worried look on their faces, the one with the two hands over their ears, their fat fingers displaying varying ranges of kinetic motion while the mouth displaying altering volumes of “haaye dayas”. They asked that when it would grow up since they had done a very good job of it somewhat more physically than figuratively. But it kept on doing its own thing. Some of the top things it didn’t have to worry about

1. It didn’t have to worry about “things” that were stored and the way they were kept.
2. It ate whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted. Forget eating, it could drink what it wanted, where it wanted, and as much as it wanted without someone nagging with cries of “that will be enough now. .yada yada yada"
   
3. It had its own huge bed to sleep in wearing underwear with heavy metal signs on it and sleep in positions which were not even listed in the Kama Sutra and all this while snoring as if there was a snoring competition in the neighborhood.
4. It did not have to deal with insecurities(other than its own) or change itself for others.
5. It did not have to ask permission to orgasm.
6. It showered or bathed if it wanted, when it wanted, as often as it wanted, for as long as it wanted and could also leave the door open if it pleased with no objections.

In short, it put its happiness first over others but then one day a terrible thing happened. It fell in love with a female version of itself and in love it finally killed itself and whichever way you look at it, it was murdered. And not any murder….

On a cold chilly day in Gwalior, it was duly sacrificed with Vedic chants and in the presence of a few hundred people who had nothing better to do but witness such bloodshed. It put up a fight however, survived for a couple of hours as the sacrificial pier had ignition problems but the end was inevitable. A losing battle as the beauty of the female version had taken full control. And finally under all that unbearable pressure it broke and disappeared forever.

Please do not get alarmed, this is not a bloody mystery but the path to the end of my BACHELORHOOD which died a depressing death last month and unlike the phoenix, never took a rebirth, although it did wholeheartedly try. And the perpetrator behind this heinous crime is none other than the “The Nu” who keeps on popping up on this blog with increasing frequency like Tendulkar's centuries.

At the end of it all, everyone clapped and showered flowers, on the dead body, not mourning but uttering cries of joy at the birth of a new form :

A Married figure in Flesh and Blood wholly committed to “The Nu”. Who is “the Nu”, she is the bubbly fumbling cherubic girl I fell in love on a hot afternoon in Bandra. Since I have described "the Nu" before lets just have a photo of hers.

Oh wait hold on that isn’t her although she does unduly exhibit disturbing facial expressions of husband related resentment from time to time. Yes, that is complex, but that is what life becomes after you marry.

As my boss said while shaking my hand congratulating me : Now starts the painful period.

The Bacherhood is dead. Long live umm. Never mind … I am coming darling. Weeeeee……..

The brake pads on my Civic gave up on me at 28,000 miles, almost 7K miles too early. I don't know why, but it probably has to do something with the fact that I live in a hilly area. and have to brake constantly... not sure. The screechy sound from my tyres put my head in a spin. After asking a few service centers, not a single one was ready to do it under a whopping $200.

Ultimately, I had to ask the Leprechaun, an engineer in my office with a great expertise in cars and he suggested doing it myself. I shopped for a pad. Purchased Wagner's ceramic pads at an even $50 and on the weekend drove over to the Leprechaun's house who has all the tools handy.

Jacking up the car, he guided me step by step and infact even did the part of the job which required brute strength. After forty five minutes, I, for the very first time in my life, had done some proper mechanical work on the car , other than the usual fixing flats. :). Felt good. If the brakes go awry, I will have no one to sue though ;).

The service center people called me up the next day asking whether I was bringing the car in, i might even be eligible for a special offer and I replied , Take a Brake buddy, I have done it myself. A Big thanks to the Leprechaun.

While browsing through Cricinfo's page 2 Doppelgangers on the night of 29th August, I saw their take on Dickie Bird, the eccentric English umpire and Stephen King, the famous American author(Horror genre, Shawshank redemption, green mile etc). It was almost midnight here. I felt like doing a bit of reading on King so I opened his wikipedia article. And what do I see, Stephen king born 1947 , died August 30, 2010. I wish I had taken a screenshot. I was quite shocked especially as the clock just chimed 12 am. I made numerous searches for breaking news but there was none , even on his official website. The article was back to its original form after 10 minutes and I fell asleep peacefully. Eerie I say. Apt time for a quote from his own works :-

"That wasn't any act of God. That was an act of pure human fuckery." - Larry Underwood, The Stand

Contd.. from previous post

Experience is a contrary little quality to have because it counts for nothing when you meet women. As I float through this agony of an arranged marriage, I am already losing my patience. And just when I thought I was getting good at this stuff, my inability in talking to women touched new levels of incompetence not seen since Ajantha Mendis played carrom ball with the supposed best players of spin - the Indian cricket team. As they had no answers to the Moratuwa magician, I was speechless in front of the Butterscotch Bombshell.

The Butterscotch family had invited all of us to their Bandra flat. Uptil now I had spoken to them myself all the while because I wanted to meet the girl alone but they insisted the safety and security( their wording) of home while I told them ,up, close and personal was my preferred modus operandi (my wording). Needless to say they didn't call me after that and directly communicated with my parents to accompany me to their house. Crap!

So Mom, Dad and I went to visit them. Eerily the location turned out to be just behind Globus, the mall where I had met the STG. As we got down from the rickshaw, my mother noticed my anxiety and asked me if I was alright.
‘You have been meeting so many girls, why are you feeling nervous she asked?’
‘Well, its not the meeting which is making me nervous. It is that part when the “so many” girls that I have met turn up at the same location.’

As we entered the Scotches' household, they all stood in a circle like those Roman soldiers in the Colosseum. In the center was Grumpy Scotch, the kind of man who reminded me of my equally grouchy neighbor in Surat who as of June 2010 still sustains his living by selling all the tennis balls I had hit in his backyard as a kid. I once used to think the only way to get revenge would be to marry one of his grand-daughters who would inevitably inherit some balls. But the bastard has not only refused to bear females but also refuses to die peacefully.

