Chennai responds: a loud response of an underrated city

The past few weeks - well except for the overreaction over Aamir Khan, have all been about the excellent response of Chennai's citizens to the flood. Unfortunately I was unable to witness it, but in addition to talks with family and friends, the talk on social media was extensive. Perhaps a little too extensive. Starry-eyed, in fact.

It would be unfair to say that it all started with photos of people helping each other "irrespective of religion" (among other distinctions) swarming the internet - no, this was just the cherry on top of a cake that began baking over a year back.

I don't understand why it had to wait until 2014, loads of people have moved out of Chennai much before, and Chennai hate wasn't new either. But yeah, 2014 has been much of an awakening for most parts of India - with images taking over text, particularly on Facebook (after check-ins became obsolete), and memes originating, news started creeping into people's feed* in addition to pointless posts by people on sites like Storypick. While it is indeed pathetic to see a literate world hesitant to read text until put on an image, it comes as a relief to see that there is some way to penetrate the seemingly non permeable brains of today's generation.

Chennai has received a lot of undeserving criticism from people from the other parts of India, particularly the North - yes, I too have been, and sometimes still am an unwilling audience to some of it, defending my city in vain to people who choose to be loudspeakers and not lend a listening ear. Points raised revolve around the city's weather and the fact that people do not speak Hindi.

So, in and around 2013-14, several Facebook pages such as Chennai Memes and My Chennai started posting beautiful pictures of, and posts about the city which were received with open arms by Tamilians all over India - and the world, and hence rose to popularity. Oh, and there have been quite a few songs on Chennai too - notable ones being The Madras Song and Chancey Illa.

So, while some (especially those living outside Tamil Nadu) were able to relate to this expression of strong love for their city, others stopped to notice the beauty of this cosmopolitan, and developed an attachment for it. 

My title is slightly misleading - Chennai is by no means underrated in South India, it is only when it comes to India as a whole that this happens. Chennai isn't merely overshadowed by the North - there is plenty of room for Chennai - and perhaps ten (or more) other cities to be recognized at least countrywide. It is a choice of the people - the people who are able to focus their eyes on, and identify completely with one city, not just because it is India's commercial capital, but because it houses Bollywood - the one thing that connects Hindi speakers. Funnily enough, though, the ones (outside Maharashtra) who pay heed to this blind themselves to the fact that it is (supposedly) a Marathi speaking city**. While Bollywood gladly lets Urdu, Punjabi and even the Mumbai slang (not to mention English) creep into its Hindi, it has been extremely careful in not letting Marathi seep into it - a price, I'd say, Mumbai has paid in being the Capital of India, rather than that of Maharashtra.

But Chennai refuses to pay such a price - yes, the Anti-Hindi movement, a mere political tool decades ago has left some dislike in the minds of the previous generation, but our generation is different - we're interested in learning Hindi - and a good number of us can speak it pretty well. Oh and we watch Bollywood films too. But we aren't a people who will give up on our mother tongue - we will never exchange our language for anything. While in most other parts of India, people attach themselves to their religion, caste, an interest group or something else, our first priority is language (and then the others follow of course). But with all that, we are a great city - an awesome city that quite a few don't see to look up to. I have lived at Bangalore and Mumbai, and have visited Delhi, and I can definitely say that Chennai is no less. While there are things we need to learn from these cities, there are things these cities an learn from us, too.

And so we've been crying out for attention for a while. In doing so, many of us looked at ourselves - a very few fell in love for the first time, but most of us realized how deeply we were in love. And then we had the floods. We didn't have to be asked. We knew what had to be done, and that we had to. And we did it. We didn't overdo anything. The only marginally naive part was photos and posts of inter-religious mingling - something that is so common not merely at Chennai, but at most parts of the country. We were being ourselves, our intentions were pure, the photos were genuine, and so were first hand reports. The memes, in particular, were, you know, silly and romantic***. And now you know why we did that.

And has Chennai lost her grandeur, has she stooped down in expressing her desire for recognition - and that too, rather explicitly? Not in the least. We deserve respect and recognition - something that must've been given to us on a golden platter - and we are asking our country for it and there is nothing puerile about that.

* Some of it false news or twisted statements no doubt, but nevertheless, Facebook still is one of the best ways to spread awareness

** A trait I have observed with Bangalore residents too - desperate attempts to have Kannada boards on buses seem futile attempts. Oh, and in case you've ever travelled by bus in Mumbai you'd note that they too have only Marathi written all over them.

*** In Tamil, we have a term, namely, "Aarvakolaru" to describe this over-the-edge-zeal

Another thought (A comment of mine on Quora):

It is odd is that people keep giving examples of coexistence of people of different religions.. They need to cease to be examples, they should be the way of life... The fact is that such is the way of life in our country - coexistence is how we live our lives - we don't merely respect another religion, we go to the extent of accepting it. Do you think of your friend's religion when you share a plate of pav bhaji with him/her? Or when you have a smoke with them?

A religion-centric country like Afghanistan or Pakistan should be proud of such examples - they should learn from us, be we can't keep posting pictures of religious coexistence as if it is a recent development.. With that said, I'd say it isn't time for people to grow up, we are already old enough and wise - it is time for the social media to grow up, and naive news propagandists to get a life..

Swades - a walk down memory lane

It has been 11 years since this film - arguably the best films, but unarguably on of the best films in Indian cinema was released - 17th December, 2004 - incidentally the date of the first powered flight in human history at Kitty Hawk. Swades has touched the heart of every Indian who has watched it, and will continue to do so, I am sure..

I decided to write this article over 8 months ago, when I was at Sadashivanagar, Bangalore, watching this film for the umpteenth time - and I decided that today would be the day of publishing it too.

Well, I only thought that I would write about Swades - didn't think much about the content - and I -feel quite blank after writing an answer to a Quora question around a week back (link) - yeah I guess that is something I regret, for I am out of content..

What do I say about Swades? Each watch of the film is a journey.

As Mohan starts his caravan, his heart lighter compared to what it had been for months, down the road towards Charanpur, we buckle our seatbelts too, embarking upon a journey with the same expectations as him, irrespective of how many times we've seen the film. Our burdens all set aside, we become one with the film - a film that ensures that Indians from several parts - if not all, can relate to it. It is set in Delhi and is Hindi, which is fine by those from North and Central India. And people of the South can relate with Kaveriamma - after all, she is called "amma", and her dressing, accent and the way she teaches that village lady to bathe her child is strangely familiar - yeah I've seen my grandmother doing that to my cousins.

The gross journey seen metaphorically indicates an inward journey that we all take, to discover our own selves...

While the film is definitely timeless, it has captured some characteristic aspects of the 90's and the first couple of years of the 21st century. And some of these have completely been wiped off.

Each watch of the film adds a new perspective - and it keeps adding up, believe it or not. The first watch makes one pity Mohan slightly at having become a scapegoat. One watches in awe, Gayatri Joshi's remarkable acting skills and her effortless chemistry with Khan - they way in which her eyes do the acting. During my most recent watch (yesterday, in fact), I saw Kaveriamma's authority - authoritativeness (over Gita at least), I'd call it, to give the full import. Gita doesn't raise a question when she noticed that Kaveriamma was listening in on her conversation with Mohan - while that could've been to avoid letting Mohan know, she doesn't even dare to give a disapproving look. When Mohan returns from Kodi, depressed at seeing Haridas's plight, Kaveriamma asks Gita to go, taking Nandan, and this is followed obediently at once.

<editing in progress>

India Today: From a Pessimist's Eye

The India I see is one that has turned a blind eye to serious problems. On one side, our people, particularly the youth are ready to plunge into action instead of being passive spectators. However, they strike me as immature, gullible people who are certainly not ready enough to discern what is right.

