Economic Times

I never knew that my fate and that of the world’s economy was so interlinked. I mean being my modest self, I never-ever thought of the co-relation between the two. After all, neither I’m the finance minister of the country nor do I manage any investment (either mine or that of others). Complex things such as derivates were long left behind in college corridors and chemistry labs, and debts were relegated to coins that I sometimes borrow for smoking cigarettes.

So all in all I had no reason what so ever to worry that such an insignificant character like me will be bludgeoned by the grammar of economics - used, distorted and rehashed – at the global platform. For I was living in my small world, fighting the inflation of my own dreams and goals until the day my boss spoke – Melt Down. The explanation of this word looked like a rip off from Paulo Coelho’s Alchemist – the much abused - Universe conspiracy theory.

I was aghast. It had been only two days since my stock had surged. I wasn’t a penny stock before but neither a blue-chip company and I had no reason to fear of sudden boom or crash. I was under the impression that my fundamentals were strong. I was not to be a short-term story. A little slackening of the bull shouldn’t have worried me or those investing in me. Also I was proud that the rating agencies have given AAA+ to me in the last two financial years.

It looked like my boss had just read Harry Potter and was trying to explain me one of the wizardries of Rowling. But my boss being from the land of Amartya Sen (check wiki for Sen’s details) the explanation was much simple. In one sentence - The company was now forced to de-leverage because of the prevailing liquidity crunch in the market.

Thankfully, I was told that still I’ve not been classified as a NPA or simply put bad asset. The boss further explained that only because the situation is so grave (and believe you may, the face of my boss just showed the right expressions) that unfortunately I have been bundled along with others as CDOs or collateral debt obligations. Henceforth, as of now my Boss advised in the personal capacity as a nice boss (yeah, most of us don’t believe but some bosses are nice) that I’m left with two options.

For a moment I was stumped almost like the Australians who don’t have a clue what stance to take on a turning pitch. Before I can mutter something, my boss continued with the two options, which were – first – I can hope against hope that the federal/central government (that’s my super boss) announces a bailout package for mortals like me.

The second option – which smells of a distant future – I better wait and hope for a revival. But as I said, my boss is one of those rare nice boss, the third advise was more genuine – seek out a Private Equity/ Venture Capitalist who can identify or nourish my otherwise now lacklustre, dated and over-rated talent, who shows interest in my valuation and then perhaps either one or the other company may acquire me or force my parent company to revaluate me in new perspective.

Struggling with this heavy overdose of economics and global affairs, I managed to ask, my near term options. The boss face showed no expression. Sentiments, my dear, Sentiments is what the boss echoed.

Dejected, confused, perplexed, annoyed and harrowed I went to a senior colleague, asking for sane advice. The person started with a disclaimer: Views expressed are personal. Well, I said, Go On. I was told that since I have no FII behind me and FDI in my career has been limited, my situation was no better than a Subprime in the US of A. So, I should be happy that I’ve been bundled as CDO, because that would mean that my fate has been now associated with the world economy.

I was told that the Prime lending Rate (PLR) is an all time high, so no organisation will offer me anything. This has been due to high inter-bank overnight lending rate. This simply means the liquidity crunch is here to stay. The rupee further depreciation hasn’t helped my case either because foreign exchange fluctuations have stalled the plans of many. Some people also showed me newspapers and websites, which had only one word - layoff.

I’m now told that there is a plan to infuse more liquidity in the system. This may happen as the global economy settles. Mornings, I watch the markets though I have no interest in the scrips that are traded there. Nights, I hope the bailout package will come soon. Surprisingly this time other people unsuccessfulness made me...

quite A death

She died quietly. A luxurious death. Such deaths have been rare in the past few days, weeks, months and perhaps years. So, when she died, quietly that is, some of the housewives took the ‘quietness’ as a sign of a good omen. It’s been long here since death was celebrated. Today, it was time, to rejoice, quietly.

Perhaps, she had spoken more words than what were due to her in this lifetime. So in many ways a death, quite quiet, was befitting. Inside those closed doors, where people were more dead than alive, where death was a knock away, where heartbeat danced in hushed smiles of the children, this quiet death slowly but surely gave birth to life.

Life-dead-life-dead--dead-dead-life.
guitarist strumming chords right,
Dead life, life dead, life, life, life
why rain drops fall from the skies?
Dead Amma, dead Amma, quiet, quiet, quiet...
in our land there is no right, right, right..

These six-lines became an anthem. Children use to chant this, while clasping their hands against each other. You miss a line, or clapped with the wrong hand. Out of the game and sit quiet.

Amma would have never liked this game. She was quite bored of being quiet. Right or wrong, she had views. And little she cared, if you liked her or not. Even in those times, which were not very different from today, her voice resonated even over a sonic boom. She could be heard fighting with the plumber, telling him, he has done a shoddy work. Discussing the increased prices with the mason. Yelling at beggars...her voice was heard over two blocks and far.

In afternoon, when husbands were away, housewives around tend to flock to her house. Amma was crude but fun. She would talk of her old days, her husband’s exploits, her son’s debacle, daughter’s marriage, society, milk, honey, gold and...yes, of freedom.

Free that she was. To have an ice-cream. To haggle with the street shopkeeper. Free not being able to talk to her son. Free to sleep alone with moist eyes. Free to raise her voice on insolent children around. Free not to be quiet. Absolute freedom?

It was another black day. There have been many black days. Black flags make it black. Shining bullets then turn it into red. Rain later washes all sins away. Remains can be found if it snows. But Amma was free not to bother about colour black, saffron, white or green. Snow yes, she had voiciferously complained about it. She also had to call her daughter. The roof was already leaking and doors creaking, oil and coil, poor amma need to toil. Oh yes, her dead husband’s pension was also due. Where is the time to be in blue??

Black or white
Amma was always right,
Red or blue
She was so true
Saffron-white-green
It’s a machine

Amma’s son, a software engineer in Hyderabad. He had asked her mom to come over and meet the grand-daughters. She was thinking about this on her way when she started weeping. First the tear-gas was used to disperse, early reports. Amma’s daughter is in New York, a human rights activist, lives in a penthouse. Amma eyes went red, she lost her spectacles. Amma’s son came to know about it three days later.

