The Girl - IV

The spectacled guy seated 3 arms distance to his left, made notes voraciously. The morbid girl, who sat at the same distance to his right, now seemed immersed in the day's newspaper since time immemorial, a time-independent sullen expression smeared on her face. The middle aged clerks sat at their respective places behind the counter, minding their own business, least bothered about anything beyond the perimeter of their chairs.

The sound of the old ceiling fans, the occasional flipping of pages and footsteps of trespassers, periodically broke the eerie silence that descended on the main lobby. He glanced again at the clock that hung atop the entrance. He fancied he saw it smile at him- 11:10 AM. Why not? He was supposed to meet her in the most deserted place in the university- the library.

"I'd need help with the 4th assignment sheet..."

"Let me see..."

"I haven't really started. I guess we could solve it together sometime... Library... Tomorrow? 11?"

He only heard the word 'together'.

"Eh... Sure. Free after 11."

"11 it is", she said hopping on to her cycle.

That was 19 hours ago. Since then, he'd spent an enormous amount of time wondering at her intention behind this seemingly suggestive rendezvous. Sentiments and primitive biological urges had prevented him from arriving at any conclusions. He was too puzzled to draw any. Only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love.

Although the exploits of the Sunday gone by, should have been evidence against the case of ‘The Woman in Black’, ‘Shakespeare in Love’ persistently chose to ignore the signs. But denial, Psychology suggests it is some sort of a weird mental condition- reluctance to reconcile with reality. It is also the most predictable of all human responses.

Meanwhile, 10 minutes had started seeming like eternity. He hated to wait, particularly in anxiety, which was one reason why he preferred crashing into an exam hall as late as safely possible. 'The Girl' was making him anxious like never before, even more than he'd felt in his 2nd attempt at JEE.

The next time he glanced up, she was there- finally. Few more minutes and he'd almost have started hyperventilating. A small side bag, whose strap ran from her right shoulder to down left, followed her on her back, adding vastly to her casual attire. Her strides were fluid but measured- every part of her lissom form moving in such perfect harmony and clockwork precision- enough to teleport you to an alternate reality with scintillating winds and a background score of violins and saxophones.

The crimson top over fitting jeans gave her the geometry of women sculptors chisel into statues and artists brush onto portraits. She was beautiful and 15 minutes late. He wanted to complain. But all that anxiety had somehow instantly dissolved in her cherubic form. She raised her tender hands waving ‘Hi’ with such supreme grace and feminine austerity, even the yester-year’s Dreamgirl would’ve been jealous.

He could’ve bet several eye-brows must have been raised as the exotic specimen of physical perfection made way across the empty lobby to the boy, no-one by now knew existed in that space-time...

(to be contd...)

The Girl - V

Vagabonds of Punterland - I

Initiation

Standing in the testosterone charged 10×10 cubicle now seemed like an arduous exercise.  His slender neck, making an obtuse angle with his aching back, gave excruciating pain as it was becoming exceedingly impossible to keep eyes glued to his 3rd shirt button- head bowed before them in a gesture of eternal submission and perpetual servitude.

People and noises enveloped him and he’d always had this condition- claustrophobia- a mutation gone haywire perhaps. Reserved as a duck as he was, talking or walking a way out of people and situations gone bad was a trait he’d always desired more than an Adamantium transplant.

43 hours ago, this walking paraphernalia of social awkwardness had arrived at this place, knowing he would make a great engineer. He had no idea his first lesson after school would be the toughest among all to follow.

The pile of consumed smoke buds in one corner of the room made him feel he was amidst the Costellos and Al Capones of India. The walls- as much as he could observe- had been turned into a canvas for what seemed like dark arts, wherever they weren’t marred with stuff that you’d normally come across in public toilets.

As a clueless newbie stranded in this savagely customized place with 16 eyeballs glued to his startled form, ready to mutilate him at the fall of a hat, he would never feel more sorry for having fallen on the earth one-freaking-year after some random citizens.

He had learnt why electrons passing through 2 closely placed slits behaved both as particles and waves or what the odds of 2 people in a room of 100 having the same D.O.B were. But for the still unrefined renditions of Chaos Theory dealing with dynamical systems depending on initial conditions, a lot more complex than multivariable differential calculus and probability theory was the unfathomably labyrinthine subject, way beyond the reaches of functions and equations and far more complicated than anything under the sun- basic human nature.

He could not comprehend their vocabulary, periodically marred by swear words he’d never heard before. What he did know however, was that for some reason, they despised him. His bizarre introduction, a horrible attempt at singing and a pathetic stint at dance had fetched him neither sympathy nor relief.