So back to Grumpy here, who had a permanent scowl on his face. His wife, Smiley Scotch seemed the traditional Sindhi woman who I was sure, after years of cooking, cleaning and bearing children for Grumpy must have definitely developed a bout of osteoporosis. It was she who spoke first
'Welcome to our humble abode. We were wondering why you had gotten so late,' Smiley Scotch spoke in a polished accent.
‘It was the traffic and also the rickshaw-wallah took us through a different route without explanation,' Dad replied
‘Oh, yes their predilection for impertinence...these autowallahs of today sorely lack the benevolence.

Wow,I thought cool Shakespearean Daadimaa, like Agatha Christie's famous grandma detective Miss Marple. I considered asking her if she solved crime cases in her pastime.

After that we were introduced to the girl's parents, Lanky Scotch- tall, dark and balding and the aptly named Loud Scotch whose normal conversation volume was at a decibel level for deaf people. The interior design of the house was excellent and inescapably the conversation veered onto this piece of real estate right in the heart of Mumbai. I meanwhile kept a good eye for the girl and/or food. Neither unfortunately was to be seen.

The snacks made an appearance first. Aloo tikkis, ragda pattice, dry naashta etc. This time though in the presence of everyone I stayed away from the food although it was extremely tempting especially those mozzarella fritters. Besides Grumpy was making survival difficult with his constant stares. The girl was finally given a shout by Loud scotch. The girl didn’t emerge immediately. We waited a few seconds for the suspense to open. And then she came out and like an animal caged for many days, she arrived with a feisty gait and threw herself in between grumpy and smiley on the sofa. She wore exactly the same pink dress as she had adorned in her profile pic.

‘This is my daughter Ver….. ’ Lanky started to announce
‘Pinki,’ I blurted out. Luckily it wasn’t that loud.
‘What , you said something,’ Lanky asked
‘Er….Tikki , Tikki....umm..the aloo tikki is nice,’ I said grabbing one from the plate. Good thing he didn’t question the fact that how could I comment on the tikki without even having eaten it.
'She is Veronica, all of 24' Grumpy scotch completed for Lanky but was clearly pissed at being interrupted.

Veronica Scotch, what about that, like the spoilt rich girl in Archie comics. She had put on a little bit of makeup to camouflage her acne. And what did I hear, 24. Like those miraculous Pakistani cricketers who aged one year in 5 years , this seemed to me like a blatant lie. For example did you know that famous speedster Waqar Younis is still only 29 and he retired 7 years ago at the peak of his powers and also despite the fact that he made his debut in 1989. In a seemingly reverse age disorder, Veronica looked like a high school student but to confirm my doubts I had to look at her properly but with Grumpy breathing down my neck I couldn’t make quick observations on her. Someone had to get him out of this room.

After the snacks, Veronica and I were “allowed” to sit in the room with each other. The room had the typical teenage girl look pink walls, heart shaped stickers on the mirrors and pink bedsheets with tiny cartoon characters on it. Quite surprisingly there were no posters of John Abraham and also no soft toys. I had a feeling that they were stuffed inside that huge cupboard they had in the corner. She sat on the far post of the bed while I was on the other side.

‘Not your room surely?’ I said
'Nope its my cousin sisters. I live in Dombivli. Hey, I am not a teenager, you know I am doing my masters, no?’ she said with confidence as she sensed I wasn't taking her seriously
‘Yeah, I would love to see your engineering books,’ I said
‘Why?’
So that I can see them at full price on Amazon since they would have been untouched anyway, I thought to myself smiling in the process.
'Why are you smiling?' she asked obviously thinking I was a retard.
'Just for a brush up perhaps,' I said simpering like an idiot. ‘So… I guess you must be the typical Mumbai girl?’ I tried to change topics, not knowing how to start further conversation with kids.

‘Nooooooo...that is so misrepresented,’ she disagreed. His elongated cry of disaccord was so dramatic, as if the issue of Ayodhya had been raised in parliament . ‘Now what is the typical Mumbai girl I ask you?' she said
I stared blankly.
'I mean how would you define a Mumbai girl? Mumbai girls are supposed to be these fashionable haughty types who don’t care about other people, materialistic in their behavior and generally give a air of being so bindaas. But this is where I want to correct that misconception. I mean look at me, my parents don’t allow me to go out at night, I have never been to parties. I really haven’t seen anything in my life. You know the traffic in this city. Outsiders tend to think haan yeh ladki to aisi hogi, aur aisa karti hogi but really who has the time. I have my studies to do, I can’t travel easily.’

‘Wow,’ I said at a complete loss of words. Talk about misconceptions cleared in a detailed way. It was akin to asking for the meaning of a name and getting to know that its origins actually lay in Norse Mythology, and that how it then travelled through Western Europe and finally made its way into our English vocabulary because the Bloody British had decided to build their silly empire at the expense of non-white people.

‘And you know, people think that I carry a lot of attitude and they just go by the looks…’
‘Yeah, what meets the eye,’ I said breaking her off nonchalantly before realizing I was implying exactly what she was saying. Oops, there I go again

'Chhe...you don't understand, look at me look at me’ She waved me off like a teacher reprimanding a student as if she was a veteran counselor for a thousand bad relationships.

Maybe I didn't understand but I complied to her second request and looked at her as she beckoned with her arms. Her hands were so thin that I thought they were made of sugarcane. Her hair was tied into ragged curls that fell over her shoulder. And she kept on biting her lower lip for some reason. And yes for the third time in a row, I spotted the mole , hidden nicely on the inside of her wrist. She wore big pink loops for earrings. Ok too much looking , lets listen to what she has to say and she always did have something to say.