Her daughter will approach amnesty international. Amma, died of head injury, on spot. Her son came to visit her grave. He promised Rs 5 lakh for azadi. For Amma always lead, they argued. He went back. Guilt free. Promotion was around. Neighbours were happy, quiet deaths are rare. Those which have not been quiet caused more.

But Amma, she died quietly...

Indecent Proposal

NOTE: The title of this post is dedicated to all my friends who believe that in such uncertain times the only virtue to abide by is “Indecency.”

For the past 26-years, I’ve unfortunately never bothered to check one section of the newspaper. Honestly, now I realise that had I checked the same a decade or two earlier, I’m sure that I would’ve certainly made a sincere attempt in my school and college days towards a better career and who knows would've done better for myself.

I really don’t know whom I should blame for this grave mistake which has somehow gone unnoticed for such a long period. The moment this fact dawned upon me, I was shattered, ego was bruised and any hopes of what some may call – living a normal life – were dashed.

Henceforth, this is my suggestion to all students that please do read the “matrimonial” section of the newspaper for getting enlightened. Your current love interest may sign a blood oath and your lovemeter may defy earth's gravitational power but the ways of the world can only be best understood through matrimonial columns. Glancing through it every weekend, will not only provide the required impetus to strengthen your resolve for giving more hours to productive work but also help you choose a career path in the long run.

I realised this way too late. And that too by a stroke of luck. While sieving through the Sunday newspaper, i tossed away one of these supplements when a familiar surname caught my eye. This window opened a whole new world for me. For the next few hours, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. The only irony here is that this Wonderland is for real and there is no hole through which I can escape.

Anyhow, I checked the profile of this gentleman, who had a familiar surname. Now this 28-year-old, 5’9” tall dude, who is also a programme analyst earning Rs 8 lakh per annum, is looking for a bride. For starters he is almost 2” taller than me, earns twice more than me and is only two-years elder to me. So, all in all this – double figure – in height, salary and age beat me hands down in the bride market.

I tried to calm down myself saying that may be this is one exceptional case. So straight away went to the fifth in row. Here I was pitted against an IIT-D, IIM-A geek. The bastard achieved it all in 27-years flat and is already working in an MNC. Well, most understandably there was no mention of the salary or other physical details. Hell, which girl would ask for that!!

Change the goddamned fucking caste I thought and went to another caste row. Perhaps the problem of casteism in my nation can be best understood through these sections but I guess this was not the time to indulge in trivial details. Here I was, having one of the worst days so far, realising the time that has been lost. Up against my contention was a Major General, 27-years old and a whooping 6’2” above the ground. Respect for the armed forces and instantly I sang the national anthem and moved on to ‘Grooms Wanted’ section.

Check these out and you’ll know, what made me write this post-

Match for Kumaoni Brahmin Girl
25-years-old, 5’4”/ IIM-C/ TOP-IT company, earning Rs 10 Lakh per annum

Match for V.Fair, PB Arora Girl
27/5’5”/ US-based doctor/ Prefb. NRI, Doctor, IIM Grad


After this I didn’t manage to sum up my courage and read forward. Hopes of my happy home, my future wife and kids was crumbling in front of my eyes. And, I realised what a grave error I’ve committed by missing on this – what’s perhaps the most important - section of the newspaper. Anyhow, please let me know if somebody is interested in

26/ 5’7”/ unsuccessful guy/ annual package : empty promises...

Del-Mum

There is no denying that the past few weeks have been as monotonous as the one before them were. Irrespective of the tourney which took me away from Delhi for four-long days, the nights remained as dark and long, like the one in Delhi are. Sometimes, distances fail miserably. Or otherwise, how can you explain that even at a height of 30,000 feet, I was looking from that glass window, trying to ascertain the beauty of Delhi? In my teens, I use to wonder (and please don’t attribute it to the cinematic realism created by James Cameron) that how would it be, having a berth in the unfaithful Titanic.

I guess, a few years ago, I could’ve thought of myself as a passenger in the unsinkable romanticized wreck but my first sea voyage made me aware that I would better like to die on earth than sea. Perhaps, my fear of water, and which I’m sure must have some scientific name and explanation, always gives me an extra reason to dislike any city, which has a water body near it or in it. And so happened with Mumbai, where I missed my flight after four-days of a not-so-well-planned visit.The biggest difference between Delhi and Mumbai, which I’m told is the professionalism of Mumbaikars and the lethargic, red-tapism of Delhiites.

The ‘Kars’ and "Iites" are a breed of their own. But I don’t want to go into the details. Because, it didn’t bother me. What surprised me was, that even after Delhi being the capital during the Raj, it has maintained a Mughal character of its own, while Mumbai looked like a native wife of a Burra Sahib. Not only in its appearance but also in the lifestyle.I’m sure that this observation is not exclusive to me and would have been noticed by many earlier. But certainly, I guess I could feel it better because of my estranged relationship with Delhi.

If I can place Delhi as a nautch girl, with mannerism and charms, Mumbai will be the bar girl, with a cheap scent and up front on what she wants. Delhi may submit herself and con you to believe that she is all yours, Mumbai will give you the pleasure of your life, but without any sense of attachment. Delhi may take a stroll with you talking poetry, Mumbai will prod you to run faster, discussing the work that needs to be done.
Delhi will wake up in the night and then put her head on your arm, Mumbai may not even take a single turn whole night. Delhi may wake much late than you and you may find yourself watching her face and stroking her hair, Mumbai may be all dressed and ready to leave, when you open your eyes.
Delhi may kiss you a little longer when she leaves but Mumbai can’t be expected to give anything more than a peck on your cheeks.

This doesn’t mean you can’t love Mumbai, or she can’t love anyone. But to fall in love with Delhi, you’ve to be unsuccessful, because Delhi may still love an unsuccessful person, Mumbai won’t. And so my journey continues....