The decibel level in the room had now soared to intimidating proportions. The dense translucent cloud of Goldflake fumes clogging the ill-ventilated space had started challenging his pulmonary capabilities.

His favourite Puma belt hung on his sunken neck and he’d lost his Denim jacket to the clumsy brat on extreme left. One more ‘silly mistake’ and his Levis jeans would be the property of the Hulkian guy at the centre- the alpha male.

Poor short term memory made worse by the horror, served him ill and he had failed to recite their names in the correct order, yet again.  Nor had he been able to memorize even one of the 6 ‘formats’ he was being taught by them, ones which every freshman was supposed to learn in such interactive sessions as a part of the place’s misplaced notions of culture and legacy.

Impromptu oral oriented mental abuse is a lot like prison- the first few minutes are the hardest and it’s tough to reconcile with reality because faces bite you. Then there comes the pain and it’s not physical (well, not entirely) but worse, that of the spirit- the very substance that you’re made up of. In the hitherto continuum of life, then comes a point of discontinuity where you got to make a choice as to what kind of an individual you want to be. And it totally depends on what you are willing to compromise to not lose what you stand for.

This moment will agitate the deepest recesses of your soul; those you never knew existed. Irrespective of the choice, very soon there will be a point where you’ve had enough and nothing makes a difference anymore, for you are a different man now. Faces intimidate you no longer because you’ve seen yourself, your Tyler Durden, in one of them and you’ll never forget it. 

You don’t care about the end for it’s merely an aberration. You’ve learnt the greatest lesson of your life- it is only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. Now, you look like you wanted to look, you talk like you wanted to talk and most importantly, you're free in all the ways you were not. Then, and only then, redemption is bliss.

25 minutes later, his shirt lay close-by, soiled. The Levis was bundled in one small heap at his feet. His Ray ban specs adorned the broken dustbin. And after seeing what it had gone through, he was sure he would not put on the Puma again for quite some time.

They had reduced him to the bare minimum, breaking first his body and subsequently, his spirit. The new mouse was still far from learning the old clicks that you require to save your grace at this place.

He would’ve run the best 100 m of his life as he sped out of their deathly hallows into the open. When his lungs finally met respite and the perspiration on his body felt cool, he was back to where he belonged, exhausted and abused.

Back to his senses, he could only recall the one wrong turn and the words with which all of this had started- “Oye! First Year…”

Vagabonds of Punterland - II

Aakhir Queue?

On a fine afternoon at home one day, I was at the public square anticipating my chance behind the Gas supply vehicle. 30 odd people across all age groups had put their daily chores on stand-by and assembled behind the much awaited lorry. The count was well beyond 50 the last time this vehicle had invaded the geography, almost making the vendor and his 3 ‘vassals’ instant kings without kingdom. They came from everywhere with empty cylinders loaded on their shoulders, scooters, bikes- unfailingly, first and foremost trying their luck at the fore end of the some sort of a staggered queue that had formed at that place, only to be informed by the vendor and rebuked by the people- “Kahan? Line lagao bhaiyya”. They’d then sniff for a chance all along the ‘line’, searching for a Pappu (read ‘acquaintance’) who’d adjust him with himself, before finally ‘sedimenting’ to their place at the bottom. This went on like a ritual.

At that juncture, I could not help recall the numerous escapades at my hostel mess queue in our first year. Dozens of starved denizens clamoring for space, close packed before the counter that held the day’s nutrients- fitting, fighting, struggling, grabbing, dodging and finally evading. Those who managed to get their plates, (without spilling its contents in an inmate’s pocket) took a seat to savor the day’s entertainment- watching others repeat the feat.  “This should be declared a sport”, would remark my friend, gesturing to the mob that would ravage the plate that would get replenished and robbed of rotis in precise spans of 300 and 3 seconds respectively. And if ‘special appetizers’ were on the menu, the pandemonium would drift to the other side of the counter as well, making the poor man who sat there and made accounts every day wielding pen and papers, seem helpless, lost and pitiable.

The scene barely got better in second year. Perhaps a misplaced sense of seniority imbued in people some sense of lining up. But there did exist a class of people, with their body mass exceeding their IQ, who consistently tend to warp, curve and disturb the local gravitational field, making others waste up to 40 minutes in the mess merely for the routine task of stuffing their stomachs.

India is a jam packed, resource starved nation of the busy and reckless middle class. So this seems the order of the day at banks, post offices, hospitals and other places where you got to wait for your turn and people seem to be taking Amitabh’s on-screen words- “Hum jahan khade ho jate hain, line wahin se shuru hoti hai…”, a little too seriously. Anxiety and restlessness often get the better of us and no one wants to be ‘a decent man in an indecent time’. Or it’s just the hurry to finish off and get our ass out of the mess. And just when we feel we’ve done good enough, in comes a distraction, marching straight to the counter, with some sifarish- inspiring disdain.