‘Usually people like to think that girls bitch about each other. But trust me, I have this group of friends , the five of us who have been together since… I don’t know when.’ She said looking up to the ceiling scrunching her face to remember. I wondered why all the effort. It couldn’t have been many. She was only ten years old after all.
'So you are not Machiavellian by nature?' I said
'Machi ..what?' she asked twinkle eyed.
'Nothing, it is a psychological term,' I said. For the record I scored a B+ in psychology. i was a certified psycho in talking worthless things.
'Oh ok, I should read more stuff. Anyways let me tell you one of the incidents,' she started.
'Sure,' I said.
'But be warned, once I start talking, I might not stop so tell me if you are feeling bored , ok? Because if I start from one topic , I move to another one and I will not even know about it'. Now she tells me. 'I keep on blabbering anything while I can see that you think and say things,’ she said tilting her head.
'I am not aware of any other way,’ I countered
'Huh,'
‘Continue,’ I egged her on. I was thoroughly enjoying myself here.

Hearing this she sat upright and adjusted her sitting position so that now she sat cross-legged and leaned on the pillow. There was a light switch behind that pillow. She leaned a bit too heavily and turned the lights off. Oops, she giggled. She flicked it on again. The excitement on her face was very tangible. I looked at the hour hand of the wall clock from the side of my eye and prepared myself for some information overload.

‘Ya , so one of these guys started to bad mouth one of my friends. He said she was like this and liked to go out with certain boys..blah blah and when I came to know, I went to him and lambasted him. Bechara, he won’t be talking about any girls anymore. I doubt whether he would be talking to girls anymore’ She laughed wildly as if she had vanquished a demon from this earth.
And then she talked and talked and talked.

The hour hand moved to 8 and some girl in college who had learned martial arts had accidentally knocked out her own boyfriend. He now addressed his current girlfriend by his ex girlfriend's name. Talking about knocking some sense into him. At the stroke of 9, I looked up again and shockingly Veronica was still speaking but in Morse code.

After a few minutes, I looked again and astonishingly I couldn't see the clock anymore. She had flicked the stupid light switch again. And then at that very moment,the door opened and loud scotch walked in. F***in hell, what to do now. I immediately got up from the bed and started to walk towards the exit.
'We were just ending our chat,' I said to answer Loud Scotch's suspicious expression.
'Bye Veronica,' I said waving to her at the far side of the bed.
Ok, nice talking to you Ray,’ she smiled.
‘Nice listening to you ,’ I replied as I tried to squeeze past Loud Scotch who stood like a sentry on the door. I had this sudden urge of tickling her and with a whole lot of will, I kept my hands to myself.

The journey back to Surat allowed me to gather my thoughts.

Veronica was cute no doubt and as she claimed she did not like lying and backbiting. Not to take a misogynistic view of this people but it was hard to imagine Veronica would maintain all that innocence once she had moved out of her comfort zone. She had grown up completely (very doubtful that) under her parents' shadow and her folks had provided for everything. But when she would have to fend everything on her own, would this happy, giggling, bubbly, chatty female become one hell of a gossiping, indifferent socially aggressive bitch who would shun other females in her path. Although, I think it wouldn’t happen and maybe I underestimate girls but would she be able to handle the responsibilities of a household. Uncertainty hangs in the air over that. I know everyone matures eventually(unless it is me) and grows up but some need more time.

So that folks ends the story of the three damsels. Three girls with so much to share and so much to see. Which one I chose? One or none?

Contd from previous post

Perspiration without effort. Yup... energy researchers should take Mumbai's humidity factor as a model of efficiency. Even if you were to stand in one place and yawn, sweat will still form and eventually trickle down your face and go into your mouth leaving a salty taste. Yuck!
Moral of the story : Don’t yawn while sweating !

But that can’t be said of the girl I was about to meet. Before meeting her, I had communicated with her via emails. The spies who were lazing off in Goa and one of them in his own office had gotten to work. Ultimately though they had come up with zilch(an unprecedented failure) . The girl was from a relatively small city in North India and the network didn’t have many sources up there , infact just one, who unfortunately had not left his house in seven years, so didn’t know anyone other than his postman. Strange! So I decided to address this girl as the small town girl or STG.

After some feverish exchange of smses, we decided to meet at Globus in Bandra at 12pm in the afternoon. I reached late but she wasn't there yet. I decided to sneak into the shop before she reached so that when she arrived, I could start my bordering on the psychopathic pastime of surveillance. I didn’t know what to expect. There are many north Indian stereotypes out there the prominent ones being loudmouths, showoffs, heavy accessories and apparel colors that would be claimed to have been picked from the rainbow just to outshine the next door neighbor.

I was loitering around the aisles when a white top and denim clad female called my name out and tapped me on the shoulder from behind.
‘Are you the STG?’ I asked turning around. Ofcourse I knew she was the same otherwise no girl in her right mind taps me for any reason. She was comely and despite the western outfit her simplicity stood out. We exchanged pleasantries and I found out that she had been in the mall for the past half an hour. It made me feel guilty to keep a beautiful girl waiting but atleast she had her best friend to accompany her - shopping.

We boarded a rick to the sea facing part of town. I was looking out of the auto when she touched my arm and showed me the Arabian sea glistening on the right.
'Oh yeah , nice,' I said instinctively moving my arm away. As soon as I started taking in the reflections of the Arabian Sea, she tipped me on the hand again.
'And that is SRK's house on your left,' she said. Tingles of excitement ran through me which were more from her touch (not that those light knocks were unwelcome) than at the sight of the Baadshah Khan's abode. Thereafter I maintained a foot's distance from her at the back of the auto then that made us look like passengers sharing a ride rather than two people who had met up to decide more serious things in life. We reached our destination located at the downhill slope of the Bhabha road right under SRK's nose oops I mean Mannat.

As soon as I got down , the Rickshaw guy gave me this most sheepish look. “Lady business eh?’ his eyes seemed to say. I felt like pummeling him but violence wouldn’t have been appropriate especially right next to the home of India’s most romantic starlet.