Name-sake

The whole village knows that their headman wasn't able to find the right word for this new-born. It did surprise many because the headman always had a word for everyone, and he made a point to check and confirm it. Ruffling through the half-torn, yellowed pages of his pocket size dictionary where words crawled like ants, he would mutter something first and then say it aloud. Some years ago, one of the villagers who happened to make a living for himself in the city had gifted him a magnifying glass, as his eyesight was going weak. But this time even that didn't help him to find the right word for this new soul.

So, while others had names, with which they were known and called, this human flesh then weighing 1-kg was not given any name. There were rumours that going by his weight, most people including the headman thought that this boy won't survive and perhaps that's why, the headman didn't bother to make a serious effort. After all, how can one who has all the words with him and a magnifying glass too, fall short of one word? This theory also gained ground, when the next day another woman delivered a healthy female and the headman, gave her parents two names to choose from. But he never bothered to check his dictionary again for a day-old somewhat famished boy.

Some years ago, that is quite a few days after the headman died and passed his legacy to the next in number, this guy who by now well understood the importance of names, tried his luck with the new headman. But to his surprise, the new one refused him, point blank. His argument was that he wanted to carry the legacy of the previous headman as the earlier one had also done the same. And in no case legacy can be toyed with unimportant issues such as name.

After this incident, this guy who had till now seen almost 18 years of monsoon and five floods never attempted again to ask for a name. Being nameless was fun and he realised that. He had his point because villagers quite a few number of times complained that he doesn't respect them or bother when they call him. But not having any name worked to his advantage as he defended saying, how will he know whether they were calling him or someone else? And hence, the headman who had already shown his inclination towards maintaining a legacy turned a deaf-ear to the villagers.

There were even attempts by a few young guys to rebel against their parents if they were called by their name. It looked that being nameless was in-vogue at least in that village. However, after some time, these self-styled nameless people started feeling that they were neglected by their parents and relatives for unlike him they were used to being called by their names. Hence there remained one person in that village who didn't have a name.

Name or no name, this guy had dreams like his peers. While, all of them received love notes addressed to them from other belles of the village, he never received one. This was his major concern for a very long time and it was only when he desperately wanted a name. To his surprise, these love birds gave new names to their love interest when they already had one. This made him realise that people have a habit of wasting everything including names.

So when the government official who was posted to this village, to build a new school and renovate the old dam, decided to completely break down the school, this guy disagreed. According to him it was a complete waste of existing resources. The official though then chided this naive young villager but later realised that what he was saying was also true to some extent and he decided to hire this guy as local support. The only problem was that if he has to hire him, he has to put his name on the government register, showing that he was hired and paid.

When the official discussed this with the headman and told him that they can assign him a number if not a name, the headman refused, to the extent that neither the dam nor the school will be built if they assign a name or number to him. Finally it was decided that instead of him, the headman's name will surface on the government's register, while the payment will be made to him.

It was the 20th monsoon of his life and it appeared that will also be sixth flood that he is to witness. The dam was finally constructed and was to be inaugurated by scion of a well-known name as it was to be named on the surname that he and his family have inherited.

The official was concerned as big names were coming along and he don't want his name to drown. So as an extra precaution, a night before, he sent him to check the northern end of the dam.

Next day, the inauguration went as usual except the name issue. The papers in the city were selling like hot cakes as everyone wanted to know that why the scion had decided not to name that dam.

The report read like this:

The well-known name of the country's political party, whose family is a known name, when it comes to giving credit to other names, has set up a new benchmark. This happened in a village where a dam was to be inaugurated. It came to picture that a night before, there was a surge in the northern end of the river. A young 20-year-old man, who was guarding that area used his presence of mind to close the fusegates. He, however was unfortunate to get an electric shock in the process. Till last reports came in, his body was brought to the city hospital and his name was yet to be verified.

The leader, who came to know of this just before the inauguration immediately decided not to name the dam unless the name of this courageous person is known. A government official who wished to remain unnamed, confirmed that the headman and the government official in the village were taken into police custody. It is believed that both were involved in some corruption regarding fudging names on the government's register.
One of the scientist explained that fusegates allow to increase the normal pool of the dam without compromising the security of the dam because they are designed to be gradually evacuated for exceptional events. And had not this unidentified person closed them it could have turned into a major disaster.

Will you marry me?

So finally N got married. Now from the trio of DNZ, N is a married man. I’ve known Z and N for now 8-long years. I still remember the first night in the college hostel, when I slept next to N and he was narrating to me how he failed in the army exam thrice and how his dreams were smashed. We talked about our families, our singlehood, future plans and then slept with dreams in our eyes that after we’ll pass out from here, we’ll be doing what we are destined to.

That wasn’t the only time we had conversation on life, family, girls, sex, future, in these eight-long years we had similar discussions in various places and situations but somehow that first night is still very vivid in my memory. So when he was standing there, waiting for his bride to come, I was thinking about that night. Thinking that maybe he’ll have the same discussion with her wife after doing whatever required.

Sitting next to me was Z, who was also lost in dreams. He later told me that he was thinking that when he’ll get married and how it will be. I was amused at this thought, because I then realised that one of these days, I’ll too get married. Back in the hotel room, I told Z the possible reason why I can’t get married in the coming two-years at least. First and foremost no girlfriend!

Well, to be honest I was thinking about this when we were on our way to Lucknow to attend the marriage.

My only regret during the marriage was that I couldn’t dance. I was nursing a broken bone, so didn’t take chances. Read somewhere before that smoking leads to brittle bones, so didn’t risk dancing just sat in a corner and smoked.

Attending this marriage was very special. Not only because it was N’s marriage but more so because I was attending one after a very long time. So it did a lot to allay my fears on the marriage ceremonies and the kind of stress it involves.

Finally, when we’re leaving, I met his wife. She was nervous. N was happy, I could see the broad grin. He was looking good in his olive green army uniform. They’re leaving for Darjeeling on a honeymoon in two-days. As we bid them farewell, and the car took the turn, Z light up a cigarette and said

“Who’s next D?”