With trivial issues surfacing, one begins to wonder as to what happened to the ones that mattered until yesterday. Issues such as parents being sent to age old homes,  health, relationships, education and much more, seem to have been clouded by pointless talk. Seriously, how are today's middle aged folk treating their parents in India?

Important discussions revolve around alcohol, drugs, pretentious news, false publicity of wannabe revolutionaries whose credibility is unnecessarily discussed, lavish expenditure, North-South-Northeast inclusion/exclusion, sexual orientations, unrealistic cinema, overuse of social media, overrated "TV" series, selfies, attention seeking and of course, the ever intriguing and over-hyped sex. The country - and the world at large, appears to steadily march towards its own rotting. Our immaturity is clearly reflected in the nature of the leaders we choose. The fact that we are even considering listening to people like Kanhaiya pains me deeply.

There was a time when the world had thinkers, seers who could foresee how things would be in the future - the internet seems to have now clouded our eyes, and the only visions we seem to have of the future are the ones shown to us in films. Twisted stories shown in the films and drama we watch have subtly affected our minds, clouding our judgement, and, unless I am much mistaken, this has affected our character in a way, patching into our DNA an element of wickedness. We have certainly lost the straightforwardness that seems to have prevailed in the previous generations, losing our innocence and developing cunningness at a very tender age. This is mirrored by the visible growth of health problems which are certainly induced by the state of our mind in addition to the state of our environment.

Any discussion on the current generation would touch upon the clichéd "technological advances" - a topic where this generation doesn't seem to score much. While research is more common now than ever, it seems to have become a rush to get a Doctorate or to compete with a rival organisation rather than for the sake of national progress, let alone global. National leaders - and nations as such, seem to focus a lot on amassing wealth and armaments while not invading other countries, and while progress is seen in small pockets, overall progress has come to a standstill.

The internet has pampered us, drilling engineered ideas into our heads. Marketing has reached a peak, convincing people that they need to stay "connected" to the internet at all times - this is something I find quite unnecessary. In spite of years of the mobile phone's presence in our lives, it still feels unnecessary - at least at times, if not always. Such logical thoughts may be short lived - thinking out of the box is, as I had once remarked to a friend a couple of years back, limited to thinking within a bigger box. All of what we feel can be done, seems to have already been done - this generation looks like a bunch of redundant lives that simply exist, draining the world of its resources for no useful reason at all.

I really do hope I'm wrong.

An outburst

A(an incomplete) response to Anish Kapoor's article

Sherlock Holmes has set a bad example for Britain. Or perhaps I'll take that sentence back, because I'm a die hard fan of Conan Doyle's world famous sleuth. But I will not take back my accusation that the British continues to "make it their business to know things". Knowing things is fine, but this country crossed that line centuries ago. I thought they had learnt their lesson on limits, but they clearly haven't, and poking their nose into others' business continues to earn them the wrath of people like me. Well, I thought I'd start with them making a big scene with India's daughter, but I guess that topic has run its course. But then again, it's only a matter of time before they come up with some other such case of interference, and they are shown their place again. I'd just like to state that if it hadn't been for this irritating attitude, England could have been at the top of the world instead of what I'd call a pseudo-country that their nose poking created.

This isn't a criticism of the article as such, nor even an analysis. I wish to merely point out the tone at with which it has begun.

So, Mr. Kapoor, if you run out of nice lines to start your article with, you can always ask me - you seem to have been pretty off-guard while starting your article - seems ironical when we look at the name of the journal that published it. Being a Hindubandhu (ref Brahmabandhu) (or perhaps not) I'm sure you realize that you have compared a man to a terrorist group in your title, and, right in the first line of your article, to one of the most revered deities in the world, needless to say, hurting the sentiments of people like me, and depriving your otherwise well written article of the audience it otherwise deserves.

Criticizing any elected leader is perfectly acceptable - we're both democracies, and Mr. Modi is certainly answerable to all of us, but The Guardian publishing this particular article seems to have a slightly more twisted agenda than that.

I realize that this could have been added as a comment on Mr. Kapoor's post, or rather, as a personal message, but I'm sure that to a sculptor who proudly flaunts a queen's private parts, this doesn't even qualify as publicity.

I do realize that this post is a messy, incoherent jibber-jabber, but I'm going to let it be, for it is an emotional outburst.

Porn in the 90's

After several failed attempts to do his homework, young Rakesh finally gave up, yielding to the overwhelming cringing of his heart.. Alone time at home was certainly a rareity..

He turned on the cathode ray tube screen which blinked once before it sprang to life, the tiny red dot of light turning green. A shiver of excitement ran through his spine as he fondled with the little toy in his hand as the two scantily clad people on screen took of their tops, with ferocious expressions on their faces. Their expressions seemed to be merely the tip of the iceberg of the way in which their were about to treat each other. Violent would be an understatement to describe the manner in which they would be handling each other's bodies - ah, the sounds in the background egged them on to go further. Rakesh started at the heavily built man in awe as the camera zoomed towards him - a magnificent body so perfectly maintained, his limbs stiff, tender and elastic at the same time - ones that could endure an unimaginable amount of -.. he stopped abruptly, feeling guilty at having admired this man instead of the person to his left. Before his eyes shifted, he heard his phone bell ring.

Rakesh picked the receiver of the phone beside the screen and left it aside - he didn't want to be disturbed by anyone at this time - certainly not by those pretentiously saintly friends who discouraged him from watching this stuff, for they deemed it as inappropriate, even obscene. Hesitantly, he walked a few steps back and, with some reached the top latch of the door and latched it, while trying hard to not miss a single scene on the screen. He certainly didn't want his parents seeing him doing this - he had been told against it - and while he knew neither would be back before 5:00pm, he had to be sure. He lowered the volume as a beep sound hushed a loud swear word. Rakesh smiled at the sheer pointlessness of the beep, for nearly every viewer of the show was more than familiar with each curse uttered.

The crowd jeered as one man pounced upon the other, lifting him high above his head and performing a "grand slam", as it was called, throwing him down on the ring floor. The latter bounced on the ring floor which seemed like a weak trampoline, while the former catapulted himself onto his body, which, magically seemed to have enormous resilience in terms of bleeding and even sweating - something that sounds far fetched even to cartoons.

With its larger than life (literally) people, with enviable(?) bodies that people would (wouldn't, perhaps?) dream of having, its wide popularity among the young generation, the extravagant melodrama, the large money involved (more a corollary than an independent factor), the obscure connection with films (everyone knows The Rock) and crazy peripherals, WWE (or the earstwhile WWF) was certainly qualified to be honoured with the status in the  90's - the status that porn enjoys today..

Yes, I know that pornography existed in media back then as it has always done, and that the title here is misleading, but I shall stick to it, arguing that the term 'porn' has now been extended to anything that is genuinely attractive (a pleasant surprise to see an obscene word de-obscenized in this fast obscenizing world) that cannot be ignored by someone with at least a little attraction to the topic concerned, I see no reason why I shouldn't go back on the timeline and place the word to something people were crazy about..

This, according to me, was porn in the 90's.. It was, at least, for someone born in the 90's

One step

"What difference can one step make?", I wondered.. A few meagre inches1 perhaps?

But a little observation taught me that a step ahead or behind2 decides whether you are in the train or out of it - a fact that can have the most drastic implications.. The difference between one who has a job and one who doesn't, one who can pay for the ticket and the one who can't, between one who reaches college on time and the one who can't... Life is seldom a nice linear function.. Function definitions in and of life always have discontinuities and are seldom differentiable, with long, and in most cases, several flower brackets in them, not to mention the crazy curves that the equations define..

I guess it's all these flowers and designs that make life so beautiful...

1. Or rather, a small fraction of a metre. I love the SI system and am no American

2. Thank you shock nomenclature

This one's foot you Manipal, my small-steps friend

Perhaps there's a thorn on their seats

The past couple of years - especially the recent few months have seen people, especially women standing up - far too often, I'd say, for what is considered their rights - or, something.