'CCD or Barista?' she asked me. I looked at the two adjacent cafes. "A lot can happen over coffee" screamed a sign from CCD. I remembered going to CCD with a female a very long time ago. We had kept staring at each other's faces for quite sometime. The only action if you could call it one was leaning forward and sipping our drink. 3 hours and 200 rupees later, we waved goodbye wondering whether 180 minutes of silence and sustained gazes qualified in the Guinness book of world records for longest futile, ineffectual eye communication.

‘Barista,’ I announced enthusiastically and opened the door for her like the gentleman I really wasn’t. And as expected the next second I was back to my old ways. While she walked in front of me, I took stock of “the figure”. Hmm…not bad, I said to myself making a mental note to myself to join some gym later. Her hair was cut short and tied into a fancy hairstyle. It looked cool. At the back of her right arm there was a tiny mole, that ever enamouring pigmented growth on our not so perfect bodies. I wondered if it was a symbolic STOP sign like saying "Stop looking at my a** you dog."

‘Where do you want to sit?’ she asked
‘Huh,’ I said caught napping. I looked around, and seeing that there were just 5 tables in total(this barista is smaller than my boss’s cabin) , I thought it was a silly question but you don’t tell that to a girl , not much less to a pretty one.
‘Let’s take this one,’ I said pulling out a chair noisily. There was just one couple in the store who sat in the right hand corner. The girl was laughing incessantly. Oh! the delusion of that first relationship. The Barista barista came over and handed us the coffee menus. She didn’t pick hers up. I went through mine going through some mouth watering images. The Black Forest Blast caught my fancy and I ordered one. The STG ordered Irish Caramel Frappe in a practiced tone.

The waiter arrived and slammed the nutritionist's nightmare on the table. I attacked it with my usual disdain for etiquette. Calories floated in descending order on my drink. Whipped cream drifted on top of the ice cream that swam on top of the chocolate that floated on top of the coffee. A four-layered titanic that was about to sink into my stomach. Meanwhile, the STG neatly took her spoon and started to consume small portions of her drink.

“So your dad is Sindhi while your mom is a Jain?’ she asked while she stirred the contents of her frappe.
I looked up from the drink. Whipped cream stuck to the side of my mouth and a little bit at the nose. An appropriate question would have been, is your dad a caveman and mother a clown? I took the napkin and wiped my face.
‘Yeah, you can’t choose your parents, can you , you are stuck with them for life hahahaha.. ,’ I laughed but instantly regretted it the next moment. My laughter faded away faster than Merrill Lynch’s debtors had in the recession as the expression on her face never left. Did she not understand what I said was just a joke or did she feel I was insensitive. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt but reigned in the pathetic gags.
‘You know I also have many friends like those, half this and half that,’
‘Oh ok,’ I said feeling like a genetic experiment all of a sudden.. What was she here for - a hybrid human hunt.

We talked about many things, about her coming to Mumbai so far away from her parents. Basically I was trying to ascertain her comfort away from home. People in smaller cities tend to be relatively more attached to their families and the idea of living alone depresses them.

‘I’ve gotten used to the idea, yaar’ she said not so ebulliently. But the more I spoke to her, I got the feeling that she was very honest about all the usual questions. Her English came with a slightly heavy dose of Northern Indian accent which I have never been able to relate to instantly since my friend circle has for most part been South Indian. Only after a while one gets used to it.

The conversation then moved to hobbies and other small talk.
‘You know, I can sing and dance very well,’ she said
‘Is it?’ I said contemplating asking her to a little jig right there preferably on the table. I can't dance for nuts myself. I have the proverbial two left feet having to wear flip-flips instead of flip flops (Sorry PJ).
‘Ofcourse, what do you expect from the land of the greatest singer India has ever produced,’ she said with a slight stamp of authority. Greatest singer eh. I hope she wasn’t referring to Himesh Reshammiya. Ofcourse not, Himesh is from Bhavnagar. What was I thinking?
'Who?' I asked
'He once sang in the royal court. That's all you need to know,' she said. For the moment I was on a need to know level.

Intermittently she would stop to pull her top from the back so that the neck line wouldn’t plunge. After living in the US, for quite some time now, ogling at them new york women, I have learnt the art of self-restraint. I decided to concentrate on her eyes. She had dark circles underneath them. A sudden elation grew in me. Had she already spent sleepless nights thinking about me? Especially that photograph where I pranced around like Sallu bhai in 2 deg Celsius temp with a talebani beard , loaned sunglasses and a bead necklace around my neck. The total value of all the accessories on my body must not have been more than three dollars.

Occasionally when she would laugh, she would tilt her head 17 degrees from the vertical to look up at the ceiling and then tap the table lightly with her left hand. I felt like putting my hand there but I had torn up my own invitation to the "soft hand touches" party by acting strangely and staying out of striking range in the rickshaw.

‘I’ve got bored of this place,’ I said. ‘Do you know any other place we can go to?’
‘Well lots of people walk here,’ she said pointing towards the sea where the sun was on its last legs. Wow time had passed quickly. ‘This is the famous bandstand, ,’ she said, her tone feeling particularly happy about her educating me about Mumbai’s famous romantic landmark.
‘Yup , you mean the infamous one where the couples….,’ I winked . F*** I did it again. Did I tell you, I am a complete idiot? Never mind. Well, now you also know now I am a complete perv as well.

Like the women of the early 1900s who would run away with blushed cheeks at the first sight of their father discussing marriage, she went pink in the face.
‘You are so direct,’ she giggled and tried to avoid eye contact. Yes I am direct , I am a direct example of how not to talk to girls.

We took a rick back to Linking road where to save ourselves from the incredible heat, we walked right into Shopper’s Stop.
'What are you looking for?' she asked. Someone like you, I felt like saying. Instead i clutched the first piece of clothing that hung from the stand. It was the Men in Blue team India Tee.