“Introduce a little anarchy, upset the established order and everything becomes CHAOS”

We’ve come across such Jugaad several times and felt cheated.

Sure, we need some ‘free energy’ to create order out of this chaos, and patience and the habit of queuing up do not come to us naturally. But these are traits we can acquire. Instead of behaving like headless chickens, we can show some common sense (which, these days, is not so common) to ensure things proceed amicably. This virtual rush and hurry, then makes us resort to malpractices like bribery, nepotism and lawlessness. How many times have we heard incidents of mob clashes at public places, stampedes near temples, adrenaline charged fans and violent protesters on a rampage and other such avoidable mishaps, causing valuable property to be ‘Destroyed in Seconds’, where a little planning and organization could have saved lives?

It’s a small thing indeed, but promises to make a substantial difference. ‘Everybody seems to have a clear idea of how other people should live their lives, but none about his/her own’. The age of revolutions is far behind us. Today it is only by such petty practices of self-tutoring, self-discipline and self-control that we can hope to wrought desirable changes at our homes, in our society and the nation at large. 

The Girl - III

(contd from The Girl - II...)

"Infatuation is a chain reaction, a chemical precursor that triggers the onset of an emotion designed specifically to overwhelm logic and reason, an emotion that blinds you from the simple an obvious truth- she’s not that into you and there’s nothing you can do about it..."

Memories of the walk came back in flashes as all sorts of cosmetics available in the room were utilized in optimum amounts, irrespective of their legitimate owners. It had taken him his best vocal skills and reasoning to convince his 2 getting-suspicious-roommates. The wait up to 2 pm was marked by curiosity more than anxiety. Putting on the cleanest pair of jeans, the smartest ‘T’ and his relatively new ‘Nike’ boots, he set out to 1up his pseudo-relationship-status with ‘the girl’.

100 possible scenarios would have zoomed through his mind in the 7 minute slow-cycle ride to the local market. He had had a light lunch, as required in 50 of them and reduced his bank balance by half grand as demanded by the other half.

He scanned the desolate afternoon market area for her whereabouts. Passing by one of the famous ‘hanging out’ spots, his eyes whizzed past a sketch on its wall which, he knew, bore an inscription at its bottom. Although illegible from that distance, he knew that it was a ‘sign’. He chose to ignore. 2:23 pm- not yet.

Just as he was about to pop out his N3710, he saw a rickshaw stop at a distance. No second thoughts were required to ascertain who had hopped off it, his soaring pulse was evidence enough. Legs, almost in reflex, started advancing in the direction. What he failed to notice was that she did not pay the rickshaw puller, who also seemingly uninterested in money had instead chosen to turn the vehicle by full 180 degrees. Her hair was unkempt, and she seemed in a hurry. As the difference between the two was reduced to talking distance, she started with a sigh-

“Hey, thanks a LOT for coming yaar.” 

The ‘LOT’ was even more pronounced this time round. Before he could open his mouth, she resumed- “Yaar, see there’s this thing. Something urgent has come up...” 

What she said after that in a single breath over a wide decibel range is unimportant. What’s important is, 7 minutes later, he was left stumped, with a letter in hand and a form addressed to a senior Professor, waving goodbye as she boarded the same rickshaw back to her hostel. He was supposed to deliver them to the Prof, the same evening, and she was supposed to be in the 2045 train to Dehradun! 

While the dust trail spewed by the receding rickshaw settled on his new Nike boots and body sweat got the better of the Axe deodorant, he was left dumbstruck, revising the 3 set instructions she had hastily poured into his ears- deceived or dejected, not sure. He felt like his jeans, ‘T’ and wallet were mocking at him. Collecting himself back together, a cool consoling breeze gushed past him, as if urging to move on. As he hopped onto his cycle, he felt several questions haunting him. For instance, how on earth did she know he had an equation with this Professor?

In retrospect, he thought perhaps the inscription in the picture WAS a sign- ‘The female of the species is more dangerous than the male’. The letter and the enclosed form in his pocket made him grim. ‘The brain is like the most outstanding organ’, he reprimanded himself, ‘it works for 24 hours, 365 days, right from your birth until you fall in love.’ He raced past the place, paddling harder and harder now with each stroke...

The Girl - IV

The Good, The Bad and The Celebrity

It is amusing to realize how easily, at times, we start believing. How quickly we start idolizing. How passionately we start revering what we find enigmatic. And it amazes me to see how casually senses override sensibility, as belief transforms into idolization, idolization metamorphoses into passion and passion evolves into hysteria.  