Standing up has become some sort of a fashion statement - well, it certainly is a pretty easy way to get cameras rolling towards you, even if it means embarrassing yourself, and, in several cases, going to the length of heartlessly putting a man behind bars merely to evade marginally idiotic questions from the media - albeit for a day or two, with his name possibly being cleared, but doesn't it remain as a stain on his record throughout his life? Yes, there have been quite a few cases deserving drastic action, but blowing up every tiny remark into a serious case is frustrating to the sane mind. I, for one, see it as an outcome of some people's joblessness. The 'issue' is taken up as serious debates on popular news channels, with people  getting emotional and making statements which will, in turn sprout several more controversies - a chain of news items and a good opportunity for many totally unrelated faces appearing on TV (and some, of course, not being 'available for comment'), if not anything else. And it's a pity most of this happens at the Capital.

A new kind of politically acceptable talk has arisen, with random people appreciating and consoling the limelight girl (oh yeah, I've seen some boys crying about having been raped too, on the internet, legit or not) and giving speeches about bravery. I hesitate to add this, but these are the very people who look at girls in the same provocative manner, passing comments about them amongst each other and doing much more. Yes, there are mad men (and women) out there - cold blooded ones who make me shudder, but this article is not about them.

People have either stopped being sportive and are taking life very seriously, or their masks of politically acceptable crap have stuck to their faces far too long. People love others' problems - even the best news channels in the world - or at least Eurasia (yeah I'm including BBC on the list, for pretending that UK is rape free and graciously coming all the way to India to shoot their "India's Daughter film) crave for TRP ratings, broadcasting people's personal problems and listening to bullshit with serious expressions. A few more examples include programmes like Satyamev Jayate, Solvathellam Unmai (a Tamil show on people's intra-family problems) among others.

With yesterday's cliche (damsel in distress) becoming today's fashion trend, melodrama reaches new peaks almost every other week these days, based on some incident or the other (not to mention, real or cooked up), and someone has to stand up.. for something, so here's me, standing up.. I don't know what for, but I'm going to carry a candle around, organize a protest and speak angrily in front of some camera..

References:

A report

An excellent comeback

The picture is a screenshot from Times Now's YouTube channel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCWtiZCBB6I)

I told you so

And the madness continues..

Even more..

Phew!

Images from: http://www.pink255.com/vogue-fashion-through-the-ages-level-shoe-district/ and http://iameduard.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/white-knight-2.jpg

Flexibility - at what cost?

Patrons of the English language pride themselves in the fact that English is a dynamic language - one that adapts to changes, to the passage of time, borrowing words from several languages and so on.

While this may be the reason for it having survived through the ages and being so popular, going much further than overtaking French as the world's most spoken language, but I feel that this borrowing words business crossed the label, 'far fetched' long ago. What remains to be called English today, seems to me, to be a fat dictionary full of borrowed words, and newly coined ones - neither of which adds to what I'd call beauty. The dictionary has gloated, devouring words from every other language, munching on any cheesy word or usage flinged at it by some random person, and used a couple of times on social media. As an Indian, I'm proud to see that several words from Indian languages have been gladly accepted by English, but even to a guy like me, this is going too far. Vocabulary sounds acceptable, but grammar itself appears transient.

It must be remembered that I speak, here, not as a hater of the language, but as a feeble lover of it (of course, I choose to write my articles in it) craving for its purity. On the pretext of being an accommodative tongue, English seems to have reduced itself into a whore, letting itself be tormented and tread on, by anyone who passes by it. It has been defiled so badly that it is almost impossible to identify a fixed point in time before which the language was pure. Sometimes I find myself reading a classic like Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, just to taste some good English - I'd add Harry Potter to that list too, but books with good English are hard to find these days.

With several 'cool' words being introduced into the language, especially to articulate untellable stages (or types? the description sounds disgusting), redundancy has become rampant in English, pushing it to the point of implications of common words changing drastically. The corruption that plagues young (and old, I guess) minds today reflects in the language too - the paradigm shift that has attacked life itself is reflected in language. Innocence has almost been destroyed - this doesn't mean people know things today - things that they didn't know - I mean that they interpret things differently now. And I would name the language infiltration as one of the causes for this - or at least an effect of it.. Or both.

To substantiate my stance, I will pick an example from this very domain.. Or, rather, a slightly different one. Well, I'll let you decide. I bring in the topic of sex. A simple act of procreation has become the talk of the town, bringing bedrooms to the streets, with people cutting sorry figures, caught between proudly brandishing their carnal desires on one side and being afraid of being thrashed by someone - or the media on the other. That aside, I brought in this topic to showcase what I consider the best example of corrupting innocence. The primary change that took place is the corruption of the term 'love' - a word that implied, well, something different, implies sex when 'made'. Some of these implicit changes can carve permanent images - or rather, forge connections in the brain. After all those talks about mind maps and the like, I'm sure you will have no difficulty in admitting this possibility. Similar words including bed, sleeping, affair, fondling, stroking and many more innocent looking (and, in fact, innocent) words have lewd pseudo-homonyms that come to one's memory so often that many often replace these with relatively less misunderstandable terms. And then there's a class of pathetically misleading words like masturdating (implying a person who goes to a movie or for dinner alone) - honestly, is such a word necessary? Sounds more like a good opportunity to call even singles by choice as losers.

Moving on to other examples, the number of times the word 'like' is accepted in a colloquial sentence tends to infinity, the word 'random' is permissible in any random context and can be used as a random adjective for any random person, punctuation (especially capitalization) is a forgotten concept, 'awesome' is an awesome word that gets awesommer with every 's' and 'm' added, reaching the pinnacle of awesomeness at awesummax, (thankfully, many of these developments haven't crept into written English yet) - and, of course, the internet lingo that stuns language-lovers into oblivion.

Is English going to the dogs? Perhaps that'd be better fate than where it's headed now..

Being a student again..

The vast sheath of clouds that I mistook to be blankness dissipates as I sit down to think of the student life that lies ahead of me, revealing the bright sky beneath- above, rather, clearing my mind of all worries- well, except some trivial ones... A place where men who run the hostel and mess disprove theories of affection, extending motherly care even towards overgrown PG dudes, mistaking then to be children. The mistake is hilarious, and even more so is the attitude of students who, forgetting that they're adults, happily accept all the pampering they receive... It occasionally gets frustrating, especially to a guy who lived alone and fended for himself for nearly two years, but I won't complain... It did get really weird when I went out of the campus one night and had to put up with a security guard's lecture on young boys wandering off at night, turning a deaf ear to my struggle in explaining to him that I was a master's student (all because I said I was a first year)..

For the first time, I felt like an adult..

I'm undergoing a change: words like PG, landing, CFD, analysis, calculation, happiness, fun, discipline, all changing meaning, most of all.. life..

Some sunshine at last

My first few weeks at IIT Bombay - up until yesterday, in fact, have been pretty drenched - and marshy, to say the very least, with rains pouring decidedly at unexpected times, turning the validity of this statement onto itself..

This celestial - or rather, heavenly incontinence has made life hell for Mumbaikars - well, I didn't really go out of the campus much but I'm pretty sure of it. And today, the sun shines exceptionally brightly, lighting up our day, elevating our moods and filling me with untellable joy. The has never felt more welcome before.

I often get laughed at for enjoying the sun, but I've stuck to my liking. There have been similar episodes during my life at Bangalore but this feels like it's the best one ever. Maybe  it's merely a thing of the moment, but I can't contain my joy - so much so, that I'm going to cut this post short, and go out for a nice, long walk, for my skin to get all the vitamin D it wants (vitamin D is absorbed from food only, but in the presence of sunlight, that's all - there's no solar nutrition or anything - or maybe there is..)