‘Eeew , will you wear that? Is that your choice?’ she asked as if I was holding a mini-skirt.
I was crestfallen. I was Indian and crazy about cricket , why wouldn’t I buy an India Tee shirt. Don't be scared Ray, tell her that calmly.
'Yeah, good quality, Nike and all,' I said trying to sound defensive.
'Alright yeah.' She didn't have much of a response. She looked sad as if she wanted redesign my clothes.

We window shopped for the next fifteen minutes. Women can shop in any state of mind. sad or happy. Before leaving we decided to meet for lunch the next day.

Next day :

Not since one of my friends had given me an entirely unnecessary 5 km walking tour of Gurgaon, I had never walked so much for finding an address. I was criss-crossing the roads of the Bandra-Kurla complex dodging autos and lorries. This was where her office was. Plush buildings were positioned opposite to slums. "Near" Citibank she had told me but near Citibank actually meant that Citibank was the closest famous office. A small matter of a kilometer and a half away from her own workplace that too in 45 deg heat. Poor me!

I waited with relief in the air-conditioned lobby of her office building. 10 minutes later, one of the lift door opened and she walked through the lifts. She apologized for being late and told that her boss would need explanation so she had to give him some cock-bull story for the time-being. I was used to this, being the quintessential non-existent fictitious individual.

We lunched at Pizza hut. I told her that if I selected her, it would take me close to a year to get her to America.
‘Yeah, yeah you don’t worry I know,’
‘Ok thats good. Its not like getting from your small town to Mumbai,' I said
'Hehe, you are funny,' she said. I feigned my laughter not quite comprehending where actually did I make a joke.

‘Good, so you decide and have an answer for your parents. Give it a good long thought,' I said for the sake of parting words.
‘I am a risk professional , don’t worry about that,’ she said shaking her head from side to side. Wonder what that meant. For example where I would stand on a risk chart for single women looking to get married. Taking the two axes as probability(P) and risk impact (R) :-

a) Loyalty - I had oodles of it. I have been eating the same brand of biscuits for the past twenty years.
P( of changing loyalties) : 2% ; R : Low

b) Stability - As far as I knew, my mind was in the right place. It didn't work at times but I never really do anything extraordinary in life anyway. Oh yes I do have a job offered to me out of pity ofcourse.
P(of losing my mind) : 30% losing my job : depends on Obama , R : Medium

c) Reproduction - You don't want to know. Long story
P(of producing cute sindhi-hindi-northie jain babies) : 100%*(See note) ; R : Low

d) Hobbies - Writing, basically capturing mindless nonsense on paper
P(of leading an interesting life full of new challenges) : 60% ; R : Low with qualifications (BS on blog to be monitored )

e) Extra-curricular skills - I can drive at 60mph on a 20 mph road.
P(of enjoying a stress free life) : 1% ; Risk : High

Overall result : Low risk person, who can be twisted and manipulated to be ridden as a donkey in later life.

And that was the end of that. The girl was cute, well mannered, caring and family oriented. And most of all , I have to say , for some darn reason , she seemed impressed by me - yup no small thing that. I would even go far as calling this an epoch defining event considering that, I at most have the charming skills of a porcupine. That said, there was always this hint of naivety that lurked in all her replies. It is a good and a bad thing but she was eager to live life and that was important. But of even more importance was , that we got along very well like friends. I had found a friend but was there a wife hiding somewhere inside her? I just don't know the difference. Would the STG become a BCG (Big city girl) ? Time to dwell...

Next up is the third and final candidate after which it is decision making time. Till then... stay single.

* - Doctor consulted on this. He has no previous experience in medical science and is more interested in the sport of ping pong. It was this fascination with "balls" that I felt like approaching him for expert advice.

Contd .. from the previous post

And before you diabolical diabetics jump on the words Mishti, no this isn't an encounter with the sweet kind but a bold, confident young city woman - Miss T.

She arrived with her parents on a hot and sweltering day in Surat after my parents had invited them to our place. She wore a loose fitting light yellow salwar and had her dupatta draped over her head. Made her look like the homely girl I had expected. (Boy was I in for a surprise). Eventually, after some small talk , our parents left us alone, the moment I had been eagerly waiting for but hardly knew what to say. The spies had quite reliably established that , Miss T was a bubbly cheerful person , talkative yes but not those boring types who kept on yapping about other worldly things. I was looking forward to this.

But five minutes into our so called “left-alone” session, hardly anyone had spoken. She was looking down on the floor. I knew she liked Garfield but absolutely nothing witty came to mind and I sat quiet looking at the scar on her forehead. If the room were a tourist map, then the fan, AC , even the dusty carton in the corner would have been marked as a point of interest instead of me. In such situations my eyes usually wander and settled on a pimple just below her neck. It reminded me of Carolina, a girl we had in our batch who had this round sizeable pimple in the same spot and we named her "Push button to talk" Carolina. I wondered if the girl sitting in front of me operated by a similar mechanism. It was akin to getting the front seats of an opera and finding out that the tenor had a bad throat. Damn , me and my absolute rubbish thoughts.

“The main thing is compatibility,’ I said not making a particularly insightful statement.
‘Yup, true’ she said drumming her right hand on the chair. We then talked about a few more things but for some reason the conversation remained subdued. We were meeting for the first time , so I was trying hard to keep an open mind. But her piercing look was increasingly giving me that zebra locked in a lion enclosure feeling and after some time my mom's call for lunch made sense of the saying "saved by the bell".

Me being me is never content. I met her in Mumbai next where we decided to dine at Angethi's in Vile Parle. She came and stood outside the Mcd’s outside the station(the restaurant was located on top of the fast food chain) and immediately started to dial her cellphone hardly waiting to have a look around. A hint of impatience …maybe or just good old discipline…couldn’t say. I swooped in like James Bond with an intention to slightly astonish her. :P
‘There would be no need to trouble your fingers, darlin’ , I am here already’ . Why don’t these dialogues occur to me at that time. I settled for the safe “Hi, good evening”.