I grinned. “Don’t know. I’m still looking for one.”

“D, how much do you think we need to earn before we get married.....”

I know this discussion will go on and on....from job to our ex-girlfriends, Z’s problem with A, about his new Jaipur girl, my obsession with being unsuccessful...and perhaps when we three next meet, we’ll have some more dimension added to it.

And perhaps then, I’ll have something new to add....

P.S – Will post pictures as and when N sends them across...

Loser

There is no definitive answer to a number of queries which are exploding in my head. I wish I can list them down and answer them one by one. But unfortunately even doing that won’t solve my purpose because each passing day they become more complex. I don’t know how I will emerge out of it. Started thinking and managed to come up with this....

LOSER...

Shodam-e’- waqt, ya waqt-e’-shodam (LOST IN TIME, or TIME LOST)

I don’t know when I wrote this or why I wrote this. It’s like skeletons inside my head. I mean you may laugh at this thought. No issues. These days everyone does the same, even the city laughs at me, in fact it mocks me but what I am saying is also trueI - I can’t sleep at night. And that’s why I’m like this. I’m trying to forget everything by all means. I don’t want to lose a single moment. I have lost enough.

So, if last week I arranged for a tussle between two mad elephants, yesterday it was an orgy night, today I haven’t thought of it but perhaps a dance competition may be an apt thing. I’ve been blessed by the merciful god with two nimble feet and I can outdo anyone when it comes to dancing but that’s history now. These days I don’t dance. In fact nobody dance these days unless they are forced to. This city has lost its pulse. It now acts only when it’s forced and the same stands true for its natives. We all are losers.

You may have heard of losers, there are many examples, right from the holy Quran to the folklores of the infidels. These days I have taken a fancy for astrologers and dervishes. What an irony, a loser like me is resorting to fortune tellers. Inside the Red Fort, I’ve heard that people sometimes pay a coin or more to these idiots and ask their fortune as well. I’ll be honest with you. I know there is nothing left for me. I know everything is lost and the worst is yet to come. But I see those fortune tellers because they give me false hope; they say that I’ll not be counted as a loser. All Losers looking for that elusive hope...

I have lost the Peacock Throne. I have lost the Kohinoor. I have lost faith of my people. Nadir Shah raped this city. I stood there, looked at her clothes being shredded, her lips mauled, thighs spread and being mounted upon. I wept. Yes I wept, bitterly. But I didn’t do anything. I just stood. This was when they coined me loser. Muhammad Shah, the Emperor of Hindustan, the son of the Timurids, the king who was known as “Rangeela” lost everything.

From that day we decided we’ll try to forget this, avenge this shame. We can’t go to Iran, Nadir has a strong army. Can’t wage a war or make Delhi a virgin again. So we decided to celebrate her shame. Make her popular, just like a saucy, sexy belle and we did achieve that. Now historians may say my rule was full of debauchery and illegitimacy but will they realise why I did it? I wanted to sleep. And all of us in this city know that we’re losers. Just that we are not sure whether it was time lost or it should be lost in time.

Shodam-e’- waqt, ya waqt-e’-shodam

This was written by Muhammad Shah, also known as Roshan Akhtar and popularly called ‘Rangeela’. Nadir Shah looted Delhi during his regime. Not only he lost the popular Peacock Throne to him but also the famous Kohinoor Diamond. Rangeela died 9-years after the invasion of Delhi. You can google for more details of his interesting rule.

Region

If not for my nose, I wouldn’t have ever noticed this man. Not because I was carrying the latest magazine, I had a ticket or i was thinking about the journey, actually it was midnight and somehow in my country midnight is always associated with freedom and chaos. And, right now I wanted to exercise the first and avoid the later. Ok, let me put it very honestly, amidst this chaos, I was trying to find ‘my light of the nation.’ After all I needed a spark to part with a few seconds of my life. Freedom takes life!

So be it and little I care. Right now, all I needed was a matchbox. Plain and Simple. Humming “while my guitar gently weeps,” I was trying to rationalise the closure of the shops at such an important hour, which once upon a time ushered the fathers, forefathers of now a Billion-plus people into a new era. Blame it on Macaulay, but for a good part of my life, I’ve been trained like a parrot, with only difference that my low-paying job, no social-life and lack of in-vogue six-pack abs have made me a bit erratic.

But if there is hell, heaven is not far. And my nose didn’t let me down. So, in long of short, or may be short of long, this is how I met or was forced to go to this man.

“Do you have a matchbox?” I asked, though he was smoking and asking this was stupid.
“Yes,” he offered me one.
As the sweet pungent nicotine struck a chord with my heart, I felt my spirit lifting. “The Sultan of Swings,” I thought.

“Thanks. I badly needed one,” I smiled
“You too are running,” he inquired making a statement.

For a moment I thought he is some character, in worse condition then mine and this is supposedly a philosophical question, to challenge my intellectual quotient.

“Aren’t we all running?” I promptly question-answered!
He laughed and retorted – “Isn’t it simple to say this?”

I shrugged my shoulders. This discussion was going nowhere. Just like the debate on unimportant issues such as who should get more water, power and tower. I had more task at hands and things to ponder upon – like how to get my pre-paid ‘stay connected,’ or better ask my good-looking, next cabin colleague to go to bed with me. The wish-list was long and thought of getting close to her again, raised my hair and a few more things. ‘Black Magic Woman,’ mumbled my lips.

But he didn’t notice that and much to my disappointment and as is generally the case took non-responsiveness as a sign of encouragement.

“So what are you running from?”
“Hmm...A lot of things, work, life and in a few seconds, you,” I smiled again. Hit it with a caress that has been my motto.
He laughed, coughed, spat some phlegm and cleared his throat.
“I’m not chasing you, even I’m running,” he made another statement.
“Can’t you chase and run simultaneously?” here comes a googly from my highest bid player.
He stared back at me. “I guess you can, but I can’t,” he replied

Now this was certainly going nowhere. No sledging, no walk-outs, no protests, no bombings, no axis of evil and this person is ready to accept defeat. I pounced upon the chance to draw the curtains.