A couple of photos for you:

Without naming it

How do birds live their life?
Full, from start to end, without naming it
Out of their egg with nothing but chirps
Ready for a life to live on their own terms

They learn their flight
With science not even slight
They gather their twigs for a nameless nest
Where they rear and rest

Discipline with no clock and nests with no lock
Drinking and bathing in water that they don't call
With ease they face life as no human can
Defeating challenges with their little brains

Perhaps it's all about keeping your mind empty
Not filling it with data and names - of no use can that be
Perhaps this is the way to lead life, sans  names and books
Perhaps we're doing it wrong, trying to define it

------
Note:
I'm no poet and I won't pretend to be one
This came as an emotional thought, and I wrote words as they came
Paying no attention to grammar or even rhyme
I don't call this a poem, definitely not prose -
But it's got to be something and I'll let you decide what that'll be
------
This thought came to me - well, the heading at least, on 18/8/2015, as I was in the Tum-Tum back to my hostel from class at 12:50pm for lunch, I saw two birds (pigeons, I think, might've been crows) bathing in and splashing water at each other in an open drain near Hostel 9. The thought that they didn't know it was called water triggered something in me..
I typed down the words straight on my blog page here as they came.

How different are we anyway?

A sight near Marketplace Gate, IIT Bombay (Look closely at the test on the blue box above the man's head)

A sight at marketplace gate, IITB got me thinking.. these were the very words that came to me when I saw the label on a small box meant for letters, installed outside a stall (note the word play) in IIT Bombay.

For quite some time, I was burdened by the thought that India isn't truly a single nation - claims of unity in diversity are a falsification - ideas drilled into children so that they adapt to the secular accommodative nation that we have been for centuries.. I am unable to trace the inception of this thought but the possibility that it might be true worried me.. Now that worry has been diluted greatly, and I am confident that it shall be wiped out entirely in the near future.

I have tried to identify the unity that lies beneath this sheath of diversity and failed to identify it, but the clouds seem to drift now.

My recent trips to the North (I'm referring only to Delhi and Kanpur, I now know that Maharashtra isn't supposed to be considered as a part of North India) have significantly diluted this notion of mine, slowing me how similar the people are.. But then again, I was- and still am gripped with the fear of seeing some fundamental closeness in human beings in general and becoming a universal brother of humanity- I am an average Indian wanting to cultivate some patriotism ..

The only aspect of unity I have observed is in religion- I will start with the practice of Hinduism- which, I will state here boldly, for I will not pretend to be a naive secularist. It is heartwarming, even to the eyes of a citizen not bound by this religion to see unity in the form of worshipping the same deities, prominently Ganapati, Shiva, Vishnu and Shakti in various forms (while the worship of other deities is more region specific). It comes down as a surprise that an otherwise unrelated set of States pay homage to the same deities, narrating to their children the same stories, performing naivedyam and arati, building similar temples, extolling Gods with similar names and reading the same holy texts. Needless to say, diversity does exist in each point I have expressed here, but it is the unity that appeals to my heart here.

One may argue that there are instances of religions being practised in totally unrelated countries, but those were an effect of invasions and forced conversions, or, in more rare cases, preaching followed by genuine, willful conversion among other such artificial reasons. The inability to stand a practice other than one's own, was pointed out to me as a European mentality by a friend studying philosophy, and I am more tan inclined to agree. History stands as evidence to the fact that most countries all over the world, not merely in Europe, seem to have this narrow minded approach towards not only religion, but towards culture and lifestyle in general. At most, a politically accepted silence is maintained, where one pretends to not interfere in another's personal life - an attitude christened 'professionalism'.

While this attitude is fast changing, with people not only exploring but even wiling to embrace the culture of other places (we have, of course had this quality in people from all over the world, but not to this extent), the coexistence of religions has been an inherent quality of India (yet another point contributing to the 'unity' aspect as an attitude in itself) in a manner that can probably be found nowhere else in the world. We not only coexist, we accept and revere other religions, considering them as sacred as our own, while holding strongly onto ours.

Tamil Nadu, specifically is a state not united merely by religion but also by language, a stark contrast that distinguishes it from its sisters upwards on the globe. The rulers of this soil have left vivid marks too - not merely as monuments or languages, but as a difference in outlook when compared to any other State. Tamil Nadu was never ruled by Mughals - it was the South Indian kings followed by the British. And in more recent politics, atheists have been more than successful in gaining followers and devotees (ironic, isn't it?) and getting their statues erected after their deaths in several towns and cities of the State, and they have managed to sow a love for the language - Tamil.. A language that has had a long life standing the test of time for centuries and continues to flourish to this date, prominent not only in Tamil Nadu, but on the official language boards of other countries as well... While this language adds to the grandeur of this great country, uniting the people of Tamil Nadu within themselves, I have always feared that it might prove to tear us away from the rest of the country, for I personally know several fellow Tamilians who refuse to learn Hindi, owing to their love of Tamil (silly, yes, but aren't most of our ideas so?)

And now, as I open myself to the cultures of the States I visit, a lot of similarity reveals itself to me, relieving my soul. A visit to a marketplace, a place of worship or any other public spot anywhere in India proves to be no different, be it Chennai, Mumbai, Kanpur, Delhi or Bangalore. Chawri Bazar reminded me of the long winding market streets of North Madras, and Matunga and Malleswaram feel so like Mylapore that I catch myself wondering if I'm in Chennai. In fact, I find Mumbaikars are indistinguishable from Tamilians by appearance, while people from much closer-situated states like Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh are vividly different from Tamilians. While the culture of each State is so diverse that each one is qualified to be a nation in itself, this unity stares at you in the face, and is simply impossible to miss.

Such instances of similarity - especially ones that catch me unawares, come down as pleasant surprises, reassuring me that we are one people. The picture I've put here is one that I took near the marketplace gate at IIT Bombay - one labelled "Tapal petty" in the Devanagari script - incidentally, these are the very words used in Tamil (தபால் பெட்டி) to indicate the familiar, red British box. There are, indeed quite a few words and usages common to Indian languages - between those that have evolved from Sanskrit and those that are Dravidian. To stay safe, I'll just say this for now: languages intertwine in a inexplicable manner into a mesh, making one unable to decipher the source of certain terms.

Ultimately, for once, I'm happy to say that our social science textbooks were right. There is unity in diversity here. Hang on, where's diversity?

Disclaimer: Several points raised in this post were outcomes of discussions with friends, well wishers and colleagues, including Shabhrarethinam, Ngura and a spiritual discourse I attended a few months back.
This picture was taken by me.

Remembering Kalam

Perhaps the man wanted his 2020 vision to remain untainted by the harsh reality that is to follow, for we haven't done all that he has asked us to do to achieve it..

It is a nail that will remain etched on the walls of our hearts, hurting us each time we think of him, for Dr. Abdul Kalam has orphaned us, and has left us forever..

Well, there has been a significant pause on me posting articles on any of my blog pages - I know, of course that you guys are kinda happy with me not pestering you to read them, but it's ironic to see that I had plenty of time - and I didn't run out of topics either, for there are 6-7 unfinished posts..

A little retrospection resulted in me being greeted by a rather surprising conclusion - yeah we all know that my writing is highly emotional in addition to being narrow minded, biased and judgemental, but who would've thought that intense emotion is the drive for me to write?

Oh, yes, it baffled me... I see that stress, anger, frustration, delight - these emotions churn rich - or at least, good language out of my fingers that ceaselessly type, struggling to catch up with my racing brain... one sleepless night and there you have it - another article for you to hate me for..

Anyway, after a month of doing nothing, I'm back to activity, with a little enthusiasm and reasonable energy.. A huge leap, from staying in a PG to doing one - from staying in a single room with my own bathroom, to sharing my room with three people and the bathroom with thirty, I'm back to studies - what I call "real" activity when compared to pointless copy-paste in Excel at work...