We were seated on a corner table when madam T called the waiter and complained that the music was a shade too loud and asked him to reduce the volume. As that did not happen , she requested that we change tables which we did. The foolish waiter then gave her the ala carte menu while he shoved the liquor menu into my hands with a sheepish smile. Damn you guys I thought , I am trying to make an impression here. Was I doomed, not completely. We chatted on the menu a bit and ordered an appetizer and main course.

I don’t remember all the conversation now but it was healthier than the one we had at my place. But there were a few extremely strong opinions expressed and the probability of an ego clash in the future loomed large. Would she be adjusting or just plain dominating. Hard to say. The food arrived and I let my mind get distracted.

‘Would you like anything to drink ?’ the waiter asked the both of us. He looked at me expectantly. The wine menu still lay near me.
‘Yeah , just a sweet lassi, anything for you Miss T?’
‘I will have an iced tea,’ . The drinks couldn’t have been more different or ironical. The drinks arrived promptly. One was dark but clear while the lassi although white was foggy.WTF, concentrate idiot.

‘So...have you tried alcohol?’ I ventured. Girls usually say no in the beginning and act all girly but they all usually have tried something or the other in their school days. A female friend of mine had got so drunk on a vodka that we framed one of our friends(who was also piss drunk) by putting her in bed with him. Needless to say, they woke up with a massive guilt "hangover".

‘Yes, and I like it very much,’. She deadpanned while letting her hair loose and tying it again. I caught a glimpse of her earrings which were different from the heart shaped ones she wore in Surat.
The chair under me almost slid , ok well not that dramatic but the candid answer to the question did make my eyebrows twitch a little.
'That is good,' I said having no idea whether to praise or reprimand such insouciance.
'But although I enjoy its taste,' she said squeezing and playing with the slice of lime in her tea, 'I usually fall asleep within two drinks.' She smiled for the first time since we had arrived.
'Oh yes,' I said. 'Well good for you, I usually start uttering crap when I am two pegs down, sometimes some ugly truths.' Damn! I had spilled too many beans here. Pull back Ray, pull back.

The food arrived and we ate in silence and the loud music that we were away from, assumed pole position among all other sounds in the room. We talked about a few more things during which I came to know that she was a recent convert to vegetarianism because of her spiritual beliefs.
'I used to eat anything under the sun,' she said staring at me making me insecure as if she had suddenly changed her mind and if I was next on her plate.
'Hmm,' I said as I tried to tear a piece of the rubbery roomali roti which had the consistency of well....a rubber. 'Good thing, you left it. I don't even eat eggs,' I said finally managing to tear a piece off with three fingers(some achievement I tell you) while dropping some crumbs on my lap.
'Look, Ray,' she said ,'my parents have spoken to me about this and I have understood what has to be done here.' The conversation had taken a serious tone.
'Go ahead,' I said. I wondered what had she understood , that maybe I was a clumsy eater and she needed to teach me table manners.
'I am a difficult person to handle, my partner needs to be patient with me.' I kept quiet and thought about the possible causes behind that scar of hers. Was it the mark of an impatient beau?

The waiter brought in the finger bowls along with the check. The food had been too garlicky that had set off my Vaishnavite Saatvik alarms, (not that I was kissing later but one never knows.) I hadn't even finished half of it. I had a look at the check and muttered "cheap" sarcastically.
'I have my moods Ray, tantrums and all that. This does not mean I am not the adjusting kind but...'
I looked up from the check. Tantrums eh,? I do have a whip at home, I wanted to say. But that would make things messy to say the least. Would she walk out of the restaurant in a huff. Would I have to pay the entire check which was on the other side of a thousand. Did she realize that I had only eaten half my food?
'Well then what do you want to do?' I asked
'I am certainly not cutting this off...' she said. We had now moved out of the restaurant and were walking towards SV road under the ungainly skywalk that had been built recently.
'What do you want to do?' I asked again a little more firmly this time lowering my head and looking straight at her.
'I need a a little more time. '. Time ...oh brother...time was what I never had and never would. have. My trips to India would always be short since I was adamant on getting a bride from the motherland.

We stopped and I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts.
'Ok Miss T, I wish this was more clear cut but the fact is , it is difficult for me as well because of my status in the US. We will talk to our respective parents and take a decision but seems as if even I would be needing a little more time to know you better if at all.'
'Alright, so if we don't meet each other now, it was nice knowing you and good luck with your search,' she said extending her hand forward for a handshake. And then I passed the most cheekiest and cheesiest comment of the evening. Perhaps I didn't care then.

'There is an old Chinese saying that if one can't make a decision then there was only one way to find out...a kiss tells you whether the person is your life partner of not.,' I winked(Ok I had made up the Chinese part and the dialogue had been completely inspired if not copied from the movie Apna Sapna Money Money) but my soaring rocket got shot down by her pretty nicely. It hadn't come out nicely and I think I deserved that.

In that way we parted ways and mutually dumped each other(almost). I walked back to the Vile Parle railbridge and thought about her. Before flying from America, I had actually almost made up my mind and mentally accepted her as someone I would love to spend my life with. She was excellent, not beautiful beautiful but someone smart and hip but she was also perhaps overbearing. Her projection of her own negative qualities surprised me. She was either being too honest or just throwing me off her path. Maybe she had found someone already, maybe she didn't want to leave Mumbai(or India) , maybe she didn't want to get married at all or maybe she didn't like me :(. There were too many maybe's and very few concrete thoughts.

Anyway, I started to prepare for the next bird that was about to fly my way the following day.
So that friends was the conclusion of my acquaintance with Miss T which had not made the picture any clearer but even more mis-ty.

Struggling commuters in Surat now have a new lease of life. Western Railway has taken the step of introducing one more train in the morning in addition to the existing Flying Ranee according to this times of India report.