In this age of steadily changing society dominated by people who are promptly awed by achievement and glory, fame is bliss. Almost regardless of where it stems from, it is a drug that addicts like nothing. For, it takes some giving to rise to the cynosure of all eyes and when you’re atop the precipice, a whole new world beckons you.

It is equally astounding to realize the number of ‘celebrities’ we have in our midst today. From the gaunt sportsman to the macho movie star, from the rising neta to the sensuous actress, from the legendary singer to the haughty soap vamp and from the wealthy businessman to the renowned artist, everybody is a ‘star’. And they are all around- Page 3 updates, drawing room chats, breaking news, friendly gossips, invading all parts of a common man’s everyday life. If you possess the much desired and envied ‘X-factor’, you have it in you to make it to the pinnacle of stardom.

Exactly WHO/WHAT is a ‘celebrity’? Technically, it should imply someone we ‘celebrate’. But what really is it in a ‘star’ that we tend to glorify? Flatly, it is merely what we perceive- the mesmerizing charisma of a Shah Rukh or a Salman, the sizzling figure of a Kareena or Katrina, the Hulk-ian frame of a John or a Hrithik and the captivating beauty of an Aishwarya or a Priyanka. Our precocious image of these demigods of tinsel town is only a function of the persona they wield on the celluloid.

Sure, these titans may have made it big on the silver screen, incessantly redefining stardom as we know it. But what we sub consciously neglect in our whim of frenzy and fanfare is whether they justify their celebrity stature out of the cinematic reel.

While these ‘performers’, let’s say, constantly amuse us by portraying the adorable lover boy ‘Rahul’, the girl next door ‘Simran’, the sturdy hero ‘Vijay’ and the valiant revolutionary who rises against crime on screen, their behavior turns out to be quite antagonistic out of it. These big screen heroes of ours turn out to be proponents of various social malaise  involved in ugly scams, shoddy court cases and notorious scandals. They are accused of resorting to malicious ways of gaining popularity/unprecedented achievement, instant sensationalism and attempting to rewrite history books in ink- once and for ever. But once the cookie crumbles, the journey from the zenith of glory to the abyss of oblivion is made at the fall of a hat. In reality, however there are only a few ‘heroes’, those who carry their onscreen magnanimity into the real world, away from lights and camera, even after ‘pack up’. Who stand for what they show and speak.

In this nation of a billion, with its typical paradoxes and poverty amidst plenty, only a few make it really BIG. Those who do must therefore make sure they give back to the society.

My favorite Superhero lives by the dictum-

“With great power, comes great responsibility.”

It is a responsibility to justify stardom and live up to the expectation of those millions who look up to them to the heights of fanaticism and euphoria. For- ‘if you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an idea and if they can’t stop you, then you become something else entirely- a Legend.’

The Girl - II

"<SHE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED> wants to be friends on Facebook."

He mentally read the sentence aloud to himself- thrice- feeling neurons & electric impulses racing back and forth between vital organs in a strange, unparalleled sensation of achievement. Even before he could submit the argument to his cold judgment, he saw the cursor move- click- 'Confirm'. Her charming smile projected from her serene face- the display picture, which now seemed to converse with him. She, just like every other girl, looked even more beautiful in .jpg format...

That was within 48 hours after the walk. Within 72, mobile numbers had been exchanged. The latter had been a struggle, but he was happy he'd advanced. Yet, he had no idea how to use the two to get what he wanted. Perhaps he wasn't sure about that. For him, 'the girl' had always been one secret within a mystery wrapped in an enigma- fundamentally un-unravelable.

So one fine October morning, when his cell at the desk started buzzing, he wasn't quite sure he wasn't dreaming. No name. But the 10 digit mobile no. was one he had long before committed to memory. He was half awake, strewn with his 2 dishevelled roommates on 3 beds misaligned in a dingy, dilapidated hostel room.

Pupils dilated, limbs stretched, joints flexed and senses revived, almost in reflex, as he fast-booted all his systems from sleep mode. Then twice-lubricating his parched morning throat, he brought the most beautiful communication device ever made, close to his ears-

'Hello?!'

'Heiyy, you up?' Ears betrayed him, as he found himself unable to figure out whether the salutation was a ‘hey’ or a ‘hi’.

‘Yeah of course, what up?’, he started, collecting himself on the bed, senses racing back to reality at over 100 rpm and pulse catching up pretty fast. 

‘You free this afternoon?’ she sounded her-casual-self. The statement registered a spurt in brain waves- trick question?

‘Eh... yeah, what happened?’ he replied, lower than normal on reaction time.