“So, I wish you good luck on your run and I should take an escape,” I quickly put my thoughts into words.
“You’re lucky, you can, but they never had a chance,” he waived me off with a causal gesture and an unusual remark.

I looked at my cell. I don’t wear a watch. Don’t ask me the reason. I won’t tell. I’m still in a mood to run away from personal queries. I still had time.

“And who were they?” I asked more out of empathy than interest
“My wife and my daughter. They killed them, into pieces. I don’t know if they raped them too. My daughter was young. 7...no...7 years and two months old to be precise. They can’t have raped her?” this was his third question till now.

I felt like a contestant in ‘who wants to be the poorest,’ reality show. The only difference was I had no options to choose from.

He gave me a life-line and continued; “You see, I was born in a small region, schooled in a different one, did engineering from a regional college, MBA from another, worked as regional manager, married another region girl, our daughter was born in another region and they killed them because we were not regional. Weren’t there enough regions?”

The cigarette burnt my finger as I recovered from a trance. His regions were all right. I heard a honk, the bus had arrived. And his first statement-question was right - I WAS RUNNING.

Sex, me and Bapu

Once again I have nothing new to add. There is a lot of work, which can surely keep me busy but often I find myself avoiding it. The net result is that I am left with nothing but to think.
In some other case, "thinking" could have been a constructive process. But for me it makes me feel more depressed. Now that I can’t visualise any good future or so, I keep going back to things and people, which could have gone my way and be with me.

A lot of this self-doubtedness, depression, frustration or whatever you may like to name it can be attributed to a sex-starved life. I don’t know if it would be of any help but the idea of utilising someone’s service for money is repulsive. Porn after sometime also becomes inefficient and more or less you know what’s coming your way. In fact, it becomes so mundane that it leads to abstinence.

I don’t know for how long this has been so but I can recall that for the past few months I’ve resisted the desire to exercise my only limited option. So what to do now? Go the book fair, ask a male colleague for a coffee (asking female colleagues is not worth spending your time and money because nothing ever happens and you end up talking only about office) or perhaps visit your relatives.

But when you are alone and you know you can’t sleep till early morning, night after night, it becomes a malignant tumour. Spreading right form your reproductive organ to your productive organ!

Henceforth, after a much self-debate and think aloud about some people, who I know will never-ever read this, I decided to read "My Experiments with Truth(MEWT)". Ok, hold your guns, before you jump to any conclusion, let me clarify — I am neither a Gandhian nor I make any claims to understand, degrade or justify what he did.

The sole reason of picking MEWT was to understand how can I tackle my "sexual inefficiency," in a constructive manner. Pages after Pages, I read the Great Mahatma’s (as he is called, Bapu) views on bachelorhood, self-restraint and why he thinks so low of the most necessary function in human existence. Now that I am reading the book in a new perspective, I am getting enlightened. People have raised questions on his behaviour, who cares — guess they weren’t getting to mate enough!

But what good will this do to me? Will I become another Gandhi, Bapu or another leader...I have no idea. All I know, I am 25...will turn 26 in next three months...I’m still alone and sex starved...typing this...trying to make sense out of it...and ending unsuccessful in a city, which I love till date....how unsuccessful!

Start - 101

There are few burning issues which I can write upon. However being a pragmatic all my life coupled with the onus of burdening unsuccessfulness, I’ll leave that for intelligent, intellectual masses. I’m a firm believer that unlike in some golden age, today intelligentsia is not constituted or elected from a chosen few. Simply put, nowadays everyone is a feudal lord in these realms. That’s why its not surprising that you find everyone and anyone giving a discourse on sports, stocks, sex, sensex , so forth and so on.

Since I don’t lean leftwards or right, nor I can walk straight neither bended, I’ve my home-made twisted, unformatted and biased views. Fortunately enough, they are generally reserved for my own consumption. This approach though desirable often leaves you boxed. So, if you’re such a kind and happen to join your boss and colleagues, who are discussing, debating, sharing and nodding on to views expressed upon the auto, finance, FMCG, political or sports arena, then be rest assured that your valuation may touch a new low.

Now that you're already grounded, being a silent spectator can add to your woes. Even if you dare roll your tongue, special emphasis is to be put on the kind of words that you may use. If you’re not choosy with your vocabulary it may further undermine your supposed potential. Though jargons, tongue-twisters, archaic language and codes are universally accepted and admired. Language barriers put aside, if you’re working for a multinational then it may be so that the Human Resource department will select you as a case-in-point for the need of effective corporate communication training.

Needles to say that this may also affect your personal life. Lack of recognition at work place compounded with the adversity to 'talk-in' to a girl’s mind and heart through your simple, inane and wayward quippings may ultimately confirm your unfounded fears of being "socially rejected." As many examples have proven beyond any doubt that any female specie in today’s professional, well marketed, advertised world will demean you for the lack of prowess to quote Kafka, Shakes&Pear, Camu, Milton or Bloomberg and Reuters. This is a must-required qualification in your otherwise loosely pieced CV. Without these credentials it's almost impossible to hold an intelligent conversation. This may diminish any chances of yours to find your way to to someone’s heart or bed! (DISCLAIMER: If you look like a model or you earn in eight figures you can discard this statement)

So what’s the point in talking about my inefficiencies? Well, this New Year, I started on a semi-religious note. Though, my reverence was killed by commercialism. My wishes were dashed by silence and I really cant find anything worthy to comment after the change of calendar. Well, this is the face of being unsuccessful, for the spirit — "Thou shall live by humour."

Grandma and D

She is sitting in front of me, recounting her old days, telling me how her husband gave money to everyone whenever required, how they brought their nephew to Delhi whose kids are now a doctor and an engineer. How now no one visits her because she is old, and how tomorrow I have to go with her to the nearest shop and get the repair done for the washing machine. Life with my grandma is exciting. Now that she and I get to meet over dinner, because its winters and I try to be home early, we’ve been talking. Ok...I have been listening. And now she is telling me that how she tries to lure the cat so that it can kill the rats which are a menace!