While I hope I get enough time to write, I post these lines just to shake myself out of apathy and remind this page - and its only follower, that it's still alive....

At Jama Masjid, Chandini Chowk, New Delhi

What is this - do I find myself relishing, why, embracing Islam as I sit here on this cool marble floor of the Jama Masjid this hoy afternoon?

Yes, as I entered the place I felt a higher affinity for this place - more than even that I felt for Akshardham - this place is open, honest, free..

I find muslims clad in their traditional wear but behaving perfectly "normal" om every other way. Yes, a vast majority of people jere are muslims and a meagre andfula re tourists.

Some praying, several taking pictures, quite a few lying down - relaxing, sleeping. Such a free, nice place to come to - I'm happy I came here.

India is a country that had a great population, which diversified with invasions..

Yes, Muslims invaded, killed, conquered, slaughtered, but the Mughals made the place their own, pouring their hearts out in the form of the undeniably beautiful architecture. Mughal culture blends into the prevalent Hinduism in a manner that is not only harmonious, but strangely beautiful as well.

I was foolish to think that India is only Hindu, there is unity in diversity here.

Air Travel - my best choice?

A relatively more general article this time, people - perhaps my most general one so far. I've tried very hard to be purely objective, and believe me, I'd have been more successful if only I hadn't been sitting on a plane while writing this down. It is funny or perhaps, apt, that I write an article against flight And, yes, I haven't diluted anything while typing it out, so there it is.. I admit I started off quite personally, but I get general, trust me.. And let me admit, while it did turn out to reflect my opinion more than anything else, this one's not half as good as my deliberately biased ones, so brace yourselves..

Now, before you buckle your seatbelt, straighten your seats and open your window shades to embark upon a journey that I am not going to take you on, I'll ask you to pump up your adrenaline, for you are to be reminded of an experience that every middle class Indian would've gone through. I expect this to be effortless for me- well, at least the next paragraph alone..

Close friends stand on different IP address fronts, armed with the best internet connections they can lay their devices on, alert, highly sensitive to every ticking second, their concentration increasing multiple fold over each minute as time approaches 10:00am.. Bizarre thoughts come forth and dissolve, unattended to - "Is there a way to apply Einstein's relativity equations to gain some time with IRCTC? Doesn't time move slower away from the earth where its gravity is lower? Should I sit upstairs? A few higher floors, perhaps?" Available #160...9:58:34... Refresh.. 9:59:39, status quo... Refresh- 10:00:04 Oh shucks! Available 154, Book Now... Yeah now!! Oh, darn thing signed out! Signing in again.. Invalid captcha? No, that's a lie you double crossers! Signing in again- hope drained out.. CKWL or REGRET or whatever.. ultimately, window of opportunity has closed mercilessly.. Ah, the burden of inevitability.. Can words express it?

Hesitantly, a flight ticket is booked - once that is done, the pain dissolves, for it is the anticipation of an expense that causes more pain than the effect itself. Acceptance comes at once, bringing forth relief.

Sometimes, the excitement that adrenaline can offer, beats that of testosterone by an unimaginable margin, giving a man pleasure that remains as a memory - something that the latter can never do. Such is the state of a not-so-frequent flier as he enters the airport after years. All memory of the frustration that had gripped him the previous day numbed, why, gone completely, he walks, proud, drinking in all he can, from the ambience, clad in his best outfit and behaviour, reporting well before the stipulated time.

To truly impress a man, an ambience must have something that he has, if not seen ever, at least not seen in a long time. That way, the airport is slightly disappointing, for people seem - well, not exactly amazed, to say the very least. The ambience is, well, fine, the airline staff make no effort to conceal their disinterestedness, mechanically weighing bags, handing out boarding passes and coolly turning down any request made by passengers. The passenger can't help but feel slightly let down. However, our middle class once in a blue moon traveller's best behaviour doesn't let it show. A couple of unfair entries into check-in queues by a couple of heavily made-up homo sapiens of the feminine gender are barely noticed, and baggage drop is over before he realizes it.

Moving on, security check is an uneventful, followed by the long wait. A peep in the restroom reveals that those in malls are maintained far better.

Entering into the aircraft, a cabin that withstands tremendous pressure - both physically and psychologically, the passenger is greeted with a long-practised smile and a customary greeting - one that veterans choose to ignore while newbies enthusiastically reciprocate, and some soft, dull music that barely anyone notices.

Once settled, the passenger notes that airhostesses (and hosts) display unmistakable signs of disinterestedness - they can't be blamed entirely, there are some passengers who don't realize that air hostesses are merely flight attendants (yeah, they are trained to be salespeople these days). Of course, the passengers aren't the sole culprits - Indigo's female flight attendants wear a badge on their sleeve that says "girl power". It triggered a flashing thought, the first time I saw it, that I chose to ignore. I am still not clear on what the term intends to imply. Objectification of the fairer sex is something that has penetrated every layer of society - why do women agree to even do this? Cheerleaders, lewd dancers, receptionists, and even something supposedly "professional" - flight attendants? Yes, there are male counterparts, but there is a vivid utilization of the fact that they belong to that particular gender. I must say, however, that flight attendants handle it pretty well.

The flight usually starts taxying a good 15 minutes after the announced time of departure, with a rapidly uttered (or prerecorded) announcement, mentioning the flight crew's names and a couple of other information intended to be ignored - and of course, the old, boring safety instructions.

A casual read through the magazine kept on the seat pocket might trap one's ego on a pedestal - a pretty high one - 30,000 feet in fact, with their nicely worded advertisements, claiming ridiculously expensive products to have been priced at reduced rates "for those who soar" - such an advertisement once had me flattered for a while, before I came back to my senses.

A little turbulence or bad weather will bring to the surface the Captain of the plane - a man whose mention had been ignored at the inception of the flight. He assumes ultimate power, deciding when passengers will have a free belly, switching the seat belt sign on and off, deciding on whether beverages should be served on the plane or not, and much more.

Buckling your seat belt on and off based on indications of a seatbelt sign allegedly controlled by the Captain, buying overpriced drinks and snacks out of helplessness, and asking for water just because it's free, sitting in a not-so-pampering-anymore capsule to arrive at your required destination a few hours, or perhaps a day or two in advance, doesn't sound like a very inviting option - well, at least not one to pick very often.

The time and money spent on travel to and from the airport, at the baggage belt and so forth, could be spent enjoying better things - if you've got time.

JMHO

An era of, um.. openness? Or should I say exposure?

No, please don't hit the close button immediately.. This isn't going to be a sermon on tradition and conservatism - I might touch upon its periphery, yes, but do read on, and I promise you, you will have plenty of opportunity to judge me - and curse me, if you so wish.

The 21st century is one that would, perhaps baffle even the best thinkers of the previous generation, why, I'd say those of all time.. Anyone would've said that exposing one's (well it at least applies to women) body in a provocative manner would become fashionable, but who in the world would've thought that the same would apply to engineering - and by engineering, I'm implying both the crude mechanical and the 'soft' computer wings.

The OOP (Object Oriented Programming) revolution proved that programmers ape real life, modelling programs based on real life object attributes such as character (properties), behaviour (functions) and the like, but time has turned the world around, with openness penetrating every possible field.

As technology engulfs life, flattening the three dimensional world into two dimensional screens which tend towards 3D, real life objects take an unexpected turn, tending towards - for want if a better term, unreality. Programmers who talked of concealment, hiding and encapsulation during the OOP phase, have now shifted their focus to open source. Now that is understandable, but it comes down as a paralyzing shock that their closer-to-the-old-real-life counterparts shape their design to ape the obsolete procedural programming paradigm - do what you want to do, and as long as it serves the purpose, don't bother.