‘Yaar, can you meet me at Badi at 2?’ she pleaded, with such a characteristic charm, he thought, only she possessed in her voice, making it impossible for a mortal with a functioning organ beneath his ribs to say ‘No’. In his case, however, the verb in the sentence was enough to make him comfortably numb.

‘Sure...’ he managed, struggling to complete the sentence. Words, as often, eluded him.

‘Thanks a LOT yaar’, he heard. This time his ears did not miss the profound emphasis on the word ‘lot’. He felt a part of him melt.

‘OK. See you, byyeee.’ 

By the last word, he was a lost cause.

‘Bye...’ he wasn’t sure he’d said it before the disconnection beeps.

Now, had it been a text message, atleast 7 ‘E’s would have followed the ‘Y’. The girl was amazingly adept at appending emoticons to words over phone. It had taken her just 25 seconds to wake him up from absolute unconscious. On an ordinary day, that would have been 16 minutes of waiting outside a stinking, unsanitary hostel toilet. This, sure as hell, wasn’t a dream! He glanced around to confirm that none of his roommates was eavesdropping. No, nobody in their sane mind wakes up at 7 AM on a Sunday!

He leaped out of the bed as if possessed by a spirit, made his way across the available floor area littered with biscuit and namkeen wrappers from last night, and pulled the window. Dazzled by the brightness, he let the mid October breeze brush his hair and the warmth of the early morning sun irradiate his skin cells.

‘This is going to be one fine day!’ he mumbled under his breath as he put on his bathroom slippers, grabbed the plastic bottle of the hand-wash and kick-started the most awesome Sunday morning in a long time.

He would soon find out why not...

The Girl - III

BATman Ends

If you're lying on your hostel bed an afternoon during your semester finals after a brain-wracking session, claiming a period of mental recharge, this is not an SMS you'd want to wake up to- 'news coming in, sachin announces retirement'- especially if you've spent your childhood watching few sports as religiously as cricket!

When we were 16, we were grappling with tricky problems of Maths and Physics under our study lamps. When He was 16, He was fending blizzards zooming past the stumps at well over 90 mph from the likes of Wasim and Waqar in Pakistan.

When we were 18, we were toiling hard to get into an IIT. When He was 18, this school drop-out was sweating profusely while raising His bat after becoming the youngest ever to score a test century, a smile barely making its way through His lips to our eyes.

Rest is HIStory.

Today, He’s hung up his boots, much to our surprise and dismay, and we’re left awestruck at how soon the small, curly haired boy with a striking innocence and grit in His eyes, batted his way right into our hearts, and 23 years elapsed just like that.

Its surprising that it took Him more than 75 innings to register an ODI hundred. But there wasn’t any looking back after that. In fact, as a natural lifter and attacker of the cricket ball, so swiftly did He evolve His batting techniques that within no time He’d become not just the batting main stay of the Indian lineup, but the hope and idol of a billion- amassing the bulk of His runs as an opener.

He completely redefined opening batting with His impeccable timing, largely textbook but at times even unorthodox techniques, and surgical placement, so much so that at times the bullets emanating from His particularly heavy willow used to reach the fence even before one could yell ‘FOUR RUNS’. Tendulkar of the late 90s, by now a household name and a global phenomenon, was a revelation for India and (@ShaneWarne) a nightmare for bowlers across the world.

His trademark shots- the extraordinarily powerful back-foot cover drive, the elegantly balanced straight drive and the wizardly flick of the pads through mid-wicket (which Waqar Younis claimed He could play even with a walking stick!), gave Him a reputation vested only on the greats of the generation. He played both spin and seam bowling with such amazing artwork that it was always a feast for spectators of either side. The way He has lately immortalized the nippy ‘upper cut’ is another example of His sheer class. Lords, Sydney, Wellington, Johannesburg, Jamaica, Shere-Bangla, Karachi, Premadasa- wherever he made the long walk to the crease, unprecedented hiatus and jubilation followed. In India, He could stop time!

One of His greatest innings was the 143 vs Australia at Sharjah, where He single handedly steered India to victory in the tri-series with back to back hundreds in the penultimate and final games. The 98 of 75 vs Pakistan in the 2003 WC, which also included the famous upper cut to Shoaib Akhtar, was unforgettable in itself, as He batt(l)ed with a hamstring injury and was caught out 2 runs before a ton on the very 1^st delivery He faced after calling a runner. Then who can ever forget the 200 not out against South Africa at Gwalior which was not just a batting marathon but the achievement of a seemingly impossible landmark and a psychological impediment. Each of His 46 other ODI hundreds was as special as any, for His countless worshippers.