Sundays, she and I watch Hollywood movies...Mission Impossible III, United 73, The Mummy, Mummy Returns, Independence Day, Spiderman...we’ve watched them together. She is amazed at their stunts and though I’ve to translate the dialogues for her...it is worth attempting that.

What else? Life is moving at its snail pace. And am trying to find solace among work, work and some more work. Not that it has increased my productivity, or as if I care about it. But for sure, it has kept my mind engaged, which is desirable.

A friend of mine told me about Lord Byron, fancied myself as if reading his mind and this came out:

Thy touch and I smiled
pressed and moaned,
Rubbing against my lips
spark on roll,
Hilt yet not close
her smell and pose,
Spaced between my fingers
both entwine
raging debate, life serene or she divine?

Winter...

Winters are here. I absolutely detest them. They make you feel gloomy. In my country they also remind you of your social responsibility. Come January end and there will be news flashes about how many people died due to the mercury dip. Writing this on my laptop, secured inside the four-walls of my home doesn't bring me any closer to the harsh reality. And unsuccessful that I'm, makes me aware that practically there is not much I can do about it. So what to do? Can't cut on my nicotine sticks and buy blankets for the needy. Also, can't be a revolutionary and walk to a polo ground with playcards and shout slogans against the who's who of society and remind them of their social responsibility.

Contemplating these romantic ideas my feet start feeling cold, I snuggle inside the quilt and start dreaming....can't dream of any real things....it would be just like thinking of going to the polo ground...so I start dreaming as if I'm a noble. A noble in the Mughal Era. The noble who don't have much money to spend but thinks highly of his intellect. A noble whose only source of income is what his father left for him. A noble who is single, lonely in the majestic city of ....

START

Today was no different than any other day except that I went to Mirza's house. He was also bored and felt like dying. The moment I entered, he welcomed with a couplet:

"In distress you seek my company; little realising company is source of agony,"

Mirza believes he is a great poet. And his verses have a sharp sting.More less than often, I completely miss the sting. But Mirza keeps you in good humour and that's why whenever I don't want to be with myself, I just walk down to his house. Mirza was not in the best of his moods today. His muse, the famous courtesan of Chandni Chowk has caught cold and he is afraid that if he goes there, he will also catch it.

But lust is like a spasm, which hits you in the right places. Anyhow, we both decided to take a walk in the Meena bazaar. Such walks which I half-heartedly undertake are mostly limited to appreciating and aspiring for things – both beauty and its holders.

Mirza is a little bit more proactive than me. He makes a point to meet all the known faces, hoping against hope that perhaps his luck may smile on him and his visits to Chandni Chowk come to an end. Most of the time, I try to ascertain why a particular girl is walking with a guy, how is their relationship, why are they attracted to each other and also about the family background of the people. It's a funactivity.

Mirza and I were lucky enough to be invited for tomorrow's big poets meet. These kinds of activities have seen a surge since the King is in Agra. I heard he is busy building a mausoleum for his beloved queen, who died during childbirth. I am unsure why not here, can any city be more beautiful than this city. I have not been to many places, but of whatever these two eyes have seen nothing can be compared to the beauty of this heaven.

Mirza is hopeful that tomorrow he will get to recite his verses and this is his only chance. Perhaps that made us to cut our small outing short and return to his place. Mirza has a good stock of wine, and he is more aware of my state of penury than anyone else. So I'm liberal with eating and of course drinking to my heart's content at his abode. As wine touched my lips, he came with another of his one-liners:

"I don't drink because I miss her; I drink so that I get reminded of her"

Well, I guess Mirza's muse can be cured of her cold after having some good wine but Mirza, his condition only deteriorates after having a few glasses. Before Mirza can come-up with another of his famous verse. I decided to call it an evening, in fact I was feeling heady and a good walk back home was the only thing on my mind.

It was dark and foggy. I couldn't see even my own hand. But somehow I was walking, choosing lanes by instinct and moving among the barking dogs, who sounded like demons. It was the fourth lane, where I stumbled. A feeble cry and I realised it was some old lady who must have been hurt. I profusely apologised and asked if I could be of anyhelp. Her quivering voice resonated in that dense fog as she clutched my overcoat and said:

"It's not the fog outside which blinds you; it's your soul which needs warmth"

Enigma

I can’t start...there is nothing that attracts me to the hilt that I open my computer and start molesting the keyboard. The orgasm of jotting it down on a paper has been lost. Whatever I write today or that I’ve been writing upon doesn’t make any sense — at least this is what I’ve started feeling.
But, there is something that urges me to mount again and slowly but painfully get that erection. I look around. I try to find peace and salvation in faces, memories and events. And somehow they’ve been abound. But there has been nothing amongst this crowd that has been pulsating enough to massage my lost sense of pain. I want that wound to remain evergreen, slowly draining out any sense of pleasure that I may derive from any worldly thing.
It is not the existence which oppresses me, the will to keep this lean body moving is the real pain that hounds me day and night. I don’t know to what extent a person can carry his own burden of an unsuccessful past and probably a more unsuccessful future. But as the same time I’m surprised at the energy which I feel that pushes me to get out of the self-created black hole.
There is no end in sight. But again, I know the end. And this is what which enrages me and tempts me to revolt. But revolt against whom and what? Isn’t this a self-created dungeon, where ants are slowly crawling at my ankle. I know they are moving up. I can feel the sensations. But I still grip the dead soil to climb-up and out of this slippery ground.
I can keep on writing. List down what affects me. Put into perspective, the art of self-annihilation. But how will it matter? Will that change anything? And if not....then shouldn’t I stay buried...unsuccessfully?

Self-destruction

Nothing new to add. Feel like lost. I still miss you...