Believe it or not, these days even buildings like to flaunt the structures that keep their roof up. Until some genius coins a nice term, I'll call this "engineering glamour". So far, I've seen it at a couple of airports, and I believe that it will spill over to conventional buildings too.

Trust me, people, this is no joke, and just to prove that it wasn't just one exception, I'm putting below some pictures of this phenomenon, vividly seen at four different airports in India, namely Chennai, Mumbai Bangalore and New Delhi (Courtesy: Google Images, because I'm lazy to put the page URLs):

Chennai Airport

Mumbai Airport

Bangalore Airport

New Delhi Airport (Terminal 1D)

What will it be next? Transparent wings and fuselage of airplanes to reveal the rib, longeron and bulkhead structures? Or will the exposure mania inflict another unbelievable arena? Maybe someone should shoot a film depicting out-in-the-open surgeries..

No wonder the oldies keep saying that they don't know what today's generation is rushing towards...

Dumbsmash?

As with several ones before it, "Dubsmash", another highly overrated pseudonym promises to threaten the very sanity of even extremely clear-headed social networkers.

To those of you who haven't been wetted by the wave yet, a Dubsmash video has a (usually) self recorded video where a user lip-syncs a movie dialogue or song while the actual audio plays.

As with selfies, #hashtags and memes (I find the last one intellectual though), this new forced nomenclature is gaining popularity at an alarming rate, flooding facebook feeds and accumulating likes and comments, intimidating even casual Facebook and Instagram users into making one, lest they be left out.

This new crazy idea isn't the first and will certainly not be the last of a long chain of such pointless activities today's youth, why, even middle aged folk end up indulging in.

There isn't much to say at this point, for the craze has only begun, except for the fact that its popularity is going to grow exponentially.

I hope to sit back and watch, as but a passive observer, protecting my lucidity.

Meme courtesy: Somewhere on Facebook (Forgive the grammatical error)

PG Blues - The state of paying guest accommodation in Bangalore

Bangalore is a haven for ambitious, lucky and energetic youngsters of India, and also for those who have no choice but to live here - workers, professionals, apprentices, interns, job-seekers and of course the omnipresent software engineers - these include the "lucky" ones who get into "dream" companies - be it core, IT or call centres (Over time, the differences between the last three diminish into nothing, leaving behind stress). Many of these youngsters, of course, develop into fate-fearing, energy-deficient, physically and psychologically affected, humble addicts.

In an era where ergonomic comforts, namesake health concerns and pseudo recreation at work only add to an employee's stress, the only place where he/she can hope to de-stress is his/her place of stay. Unfortunately, these de-stress sanctums leave their tenants in distress.

"PG", which used to expand to "Paying Guest" implying a person staying with a family and paying for their stay, has now become a term independent of its expanded form, implying a shared accommodation which may loosely termed as a hostel, swarming over every possible every area in Bangalore, and spreading into every possible real estate website on the WWW. Today, PGs in Bangalore serve as a refuge to thousands of bachelors, a reasonable number of married folk (if they've come alone, yeah) - and to those who visit them, either as a (relatively) permanent residence or an interstice while they find a house to move in to. As with career decisions, bachelors' decision to move out of their (dis?)comfort zones - PGs that is, is dictated largely by inertia , and some bachelors take a couple of years or even more, to move out of their PG.

So what's with all this gibberish, why can't they go for a house or a flatshare, you ask? Bangalore's house, or even room rent policy is a heartbreaking one for house-hunters, and negotiating over these is an inevitable ordeal for tenants. Invariably, house owners demand a mammoth ten-month-rent-amount as advance security deposit before making tenants sign an eleven month rental agreement, listing down conditions that turn out to be a nightmare. What's more, misguided clients are made bigger fools of, with self-sympathetic words of landlords (especially female ones -  ok, sorry). And it doesn't end there - before returning the security deposit, owners deduct an amount equalling one month's rent as painting charges - an amount that might escalate to two months' rent in case tenants wish to vacate within the agreement period. In some cases, vacating the place within the agreement period can resulting in forfeiting the entire security deposit. The owner, in short, is a dictator who can add rules to the rental agreement at his (more often her) own free will. With youngsters from the entire country flooding Bangalore, little choice remains but to concede defeat at the hands of landlord who, to do some justice to them, sometimes turn out to be nice people. Most often, though, they aren't, and lodgers go through a pitiable phase till they settle down in their new place. Oh, and more often that not, house-agents introduce potential tenants to landlords and, for their part, demand a one-month-rent amount as brokerage.

Such being the case, the concept of PGs comes as a welcome option for bachelors - and bachelorettes. People who choose PGs are often those who've joined their first company, or those who've come to find a job, and not-so rare cases include those who wish to capitalize on the proximity of the PG to their places of interest - usually their workplace, occasionally a person of interest's residence. Students and interns find PGs affordable and easy to vacate. Instability at work, short stays, attempts to save up and inability to, or inability to find time to cook, constitute other reasons.

A PG is usually located in an innocent looking building which may be a house or a part of it, one or more rooms on the terrace of a building (in this case, an asbestos sheet usually serves as a ceiling), one or more floors of an office building, or thoughtfully constructed underground rooms (no kidding). Occasionally, though, PGs have dedicated buildings. It is virtually impossible to generalize a PG's building, for there is far too much variety.

Inside, however, they converge to an indubitable pattern -  a typical PG consists of rooms (occasionally a single room) crammed with beds, with barely any space to walk between them, shelves or cupboards overflowing with clothes, shared toilets, and, if the landlord is thoughtful enough, a verandah or terrace for tenants to hang clothes to dry. In other cases, the room or corridor is equipped with a clothes line, either invested by the occupants or generously provided by the landlord. Rooms are usually shared, and are termed as two-sharing, three-sharing (no explanation needed, I'm sure) or single-sharing (sounds silly, I know). Restrooms are poorly maintained, owing to the fact that too many people (mis)use them - well, I'd rather not describe. Proprietors often hire maids for cleaning up the place, irrespective of which, the place remains filthy.

Cheap advertisements (computer printouts or pamphlets, basically) promising the banal list of facilities including unlimited WiFi, 24 Hours water supply (sometimes claiming hot water supply), televisions in each room, washing machine, "security", parking facility, mineral water among others, can be seen in almost every street in Bangalore. However, the degree to which these promises are kept, is one that can only be answered by the pitiable tenants. From my own experience, and from first accounts that I have heard, I may say boldly that over 50% of Bangalore's PGs don't provide at least half of the facilities promised.

A precipitous - why, even a planned visit to a men's PG would reveal the extent to which bachelors go in maintaining the filthiness of the place - with clothes, books, laptops and related components, mobile phones, shaving equipment, cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles strewn all around. Girls' PGs are relatively neater (so I'm told). This is more a consequence of frustration at staying in a not-so-nice place and abhorrence towards their landlord. Some PG landlords are not owners - they take a house or a part of a building on lease and then rent it out as a PG. Whether or not they are, their behaviour with tenants is deceitful and domineering to say the least. When the tenant signs up, they display their best hospitality - a feature which degrades down to annoyingly cheap behaviour in a matter of weeks. (These days nearly everyone speaks impeccable English, especially over phone and language is hardly a criterion to judge people on) Hidden charges, addition of extra cots (implying occupants), dismissal of kind maids, adding new rules to the rental "agreement", and more. In short, they make loopholes their way of life, giving dappy excuses and thrive on their clients' dearth of choices, not unlike HR and emolument staff in companies.  As a rule, they never provide proper rent receipts, and in addition to them not paying taxes, they forcibly make tax paying tenants draft false receipts to receive their deserved deductions. Lodgers' untidiness and marginal misbehaviour may, thus, be dismissed as a poor retaliation for the ordeals they are subjected to, on a daily basis. The relationship between the landlord and tenant easily compares with that between an employee and his manager - with grudge, despise and the like masked by forced smiles, pleasantries and politically acceptable talk.