The tennis elbow injury was His lowest point. It was a time when apparently everybody started doubting Him following a sharp decline in His long seasoned batting technique, critics even asking for retirement. But the master blaster showed that we fall so that we can learn to rise again, letting His bat do the answering. He never let the anger and despair cross the 5 inches between His ears, on the field. Honesty, commitment and humbleness were His acquired and inherited traits and all that made up the persona of the Sachin we know and revere- SUCH is the character, SACH is life!

Statistics, arguably, are the ultimate hallmark of a sportsman. By those standards there is not a single person who has ever wielded the batting stick, who can walk shoulder to shoulder with the little master on His best day.

He was THE REASON cricket moved up above the 22 yards and invaded our homes, offices, tea-stalls, railway stations, shops, stores, hostels, common rooms, schools, colleges, ingrained into the Indian psyche once and probably forever. It’s hard to imagine walking in to bat with a million eyes on you. That is something He has done throughout these 23 years. This journey- from the ‘galis’ and practice pitches of sub-urban Mumbai, learning the tit-bits of the game from his mentor Ramakant Achrekar, to the world cup victory at Wankhade under the inspired guidance of Gary Kirsten- has been truly sublime.

Now, one feels He should’ve retired after the World Cup final, on the field, at Wankhade, on His home ground, amidst thousands of fans, with the tricolor on his shoulders and tears in His eyes. That would have been the ideal farewell to the person who made countless children like me, dream of becoming a cricketer.

He is an inspiration, a true legend for all sense of the word. A hero that the game deserved but perhaps not the one it needed right now. He was indeed the silent guardian, the watchful player- the white knight.

Adios Jersey No. 10. 

Live long and prosper!

Of News and Everything...

To be honest I dont care much about what's happening around the world. It’s just when the daily copy of TOI kept at our hostel reading area starts flashing the same faces and similar news for quite a few days in a row, that I tend to unleash the reader in me. It happened recently. It seemed like the world’s most powerful federation was getting ready to carry out the most tedious exercise in a parliamentary democracy- voting. The entire globe seemed interested. For once in a long while, even the likes of Arvind Kejriwal and his expose were pushed to the trivial 3^rd and 4^th pages. After all it’s not every day that you elect the most powerful person in the world. 

It was US Presidential elections. And guess what Obama won, Cheers!

But should we be cheerful?

Ya... Why shouldn't we. After all he's a Nobel peace prize winner. That puts him in the same league with greats like Nelson Mandela, Mother Teresa, Aung Saan Su Kyi, Martin Luther King Jr etc.

Well what a joke!
Nobel peace prize!
I mean seriously is it 'PEACE' prize?
What can you expect from an institution whose founder invented dynamite!

Going by the winners of recent years, nothing can be a bigger piece of crap than this. And more shockingly yesterday I read somewhere that Britons are now pushing their government to nominate 'Malala' for Nobel peace prize. Going by how Liu Xiaobo won it in 2010,  I bet even she can do the same. So in short, all you have to do is, voice your views in favor of some 'Western notion' of world peace, largely built around American propaganda, on an international dais, get yourself hurt, end up in some jail and in time if you've got enough patience and power remaining, you'll end up in Oslo receiving a million dollars or so and live the remainder of your life spending them.

So here comes a million dollar advice from me- Just Storm into the Ecuadorian embassy in Britain, kill Wikileaks founder Julian Assange and I bet you'll be conferred the Nobel 'peace' prize. The entire western world is on a hunt for him like greyhounds. His only crime was to show us 'what's actually happening behind the curtains'.

Another classic example is of the European Union. The economies of various EU nations are crumbling, unemployment is at its peak and several countries are facing a burgeoning financial deficit. Many EU states were actively engaged just last year in the most disgusting and flagrant breach of international law, the most heinous act of terrorism, the most despicable support for murderers, rapists, arsonists and torturers in the war in Libya. And yet they receive a Nobel peace prize in 2012... Cheers Again!

Talking of Obama again- No doubt he's a better alternative to Mitt Romney. But the fact is like every American President he is a puppet in the hands of the powerful Jewish lobby and multi-billion dollar American investmnet banks and defence companies. He supported war in two nations and is reponsible for killing thousands of innocent people. The financial crisis of 2008 occurred right under his nose. And yet he hasn't learnt his lessons. He's continuing with the same economic policies, with a large shadow of Wall street bankers still looming over his head. The criminals of financial crisis are holding vital portfolios in his administration. But still he's an 'honourable person' and a winner of nobel peace prize!