This is great news for thousands of Surtis who daily spend 10 hours alone traveling from Surat to Mumbai back and forth in order to earn their livelihood. The new train will just take three hours to reach Bandra and give a boost to the heavy economic activities that exist between the two states of Gujarat and Maharashtra.

Traveling on commuter trains in India is one hell of a chaotic experience. I have had the experience of traveling in the Flying Ranee on numerous occasions even at a time when it was one of the fastest trains in India next to only the Rajdhani. These commuters on the Surat-Mumbai journey have a culture of their own which includes being loud, obnoxious, stepping on everyone's feet other than their own, pushing everyone in their upper quadrant(right and left), constant chants of chalo aage badho and mostly sister-mother related expletives directed at those people they have tried pushing but are not budging or to those who do not understand the aage badho part. They laugh loudly at every possible joke or a semblance of one including killing a fly that had got attracted to the decaying matter in one of the commuter's ear. On a recent trip, they also sang about 10-15 bhajans in their loudest pitch on the stretch from Valsad to Vapi. They share great camaraderie and once their stop arrives disperse as if they were magnetic with opposite poles.

I recall once I was on the return journey of Mumbai-Surat and the train had just pulled into Mumbai Central. Mom and I got inside the train. As we matched the seat numbers to our tickets a sweaty blue handkerchief came flying like a UFO through the window and landed on the berth just at the moment I figured that the seat was the one assigned to me. I felt so disgusted about it, that I threw it out the window holding it in the tip of my nails. I looked out and just saw the back of a man trying to get into the bogie. Then he suddenly appeared next to us and asked...no actually demanded us to vacate the seat. We showed him our tickets and told him to shove off. So he said that he had put his handkerchief in there and so he had booked his seat.

'What handkerchief?' I asked him
'Huh, where is it. I placed it here ?' He said sticking his nose on the window to see what had happened to his UFO? Shoe sole patterns of all kinds had formed by now on his flattened piece of cloth accessory. Since my mother was there he refrained from using cuss words but made his displeasure known.

'Hanky-throwing is not a civilized way to reserve seats,' my mother told him in English. Whenever my mom gets in a spot of bother she starts to mouth English words.The Surat rickshawallahs who ply their trade in the old city have often been left scratching their heads by the time my mom bargained a rupiah deal.

'See I do this everyday,' the man said
'Let us call the hawaldar,' Mom said. Luckily one happened to be passing in that bogie. Thank God for the semi-periodic checks our Railway police force conducts. Rolling a baton in one hand he understood the situation and took the man to task.
'Jasti badbad something something..is all I could understand.

The commuter man didn't look too happy with an English vocabulary throwing middle-aged woman and a pot-bellied pandu rounding up his day when the poor man must have slogged it out in some dilapidated office building in South Mumbai. For a moment I felt sorry for him. He slowly walked out. I watched him through the window. He picked up his handkerchief which seemed no cleaner than before and walked away to the next bogie to try his luck. A dirtier hanky might fetch him a seat I thought as people would be reluctant to touch it. Hmm..

Funny but incredible India it is.

Avatar is "once in a decade film" and technologically light years ahead of its contemporaries. And no it is not because of the story but because of the visually striking images that refuse to leave your mind even after you leave the theater.

A crippling energy crisis on earth has forced the humans to look for newer resources. So they land on Pandora, a distant planet which has a mineral called "Unobtainium". But to mine that, the humans have to coax the local population - the blue skinned Nav'i race to evacuate. the area. In order to communicate with these peace loving natives, human scientists have come up with the AVATAR program where researchers can mind control Nav'i lookalikes that have been genetically cloned. What follows is the divided loyalties that the researchers begin to feel after spending time with the innocent "aliens". Time is running out for convincing them and before long the humans are ready to use brutal force to blow them out of their homes.

James Cameron, the man and the mind behind path breaking movies like Terminator and Titanic delivers once again and how. The details on screen are so lifelike that as soon as the story actually moves to the forest, the viewer is transported to the magical land. of Pandora. It is a visual masterpiece that demands your attention like no other(perhaps only rivaled by LOTR). Words are futile in this case and one has to see it to feel it.

On the flip side, people might feel the story is kind of repetitive and have seen it before. The dialogues are pretty banal at places and some of the characters are just stereotyped cut pieces. Sam Worthington who plays the lead has his moments although his Aussie accent keeps on popping up here and there. Other actors do their job tremendously well but all of them just play second fiddle to the iconic scenery on display.

It also has a lot of underlying messages about human greed, the wrongful US invasion of Iraq and enviromental protection. Overall effect is mesmerizing and one more thing people , do not make the grave mistake of watching this movie in 2-D. Watch it only in 3D for the sake of experiencing one of the best ever cinematic projects in the history of film-making.

Rating : 4.5/5

Assembled my first ever computer yesterday. Great fun and worked nicely. The new windows 7 is ultra cool. But now I am looking for a monitor. Expensive stuff I tell you..but what can one do? And oh yes I need a keyboard, and a mouse and hmmm...a printer too. And all this because I want to use it for my own home entertainment...If my mom hears this she is gonna kill me

I was in India for the past two weeks and the first sign that I had truly arrived arrived just a few minutes after we left the SVP Airport Ahmedabad - the Chai stall.

Among the great many differences between the American and Indian culture especially among college students , the biggest one is the "cutting" or cafe culture. Coffee or tea is sipped in a more closed or controlled setting in the States while the cart culture still largely caters to the Indian lifestyle. The photo on the left is of a tea stall in Ahmedabad, I clicked in the wee hours of the morning, just after I landed.

Before the days of CCD and Barista, there was(and still is) the roadside tea shop that were present at prime locations outside colleges. These tea stalls doubled up as the nukkad, provision store for tea, paan, cigarette, and quick snacks. This was the place for endless banter or to vent feelings about anything under the sun be it that screwed up test, the crazy professor, the latest babe in college, or some career advice. The ambience was the road and the traffic while the seats were one's own bike. The service was quick and friendly. And all this for a price way below at what one would pay at swanky malls or chic cafes.