At night, large queues would form in PGs offering food, where youngsters line up, anticipating the answer to the routine question - one that veteran PG dwellers would be only too aware of, while newer ones would need practice to find out: "Will it be leftovers or fresh food?" Munificent PGs that provide cooking space would have these queues near the stove, each volunteer waiting to have a go at it - while others would wait, expecting something - even a morsel, coming their way.

I have been brutally judgemental and as often in my articles, I have put forth my very biased opinion here, generalizing PGs possibly in an unjust manner, but I admit that when such an opinion is expressed, there is plenty of room for exceptions - but irrespective of the number of the latter, I choose to treat them only as exceptions here.  In the same breath, I mention explicitly that there are good PGs in Bangalore - staying in one of those myself (yes, for a change this isn't a personal vent-out), I would be a cruel person not to say so.

With many companies and opportunities in general opening up in other cities, there may seem to be heavy decentralization from Bangalore - this may reduce the rate at which Bangalore's population grows but not the magnitude (nor its increase) itself, and I feel that other cities will only adopt Bangalore's model (forgive my ignorance if it's been around for a while). I hope that these landlords are are less of greedy moneymaking shack-owners and such hostels turn out to be comfortable nests for India's ever-adjusting youth.. I can only hope..

Photo courtesy: distantdrumlin.wordpress.com

A walk in the rain

From the day I set foot in Bangalore, the city struck me as a far less hospitable one than Chennai - perhaps because I hadn't seen the darker side of the latter - but my judgement was confirmed for the umpteenth time this evening, when I walked from Indian Institute of Science to my room.

It seemed almost supernatural, well, an incredible coincidence to say the very least that a day which had started off as a sunny one when I started washing clothes suddenly brought in unexpected showers exactly five minutes after I finished hanging them to dry - another clichéd washing day it had been - that happened yesterday, anyway.

Confident that it wouldn't rain today, given that my clothes were sufficiently drenched for it to not matter anyway, and the fact that it didn't look there were going to be showers, I set out on a walk to IISc - a pleasure that I had been denying myself for several valid and a few unacceptable reasons. As habit, I would carry my umbrella in my bag, to avoid being teased about it, and given that I wasn't in judgemental company, I carried it in my hand.

After lunch and a peaceful, slow-paced tour of the place, I decided to return to my room at Sadashivanagar after an evening snack. I looked at my phone to find that it was already 6:40 pm - I was behind schedule for my religious ablutions, and my feet decided to cater to the feeble cries of my conscience. Just as I was about to start, a heavy downpour ensued. I chose to stick to my decision, and, wielding my umbrella even as a warrior would wield his sword, I braved into the harsh outside.

The old, familiar feeling of being stranded gripped me, making me feel like a homeless man walking aimlessly on a road - friendless, for no one bothered to slow down and let me cross the road. I had grown accustomed to this treatment after eighteen months in Bangalore, but it seemed to bother me substantially today - the automobiles of CV Raman Road were fiercely merciless on me.

Even before it had started raining, I had decided to take an auto-rickshaw home, and now it was beyond question. The prospect of walking on pothole-laden roads, flanked by discontinuous strips of pavement that housed garbage, nameless organisms, human waste and more sounded hardly inviting. In this weather, auto-drivers were bound to demand eyebrow-raising fares - and while one part of me was preparing for a long argument, the other pleaded with me to simply agree to pay whatever was quoted and go home. Each time an auto could be seen, my heart would leap, hoping against hope that this would be the one, but would sink as it neared, when I'd see the passenger sitting in it - the effect was cumulative on the negative side, with the heart-leap altitude reducing and the sink-depth increasing with each iteration. The traffic was building up steadily (I can never understand why rains result in an exponential increase in traffic jams on every road I take) and I was getting increasingly worried about whether any driver would even agree to come - and my worry was eventually proved right.

After what seemed like eternity, a passengerless auto slowed down to stop beside me - the driver felt like Shah Rukh Khan holding out his hand to help Kajol into the train in DDLJ (only a simile, mind you) - and, relieved, I told him, "Bhashyam Circle", adding, "Sadashivanagaradalli" in my broken Kannada - a previous experience reminded me that there were two areas named Bhashyam Circle in Bangalore, both not very far from my current location.

Without a word my fellow interlocutor took off, implying that he had to go elsewhere. Often, whenever auto-drivers refused to come to a locality, I'd retort, arguing that they weren't bus drivers to choose their route or destination, but all that escaped my mouth today was a stream of swear words, after which I watched my last ray of hope disappear behind the veil of smoke and rain into the thicket of ever-increasing vehicular traffic.

Hopelessly though, the process repeated with three more auto-drivers, one of whom certainly deserved appreciation, maybe even gratitude - he was kind enough to shake his head indicating dissent before he sped away. The sky would've been pitch black by now had it been a clear night, but today the grey clouds formed a thick blanket spreading towards the horizon in all directions, hiding any star or planet, lest any of them turn in my favour. A few clouds at a relatively lower elevation blew like wisps of smoke which strangely resembled a smirk, and innumerable raindrops continued to emerge out of nowhere, showing no indication of cessation.

I abandoned looking at the sky and looked down at my jeans - the damage had been done - a significant portion had got wet. Cursing myself for choosing to wear this particular pair today, - it was a favourite - I made up my mind to walk the rest of the journey - a decision that meant I had conceded defeat to fate.

Walking on a rain-lashed road in Chennai would've had its own ups and down, but at Bangalore it was too literal - being located in a peninsula, the latter's roads are abundant in crests and troughs, forming wavy curves which give walkers and cyclists immense exercise, sometimes laving them inadept to do anything on reaching their destinations.

Bangalore's peninsular location also filled up the city with several bushy several bushy, slopy areas which must preferably be ignored, even on dry evenings. Fringed by these on one side and traffic on the other, my line-of-walk was pretty constrained.

Out of nowhere, a bus sailed towards me, towering, honking hard at me - I was lost for a moment, imagining the Knight Bus in Harry Potter - until I realized that I had to jump right into a puddle to save myself. Once the bus passed, I tried to imagine what would've happened at Chennai - buses may have behaved unpredictably, but any other vehicle would have stopped long enough for its driver to hurl a dozen abuses at me - a treatment that I could only dream of at Bangalore. here, drivers would expect pedestrians to magically disappear at the first sound of their horn. Even Arthur Weasley's invisibility booster couldn't make his car evaporate.

The part of the road on which I was walking funnelled down into a narrow stretch, thanks to a thoughtfully constructed underbridge (sarcasm intended) and only one car could pass through it at a time. Cars which had won the mad race to catch my lane celebrated their remarkable triumph by speeding through it in a Batman-ish way, little noticing the not so thin pedestrian whom they were splashing with puddle-water. One by one, cars followed suit, taking turns to douse me, generating waves of sizes proportional to the weight of the vehicle and the ego of its driver. From what I could make out, there wasn't the slightest indication of guilt on any of their faces - a slowdown and an apology would've, at least, metaphorically warmed me down. Why did cars have to go so fast on rainy days? Aren't they warm and dry inside? Would a little empathy be too out of place?

As the fourth car approached, it took all the resistance I could muster to stop myself from throwing myself in front of it and hurling abuses - oh, and my swear word count was fast approaching a peak value. It was funny how these words granted a deep satisfaction in helpless situations. Perhaps I could keep count of them - it might turn out to be a good distraction. Dismissing the idea almost instantly, I opened Google Maps - and at long last, I realized who my true friend was - my smartphone, whom I had found an excuse to criticize almost every week, along with other technological advances as unnecessary luxuries. It indicated a shortcut through a slender alley that it claimed to be "3 min faster" - a direction that I 'd have ignored on any other day, but today I found it wise to follow obediently.