Time-less-Ness

Waqt ki lash kuch yuhin padi hui hai
aur lamhe baithe hua ro rahe hein,
Har koi gumnam sa

aur ek ajeeb si talash hai,
Na raat ka andehra, na din ka ujala
na sannata, na shor

Maut or zindagi ke beech, ajeeb se kasmekash
fikr charon tarf, madhoshi ka aalam bhi
Har koi kuch chahta sa
phir ek ajeeb sa darr, kuch khona ka,

Haarna mein bhi nahi chahte
lekin darta houn, khona nahi chate khud ko
ya shyaad dhoond hi nahi paya houn,

Aur phir, waqt ki lash bhi kuch yuhin padi hai
lame baithe hua na jaane kyon ro rahe hein.......

(The corpse of time is lying somewhere
And moments are wailing,
Everyone is anonymous
And some strange search is on,
Neither the darkness of night, nor the light of morning
neither silence nor any sound

A strange tussle between life and death
concern and celebrations
Everyone desiring for something
and then the fear of losing it all

Even I don’t want to lose
But I fear losing myself
Perhaps I haven’t found my call,

And, then the corpse of time is lying somewhere
Why the moments are wailing?)

Goal Posts

Just came after watching the final of the Nehru Cup. Indian won 1-0. If I would’ve been a sports journalist I guess I would have to write about the match. But since am not, I can talk of the game without worrying much about facts. Anyhow this is not about soccer.

The past few days have been more or less the same. Living a monotonous life is a cursed blessing. I don’t know if there is any extra time in life as well. One of my colleagues is off to Leh, he is covering the whole distance on a motorcycle. Perhaps, I feel that is some extra time. Whatever, its too complicated.

I am facing some strange kind of allergy these days, which gets compounded by the fact that I don’t sleep till wee hours of the next day. I finished two books. And I thought. I talked too but I slept little. Someone told me this is insomnia, which will aggravate as I grow old. In fact I will age early. I think its like being shown a yellow card. I fear an early exit. But I don’t know if I’ve good reasons to stay in.

I live with my grandma. She moved in her house some months ago. I felt a bit uneasy at start. But since it’s her home and to stay on rent is expensive, I agreed. She has two topics — Why her son left her and went to foreign shores? And, about her husband —My Grandpa. He died some four years ago. Grandma and me don’t talk much. I come late, she is sleeping by that time. We share a strange unsaid relationship. Am I being mean? Should I be given a red card?

To philosophize is easy. To put logic in life is easier. And, really living life by rules is impossible. I guess I need to wait. Wait for things to happen. I can’t blame anyone. We all need to win. Fouls are a part of life. There are no referees. And if there are — Where is my penalty kick?

At last, I wish three things. Yesterday, was ‘Shab-e-barat’, my friend told me it’s kind of a beginning of a new year. Time to start new projects. So I wish three things and I will be mean, very very mean
1. I want to be at peace with myself
2. I want if I put efforts they should bear fruits
3. I want to be Calvin of ‘Clavin and Hobbes’, but I desperately need a Hobbes

Goal.......................

Simply Unsuccessful

I don't know if I made a mistake. I don't know if I should have shown my concern. I don't know what the others will think of me. I don't know if it further depreciates my value. I care about it all but I felt like going and asking - "Is everything alright?" I felt like texting - "Cheer up." And so I did.
I know I will be treated as dirt. I know it won't matter. I know the hostility will creep in. I also know at that very moment I felt miserable because I know even if I want, I'll not be allowed to make you feel better. I don't want to carry the baggage and in some ways I do. Perhaps, I just don't want to see those tears, somewhere, it hurts. It really does. But I know I'm unsuccessful and once again like all times I hate to be one.....

Zinda Peer - Alamgir

Now that I’ve stopped myself from writing about Delhi, inadvertently I’ve also stopped looking at the city from a lover’s perspective. For some days, I thought and pondered about it, exactly like one does after a break-of but sooner than later I got over with it. Now, Delhi for me is a city for which I have little emotions left. To say, I am over with it would be a lie but yes, I don’t bother myself to look beyond what is visible. I think of her, wishing every night that may be for once she may think about me but then these thoughts go off once I close my eyes. For the truth dawns upon me like a lightning.

This reminds me of Aurangzeb, who ruled for around half-a-century over India or then as it was called ‘Hindustan.’ For a brief history you can read about him on Wikipedia or simply google it out but I’m writing from his perspective. It was said that the Alamgir (as he was called) was staunch Islamist, unlike his predecessors and he ruled with an iron-hand. He removed all the musicians from the court for he believed that music was prohibited in Islam. It was also said that he was against Hindus and so on. I don’t want to debate it all. Somehow or the other since my childhood, I have taken a fancy for his style and this is what I think must have gone in ‘Zinda Peer’ mind when he was in Delhi, back from a battle in South...

START......

It’s raining again. Delhi is not a great city to live in. After showers there is some kind of strange smell that emanates from the soil. I don’t take a fancy for it unlike some of the great poets. And their verses are too difficult to comprehend. I don’t know why they keep looking beyond what one can see and then their supporters debate the different meanings out of it. Though, I’ve strictly enforced that these kinds of meetings shouldn’t be held but I’ve been told that even some of my close royals indulge in it. Anyhow, since that doesn’t falls under my realm so I better not talk about it.

I know that the war weariness is slowly creeping inside our bones but on the surface I remain as hard as I can. Coming to Delhi is no relief. It’s a subtle war out here. Conspirators, flatterers, bootlickers, kitschy and a string of such people reside here, who make your brief stay more arduous. At least in war you know who your enemy is, in Delhi all such irritants roam in disguise of friends and that’s why we hate this city even more.

The air here is filled with some kind of uneasiness. I don’t know how our father thought of building a red tomb here, where we now abode. He always took fancy for nuisances. Taj is another of such examples. The only relief that I get is while knitting caps, it’s such a novel act. When your tongue recites the name of ‘Allah’ and your hands works for his cause. I believe it’s an act of purification, which takes away all my sins. I know life is too short and we’re not here for being a part in the annals of history. I’m here to fulfil a cause for which I’ve been sent by the most merciful.