Back here in India, our growth rate has dropped to it's lowest since 2003. They say its alarming. I'd respectfully like to disagree. I think that with all those jerk-heads heading this government along with its voluminous scams, this growth rate is still commendable. Speaking of scams, our very own ultra corrupt government with a super duper 'honest' and 'puppet' Prime Minister is now planning to cut off hands of the CAG. After all, our honest Prime Minister has learnt some lessons after the CAG expose of Commonwealth, 2G and Coal scams. The combine net worth of these scams is about 4,00,000 crore rupees. That's more than the total GDP of many African countries. So we can easily conclude that there are Billionaires sitting in our government with all their money stacked in the cold and secret vaults of Foreign Banks, particularly the Swiss. I advice Forbes to revise their list of Billionaires next time, with our politicians and bureaucrats sitting on top of the table.

In the end on a higher note 'Guns and Roses' is visiting India, but its only Axl Rose from the classic line up. We all know how 'Delhites' screwed up last year at the Metallica concert. Yet I've booked a ticket with 'Sweet Child of Mine' in midst of this 'November Rain' to finally move on to 'Paradise City' in a 'Nighttrain'  and with Axl Rose singing, I'll be 'Knocking on Heaven's Door'. I hope 'I Don't Cry' like last year at Metallica's after all THIS IS INDIA and we are in midst of an internal 'Civil War'.

The Girl - I

He casually wipes the moisture of his palms on his worn out jeans, slips his hands into its side pockets and wonders-'what now'. Considering several subjects that rush through his mind, and running a quick mental conversation rehearsal, he gulps down his throat and rolls his tongue over his dry lips. Then adjusting the specs on his nose, he collects himself all over again.

"8 am lectures are a huge pain in the ass", he manages, glancing at her spotless red top as he shoots it.

A couple of pending assignments along with below average grades in the last quarterly had been bothering him of late. But that makes little difference to him at the moment. For just this while, he doesn't quite care. Its a warm summer evening and walking along the quiet street circumscribing the university auditorium, he can now see two shadows getting longer on the road. This is the time he had been longing for- she's with him, part that counts anyway.

Its been some time now. For him, she is 'the girl'. She so very easily dominates the rest of her species and eclipses all of those who exist on this part of the earth. Its not that he's all nuts for her, or that he hasn't come across girls who 'make boys weak in the knees'. But he can sense a different recipe this time, one he's failed to comprehend thus far. He'd have a hard time admitting that the feeling is akin to 'love' for her. Past experiences have somehow made him develop a peculiar disregard for sentiments, especially this one.

"Yes, and Prof Verma makes it worse. An hour of catching up on lost sleep", she chuckled, carefully tucking the silky strand of hair that played on her soft face, behind her ears.

Today had been a different script, in some ways. Whether it was the movie till late last night, the 4 hours of head banging at back to back lectures today, the rejuvenating chai at TIC OR the spotless top, the meticulously groomed hair or this slow walk back together, he still can't understand why he feels- for lack of the perfect word- 'elated'.

"You guys always occupy the last rows, have fun and we have to take all the shit everyday from the front seats", she complained in a frequency so sweet he thought she had a musical larynx. 'What fun?', he wondered. The only reason he preferred sitting back was because proximity to her during lectures made him very uneasy, diluting every hard built 'concentration'. And then of course to have the liberty of doting at her without the fear of being caught, as a consolation, when the Professors started speaking and writing Latin.

"So, you going home?", she asked. 3 days off and an intermittent Sunday were making an extended weekend, he recalled. What is it with holidays and people rushing home, he thought, I could do with once in a semester. It was the ambiance talking. Her presence, perhaps. Life, and this place, had just started looking merrier.

"Na. I like it here in the hostel. I get bored at home, so not before Diwali break. You?", he inquired, trying to sound casual. Even before she could reply, he'd mentally prepared the itinerary for the following weekend corresponding to both the possible responses.

"Yeah, the day after. Dun's amazing... this time of the year and this place sucks, especially after 7 pm, you know... And moreover, i miss home", she replied, visibly ecstatic. He found it hard not looking at her lips when she was happy. Although her eyes were equally pretty. He checked the time- 6:46- perfectly on time at her hostel entrance. 

"Lectures tomorrow right. 8?", she threw as she drifted to the gates. "Alas...", he contributed to the parting words. "Cya...", she said and smiled. She turned and her hair followed her, dancing on her back. "Bye...", he managed as she glided past ear shot. The guard at the gate heard him. He thought he saw the tired old man's forehead churn.

It took some time until his 'elation' subsided. She was all over his mind. 'Perhaps you should have gone for the mobile no', he pondered but probably that mesmerizing smile had made him helpless. 'That would've been a bit of probing', he laid an antithesis. Now, he could feel his legs weary and back stiff- the long day. Its a mile and a half to the hostel. "Rickshaa...", he yelled, without another thought, beckoning to one wandering nearby. He involuntarily popped out his cell- '2 missed calls', '3 new messages'. He pushed it back into his pocket.