I took a right turn to enter the solitary street that Maps suggested, grateful to be free from the bellicose traffic, only to be greeted by a road which I might've easily mistaken for Sankey tank, if only I hadn't been there before. I was now faced with the probably the least of my day's challenges - to test my competence in one of those children's games - "nondi", "langdi tang", or "kunte bille" as it's called - when I had to make calculated jumps to avoid stepping into puddles.

Climbing up two flights of stairs to reach my room was the hardest part of my journey. The sight of my bed was irresistibly inviting - it had been a long day - perhaps I'd write about it tomorrow. But for now, I needed to.. sleep..... and before I knew it, deep waves of slumber engulfed me.

Another evening at work

It was going to be yet another night-up at work - these were becoming commonplace now. "Stretched working hours", as they were called, were a product of poor project management, wanton procrastination and false deadlines.

Sulking, I made my way back to my desk, clutching a cup of supersaturated hot chocolate. This colloid had served as a tonic a number of times at work, cheering me up whenever I couldn't listen to Hans Zimmer's soundtracks. Usually I'd find a familiar face at the pantry smiling up at me, and we would exchange a couple of words, but today the place was deserted. In fact, our floor was deserted except for our team, and a couple of ladies who selflessly catered to my want of distraction in a soulless building full of well dressed, robotic staff.

Stretched hours are often welcomed by experienced staff - I couldn't complain much either. After working at this company for over a year, I too had developed a liking for the place, much against my wishes though, and this had made me work with renewed enthusiasm, diluting my attempts to protect myself from becoming a "product of the system". I couldn't blame my colleagues - age had worn them out, and sitting at work sounded far better even to me, when compared with having to listen to the pestering questions of wives. Plus, we were offered free dinner and a free cab drop at home in addition to a day off as compensation. However, these were never an attraction to me.

Was it because I was afraid of becoming a wheel in the machine? Hadn't I already become one? The symptoms all seemed to point to that - I no longer rejoiced in those long solitary walks sans music, sans noise and most of all, sans that stupid smartphone (Wow, an oxymoron!). Either way, extra working hours left me exponentially more drained as compared to ordinary working days, ruining whatever remained of my evening/night.

It was my turn to order dinner that evening, and, disinterestedly, I picked up my phone and ordered four medium sized pizzas for our team of a dozen engineers to devour. A couple of them despised pizzas, but I decided to order them since they would be the simplest things to order, given that a Domino's outlet was very close to our office. I did it so mechanically that I realized only after placing the order that I had forgotten to ask around as to what each person wanted. And worse, I had only ordered vegetarian pizzas, and the whole team had heard me. Putting on my best expression of guilt, I looked around anticipating comments, but only received a couple of feeble "How long?"s. Thanking their hunger, I turned to face my two monitors, and, just to feel the fun in it, dragged a window from one monitor to another. This did feel like the Batcomputer sometimes.

Thirty uneventful minutes passed in silence, interrupted only by the sound of typing, clicking and the occasional "How much more time?" related talk. The wait culminated with impatient colleagues urging me to call Domino's Pizza.

I hesitantly obliged, and went outside to make the call. Before returning to my desk, I caught a glimpse of the sky, and felt a pang of disappointment. It was dark yet again. I found it hard to guess a day's weather, sitting in an air conditioned hall throughout the day so much so, that I started considering it a great privilege to be able to leave the office premises while the sun was still up.

We were prepared when the delivery boy came - they had crossed the 30-minute delivery time and we were - well, certainly I was in the mood to get away without paying for the pizzas. It would have been an understatement to say that there would be an argument, and I was delighted at the prospect of having one, especially after a long, boring day. It wouldn't have mattered much even if we had had to pay, since our company would bear the expenses, but I was determined to push this as far as I could. Domino's had got away with their conveniently flexible rules and manipulative staff who could flex these rules even further, more than a few times, and I wasn't going to let them have their way this time.

I looked down at my Taskbar and satisfied myself that they had taken a full forty minutes to deliver the pizzas. Going out, I saw a plump man, wearing the Domino's uniform and smiling up at us. I couldn't guess his age, but his eyes were innocent. What might have started as rude talk started off with the kindest words I could find in me - words that expressed my pity for the man's helplessness, but at the same time, echoed the firmness in my stand. The man handled it in a very dignified manner, being extremely open and honest - he told his manager over the phone that he had indeed reached our premises late, and even without the security check, he would've delivered our pizzas late.

A twenty minute argument on the phone with the manager bore no fruit and ended abruptly under the pressure of my starved colleagues, who looked like they were ready to slay me and take the pizzas.

Since it was already night and our long-suffering delivery man had been very polite with us, I felt a reconciliation was in order. The conversation slowly drifted and I learnt that the boy's (yeah, I will address him as a boy henceforth) family hailed from Tamil Nadu, but they had settled in Bangalore, and that he lived with his parents here. Soon, he started showing a keen interest in our company and asked me if there were any career opportunities. I explained to him that we were an engineering consultancy, delivering work to clients in various fields of engineering. When I noticed that his interest did not diminish, I asked him what his qualification was. He told me that he was a student at a local engineering college. He went on to tell me that he was doing his third year in Mechatronics, and that he was only working part-time at Domino's.

Hearing this, my heart melted - and, mind you, I'm usually a cold-hearted creature. It took me a while to digest the fact that that he was nothing less that what I had been a couple of years ago - if not more. I make it a point to respect any human being as at least an equal, but I felt guilty at not having treated this boy sufficiently well. All this while I had only been impressed by his patience and dignity, but now I had started seeing him as a brother.

This might have affected me less if he had told me that he was living alone. I was compelled to believe that his family was in such a position that they needed him to work, though there could have been a dozen other possibilities.

As I walked towards our desks, semi-conscious of the twelve pairs of hungry eyes starting at the boxes I was carrying, I wondered at the cruelty of society- I had had every comfort while I was studying and had never had to, so much as go to to the market. Had I wasted all that? I had been pretty happy with my marks but now I felt I should have done more. Whenever people told me that when they were young they didn't have anyone to guide them- something that made me get angry. Now I was angrier- I had been contented with getting out of college with pretty decent marks, a job in a core company and, most importantly, without falling into wrong habits- all that any parent would want. But now I was guilty at not having done more. For an instant I pictured myself as a middle aged man saying to an irritated kid the very same words that adults told me, quickly realizing that only guilt would make someone talk l like that. So were all these adults - or rather, elders guilty? Were their saintlike personalities merely a mask to hide the guilt that had accumulated over the years? Well, at least they didn't ask me to think of them to be such perfect people- it had been my own judgement- and my mental image hadn't been entirely erroneous either. I broke off from this random thought train and looked around. It wasn't a bad place to work. I had grown accustomed to complaining about it, but now everything I had felt like a luxury I didn't deserve.

Back when I had been studying, I would consider it an achievement if I merely completed my homework and studies a little bit, but there were people who worked, did household chores and much more, in addition to studies. My parents hadn't, so much as, asked me to go to the market for something while I had been at home. And here, I was, working at a world-renowned MNC, a "dream" company for many, getting a decent (but certainly not satisfactory) pay, and still finding things to complain about.

This might not sound as a drastic revelation, my reaction might seem as melodramatic to many, and, in fact, Western readers might find it hard to discern the surprise in the boy's story, much less consider it worth brooding over, but, as with workplace harassment and the like, it is not the intensity of the act but the impact it has that matters.

I was definitely shaken, but, as with several other incidents in my life, this was going to become an insignificant memory. I looked down at my plate to find that I had finished my food. A glance around the place revealed that others had, too. I would have time to think about this later - now I had to turn on my monitor and finish of the rest of the night's work.