Some of the stalls have even gone beyond their usual status and become the favorite hangout places of thousands like the famous Rituraj Maska Bun near the Gujarat University campus. The cafe culture might have swept India but it is time to give the street tea vendors their due respect for their great service to millions of budding engineers, managers and slackers (me..me..me).

There were 107 other people competing for the 2nd race of the summer series, a set of four running competitions in Boonton, New Jersey. It was a corporate event with my company sponsoring us to run races all over NJ. Someone from the office had invited me to take part in this five km run around the field and I had obliged without hesitation. After running those five kilometers from hell as I would like to call them, I have now realized how stupid we are to take respiration for granted.

In these past couple of weeks, I have realized that I am my own biggest enemy, the main culprit behind my misery. I tend to bring enough trouble onto myself, climb the ladder of unknown challenges with the wrong sort of gear or sometimes with nothing at all and then slip up and fall from the great height of mismanagement on to the hard concrete floor, before complaining that the ladder itself was made of substandard material. Saying Yes to everything has been a ghastly old habit of mine and the genes running under my now badly and perhaps permanently bruised body always want to try something new be it food, game, travel and other things I must have read in books when I was a kid.

Alright so I stood in this muddy field which had just been soaked by a downpour. I decided to do some my warm ups which included jumping on the same spot a considerable number of times before my co-runner reminded me it was a running race and not a high jump competition. ‘What do you know about preparation?’ I wanted to ask her but didn’t since the potential embarrassment of finishing last in this race was at the back of my mind. As the announcer called all the runners to take their positions, I was already stressed out. I had obviously not prepared physically but mentally I had no business to be there. The last time I had taken running seriously was when my obnoxious neighbor Mr. Verma had pulled out his machine gun in response to me inadvertently calling his daughter a sexy b****. (Which she was but hey that is another story)

So I took up my stance at the start line, crouching slightly just like I had seen all those athletes do on television. They say when in Rome, do what the Romans do. Apparently the Romans haven’t being doing much themselves since the last two thousand years other than winning a few soccer world cups. I am an Indian, a part of the community which is not built for performing hard physical labor. We can develop software for the world though without breaking a sweat.

Here is a progressive report of my performance at the race :-

0-1 km: The Tortoise in the Hare skin
The whistle blows and I am off like a new car 0-100 in 6 seconds. It is a good, no a great start as I overtake five people. As I pass them I glance at their faces. They are five old women who seem to be keener on catching up on the latest episode of the Desperate Housewives. I pass few other people but as I turn my head in the direction of the leaders, they have just motored ahead and at that rate they would lap me in my first lap itself.

1-2 km: Early signs
My rebellious knees start to show signs of protest. But I am determined not to let the protest develop into a full blown revolution. However I was more worried about my lungs who I fear, like the world’s financial institutions, would shut down shop for accepting anymore air until the brain granted them a bailout by telling my body to stop this running nonsense. Outside, I found myself alone, a bit more space. Most of the runners are way ahead of me but some people are also way behind me.

2-3 km: Mid-race crisis
The gradient becomes a bit tricky as I start to run slightly uphill. I start to draw more than normal amounts of air in my bloodstream. It has been sixteen minutes from the time I started. Within a few hundred feet, I see the race administrators holding cups of water. I grab one as I pass them and immediately gulp down the liquid. Big mistake. Since I am sucking in everything within nasal range including some surprised mosquitoes, the water too bobs around before entering my nasal cavity and I gasp from its effects having an overwpowering feeling of drowning.

3-4 km: Will I make it?
My left calf muscle hurts badly and there is an irritating motion hindering stitch under my ribcage. Other previously unknown muscles make their presence known too. We are now running around a ranch like area but there are no cattle to be found anywhere. I am the closest thing to a cow, slowing down to almost walking pace. Infact I am walking but exaggeratedly shaking my hands and legs under the pretense of running. Two ladies in their mid thirties zoom past me. “Come on, you cannot slow down now,” one of them says. I can’t waste anymore breath to speak so I don’t say anything. I think she means why die now, you might as well fall down dead at the finish line. So I keep on pseudo-running expecting to hit “the Wall” anytime now.

4-5 km: Deliverance
BANG! And I have hit it finally. I have crashed into the wall and I am not speaking about Rahul Dravid. At one point, the runner’s wall is bound to hit you, the internal struggle between your mind and body. Both are fighting tooth and nail before realizing they are both on the same side- that is putting an end to this foolishness. But then there is the third element, a spiritual one, the dogged soul which urges both of them to plough on. By the time I approach the last half kilometer, I feel I am dragging an elephant behind me, an elephant that has not only been well fed but is lying on its hairy back, hands folded behind head, sitting comfortably with one leg on another on a sunny beach, smoking a cigar and ready to order its next pina-colada. One more person overtakes me, she is my coworker but I am just focused on completing the race. The cheers of the watching people get louder and louder so I know I am close to the finish. And I draw one last iota of strength while approaching the finish line and cross it with my arms raised in the air.

I collapse on my knees as soon as I end the race, wishing there was more oxygen in the air than nitrogen. Thirst is killing me, the sweat burning in hot flashes making me feel I am in a furnace. But I am just overjoyed. I look at the timer to see my results. It has taken me 29 minutes to complete this event, the longest ever I have run in a competitive environment. My position is 90 out of 108(results), not too good considering there were people older than me flying like bats out of hell. But it was good enough for a slob like me. I had done it and more importantly I knew I could do it.

And then came the area of my expertise. Pizzas and drinks were served for everyone and I ate like a pig putting to waste all the hard work I had done. Anyway it provided a nice satisfying climax to the evening. I have also registered for the next event and yours truly might blog about it if he can make it alive through that one. For now, my coworker has the bragging rights but hopefully I can overwhelm her in the next race. Ciao!