'Dun's amazing, this time of the year', he revised. 'I could go meet my uncle there', he spoke to himself as he hopped on and spread himself on the vehicle.

"Patel...", he shouted, instructing the man on the paddle, but more so himself, thinking more clearly now, as the rickety 3 wheeler rode into the twilight.

The Girl - II

Inside Facebook

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“Please bhaiyya, mujhe bhi chahiye…” urged my little cousin, as I sat before my computer, connected to the Internet. The site that flashed on the monitor was a simple and sober one, like a child’s imagination, like a pretty drawing on a blue canvass- It’s inarguably one of WWW’s most popular web page. He’d seen me sitting before it- clicking, scrolling, typing, browsing, but basically idling, which is what’d caught his attention. He’d seen pictures, places, words, names, faces… smiling faces.

My brother’s 10 and he says he wants a Facebook ID. It did not take me any time to convince him he must have a Yahoo ID to do this, and you must be 18 to do that! (Pays when you are way smarter than somebody else.)

That is just a miniscule exhibition of the revolution the world’s most popular social network has wrought in cyberspace. It’s been months since I saw the wonderful film “The Social Network” and weeks since I read the amazing book “The Accidental Billionaires” but neither has quite left me yet.“We lived on farms, we lived in cities and now we live on the internet”.What is more mesmerizing than the effect of this freakishly addictive ‘Blue Booze’ on the common man is the tale of its inception and growth.

As a prolific programmer, a Harvard undergraduate with a 1600 in his SAT, the curly, hoody, geeky freshman with his flip-flops and a typical self defeating awkwardness, Mark Zuckerberg, 19, had already achieved a lot to be proud of. But somehow all of this just didn’t sum up to a conclusion of his lifetime achievements. It was very soon then, that he decided to take up his next big project, which would soon transform into the BIGGEST venture of his lifetime. One he himself didn’t anticipate would someday manifest itself as one of the biggest fortunes in the history of Silicon Valley and script his name in golden letters in the annals of corporate history as the World’s youngest self-made Billionaire ever at 26!

Facebook is an excellent example of ‘innovation’ and ‘entrepreneurship’, which are the 2 big lessons for us here.

First, speaking of talent, it’s simply mindboggling to see how a bashful young lad in his 20s coming from nowhere, within 6 years, starting from his college dorm room, establishes a billion dollar evaluation. He was smart (Pays more when you are way smarter than everybody else!) A boy who didn’t care about ‘money’ or a ‘successful career’ but was simply driven by the zeal to do something different and innovative, but more importantly- FUN. He sticks to this dictum till date, as we see the Facebook home page, simple and elegant, no flashy ads or anything- “It’s free and always will be”, making money to build services and not the other way round.

Second, talking of entrepreneurship, successful ventures have always been founded by pairs of entrepreneurs who shared a common vision for success. It had happened at Microsoft with Bill Gates and Paul Allen, at Apple with Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak, at Google with Larry Page and Sergey Brin, at Yahoo with Jerry Yang and David Fillo. But with Facebook, when it came to innovation, it was always a lone individual. The way he transformed Facebook from a virtual image of a happening college life to a complete social experience were everybody- perhaps from amazed 10 year olds to the retired aged- fit perfectly, is terrific.

But can we even start to imagine something like this here in India, a place where profound emphasis is always on salaries and an esteemed career? Where only professions like engineering, doctorate and civil services are considered respectable, sometimes even acceptable? In this never ending rat race, any room for innovation, initiative and interests is methodically killed- at homes, at schools and finally at colleges. The desire to do something different is deemed as heresy and lunacy.

Entrepreneurs in India, save a handful, are barely icons. They all represent a class of individuals who have made it big on the corporate scale by learning to establish precise contacts and grease the right palms- competing on bribing and not innovation. They adopt unscrupulous ways, rely on ugly backdoor government-businessman nexus and resort to anti-social activities to make money. The 2G and ‘Coalgate’ (whoever named it that way!) scams are testimonies to this. In the midst of this bravado, can India ever produce a Mark Zuckerberg who can create a company worth billions without adopting unfair means?

The beautiful success story of Facebook is a lesson that we should not promote money and power but talent and character. With the right environment conducive to ideas, talent and thinking, India can be a much better place to live in. With all that said and done, it doesn’t seem hard to picture (perhaps) another successful maverick, an unkempt sophomore smitten by an ‘Erica Albright’, relaxing on an arm chair in a lavish board room in his office, reading these words on a card aloud to himself with the smallest hint of a grin sprawling across his face-

“I’m CEO-Bitch.”