Yesterday, on my way from the Moti Masjid (the best contribution from any Mughal to this city of profligacy and lavishness. It is the most humble yet outstanding tribute paid to the almighty) we met a soothsayer. He was talking something incoherent. He was confused in his head, he told our days are numbered and ridiculed our ‘Fatawa-e-Alamgiri.’ He also accused us of conspiring against our dead father and killing all our brothers. What kind of decision you expect from us? When a person has already lost his head, what crime I did when I ordered that he should be beheaded? The same stands, when I ordered that a woman shouldn’t be burnt alive, they said we were against the age-old tradition of Hindus, but in all cases I took a neutral ground and sought help from the bountiful above.

I think the fault lies in this city, its humid temperature and it’s vulgar, outrageous, loud inhabitants. Look around, there are ruins everywhere. Go to Mehrauli, you’ll find the once strong fort of Mamluks lying in waste, a few kilometers from here lays the graves of the Surs, who our own great-great grandfather Humayun destroyed. This shows that Delhi is a city of disasters. Nobody can stay happy here. I’ll not die here among the ruins. I’ll pray to him to embrace me when I’m on the Warfield.

Delhi is a witch. And it makes people lose their senses. I’m not going to commit that folly. I’ll rise above it all. Well, guess I’ve blabbered for long. Its time for pray. For those who’ll die in this city, for those who’ll fall in her trap and for she herself. Delhi, you may be the most beautiful city on earth but all I could see is the ruins on which you pride. The past glory you live in is a farce and perhaps you’ll never care for a simple guy like me. Guess, I am not made for you. May Allah have mercy on me……

Debate

He was coming home after a heated debate. This was his routine. He would debate anywhere on anything. It can be at the book shop about — How Shakespeare’s work is simply scribbling of a mind gone worse or at the tea-stall about — how the decrease in sugar production may lead to people drinking sugarless tea. It appeared that everything was debatable for him. Often behind his back people would comment that he can also debate the reason of his birth— was it a pleasurable act or were his parents having sex to raise a family!
Whatever, people loved to see him debating. Unlike others, he always backed his arguments with facts and figures. There were doubts that he conjure them up. But this got cleared when once a so called educationalist verified that his figure on the number of known religions in the world was accurate. Well, nothing much changed from this revelation, except that the cigarette-shop owner nearby started referring to him as ‘neta ji’ (leader).
For they never took those debates seriously. What excited them was his passion. So, the question of right facts and figures didn’t bother them. They always wanted to see someone new, who didn’t know about his reputation,to debate with him. To their astonishment, he never got angry or shouted or to the disappointment of many had a street-fight. He simply debated.

There were theories about— who he was? Where he came from? What he does? According to most, they knew it all but just can’t simply recall. Whenever asked, he would simply smile and point to anyone and say — didn’t I tell you? That person would become the centre of attraction for many days, as if he knew the secret. There were many who denied it, some who revered in the glory and made-up stories and some who said they can’t break his faith. By the end of the year, there were 100 stories about him or may be more.

But today, he was disappointed. The debate was a soul-searching one. Though he had won hands down, he knew that he had lost. He never debated so as to win. But to lose is tougher than winning. He committed suicide that night. No one was aware why he did that. They debated upon it……..

Note: This story reflects my current state of mind (SoM). We both (my SoM and the story) are unaware where to head for...perhaps an abrupt end will justify the justifiable. In my dreams whenever I visit my past I wonder, why I've been so unsuccessful. I can't justify my intiatives, attempts but then maybeI did it all because I've to be unsucessful.......

While I wondered.....

They are back in the city. Sometimes, they overbear the shining hot ball, which often cons you into losing sense of the hour clock. But now I'm aware of their gimmicks so I don't fall into the trap. I still hear stories about them from my parents. Back at home, sometimes they turn to be very noisy and in extreme cases devastating too. Whatever, my folks dismiss them easily. They become a nuisance in the long run, so my folks believe.
As a child I thought they look beautiful. Especially, when they appeared close. So close that they were within my arms reach. I always wondered if I could put my hand through them. My grandma, use to tell me that there were snakes and gold pots inside them. She added that only those of good virtue get those gold pots. My sister always felt that she'll get gold and snakes'll bite me.

Now when I look at them I don't expect a gold pot or snakes inside them. I've given them a different identity. Don't know if my sister will agree with me. She believes that I'm always at the wrong end. But I don't envy her as I use to do it some two decades ago. I wish if at all there are gold pots inside them she manages to find some.
But I am jealous when I think of them as I have identified them. Because, I know they are charlatans. They are good at luring you and more often than less they deceive you with ease. I feel protective for my sister but I also know the reality. So I stare at them, as if telling them not to venture there.

They've robbed me twice. Don't know if I should say thrice or even four times. But lets keep the count to twice. The first time they did, I was angry. Reason, cause they took what I loved, miles away. So, I asked them for an explanation. As usual, they spoke in their language. Then they promised me that they'll tell the answer but they'll confirm it from the one they took away. I agreed. I had no choices. It took them two years. They blamed it on the distance. I agreed again. They told me that it was not their fault for I was rootless.
I begged to differ. They understood. They explained me in a simple manner. Their simplicity is more complex. It took me days to understand. The night I finally got it, I was drenched. But they were caring and clarified that it happened for good. And next time I should be beware. I was perplexed. Was that a sign of hostility? They kept quiet and left the city in a few days.

I forgot about them soon. The next year, they came and went. I didn't bother. It was very easy. I had nothing to lose and I wasn't looking for gold pots. For them I was insignificant. And it never mattered. I still remember looking at them passing by. I avoided direct eye contact. There were some questions left in my mind and I was rootless as before.

Last year, they were overjoyed. I was chasing a mirage. The moment they saw me, they knew that the game was on. Was I scared? Kind off. They made noises; they sung songs, danced and rejoiced. I looked at them in disgust. Only difference - I know I was still rootless. They didn't want to hurt me. So, they decided that this time they'd take a return gift. For they come twice in a year……..

They did what they had to. They took of whatever I had. They're back this year as well. I asked them - So, what now? Any gold pots for me? They're quiet. They don't want to answer. They know I'm unsuccessful and they love me for being that. If you don't believe me ask them. They will pour their heart out……….