* Conditions Apply - First Look.

After thorough deliberation, Mohit decided to send an invitation card to the Talpade family too. Alas, the wedding menu included alcohol, but the Talpades would have to make peace with that little hindrance. He stopped by at their house one morning before work, welcomed by a look so grumpy it could put Karan to shame.

‘Hello, uncle.’ Mohit smiled.

The uncle did not smile back. He looked at Mohit closely, and then frowned. ‘Sinha?’

‘Yes, you can call me Mohit.’ His suggestion was conveniently ignored by the uncle who had already turned his back to the guest.

‘Please come in, Mohit,’ Amit shouted, leaning from his dining chair.

Mohit stepped in. All of a sudden, time seemed to have come to an abrupt halt in the Talpade household. Everyone except Amit stopped whatever they were doing and started staring at Mohit, silently and intently. The aroma of thalipith had filled the house and Mohit hoped the mother or the aunt would fetch some for him from the kitchen. But all he got from them were the same investigative looks. Just then, Amit’s father and the dictator of the camp marched out of the bedroom, adjusting the knot of a tie knitted in a very archaic fashion. He suddenly gagged on seeing Mohit, as though his own tie was doing him in.

‘Uncle, I wanted to invite you all for my wedding next month,’ Mohit finally broke the awkward silence and handed Ashok Talpade a wedding card.

‘You are getting married!’ Ashok Talpade exclaimed. ‘To whom?’

‘Her name is Neha,’ Mohit said.

‘Neha who?’ he demanded. The uncle on the sofa turned his attention to Mohit too and listened on carefully.

‘Baba, please,’ Amit pleaded as he got up from the table.

‘That’s not a problem,’ Mohit cut in. His voice grew somewhat stern. ‘Neha Tandon.’

‘Tandon Bihari?’ the uncle threw up an open question to the audience and looked around the room like a curious little teenaged brat.

‘Tandon Punjabi,’ came a woman’s reply from the kitchen.

The uncle gave a disappointed look and lay back on the sofa with one wagging leg crossed over the other.

‘Same thing,’ the father commented drily.

‘Baba, please,’ Amit said more firmly this time. ‘We are late. Let’s go, Mohit.’

‘Yeah, you can go sit in his lap all day if you want, I don’t care,’ Ashok Talpade grumbled in a fluent dialect, parts of which Mohit latched on to, much to his own displeasure.

‘Why, is something the matter?’ Mohit asked with a frown. As he had anticipated, his question was ignored once again. Ashok Talpade pulled the card out of the envelope and began examining it with a grimace, as if reading a statement from the bank.

‘Where is the wedding taking place?’ Amit’s mother asked the first kind and relevant question as she came out of the kitchen, wiping off a thin sheet of flour smeared on her palms with the corner of her sari.

‘Delhi.’

Ashok Talpade suddenly shouted excitedly. The grimace turned into a delighted chuckle, just like that. ‘Are you going to Delhi?’

‘Just for the wedding,’ Mohit clarified. ‘Neha will be moving here after we are married.’ Ashok Talpade looked crestfallen once again.

‘Why?’ the uncle demanded gruffly.

‘Why not?’ Mohit retorted.

‘Isn’t Delhi a rather spacious city?’ the uncle asked curiously, once again throwing the question open to the audience. ‘And then this CWG gang decked up the city even more – Delhi looks like an extravagant garden now.’

Even till this point, Mohit was gullible enough to consider that to be a friendly suggestion from his neighbours. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But Bombay is home, after all.’

The father’s voice shot up. ‘First of all, please get the pronunciation right. It is called Mumbai. And why do I feel this isn’t really home for you?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Mohit craned his neck forward and looked at Talpade almost threateningly. ‘You belong to Calcutta,’ Ashok Talpade explained, changing tack suddenly to a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Isn’t that where your parents live?’

‘My parents lived in this city for thirty-five years before going back to Calcutta,’ Mohit reminded him angrily. ‘My father has served a long tenure in this city, and I think you know this. We also own a house here.’

‘In a suburb far from here, I know.’ Talpade nodded with a smirk. ‘And yet you decide to rent a separate apartment here in Versova – now tell me, what’s the next game plan to stuff this city like a chicken coop?’ Amit’s mother sauntered gently towards her husband, beseeching him to stop. But he would hear none of it and dismissed her with a flick of his fingers.

‘I meant this to be an invitation,’ Mohit said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m afraid it’s turning out to be an interview. But if you insist on knowing, I chose to rent this apartment because it is closer to office and makes life more convenient. It’s not illegal, is it?’

‘Bhau, Sinha’s landlord is even smarter.’ The uncle laughed bitterly, thoroughly enjoying himself as he gently stoked the argument. ‘Vipul NRI Mehta.’ All this while, Mohit had not even been offered a seat. Sensing this was taking longer than he expected, he sought a chair himself, an action that did not please Talpade in the least. Amit whispered something to Amita; she scurried into the kitchen, came out with a glass of water and handed it to Mohit courteously.

Mohit took a sip of water and looked at Ashok Talpade once again, who had been staring at him all this while. ‘Sir, it is important for me to know this because we are neighbours,’ he began cautiously, ‘is there a very specific reason you seem to have a problem with me?’

‘Mohit, I think we must leave,’ Amit said anxiously. ‘We are running late.’

‘Let him get his answer,’ his father growled. ‘Tell me, Sinha, have you ever stood in a crowded fair?’

‘What about it?’

‘How does it feel when someone in a crowded fair stamps your foot?’ Talpade asked. ‘That’s what people like you make me feel.’

‘People like me would be …?’

‘All of you.’ He wagged his finger at Mohit angrily, now bellowing with rage. ‘You, your idiotic landlord who buys a house here and runs off to another country, and all of you in the new tower whose maintenance we have to pay for, at the cost of our own comfort.’

‘We shouldn’t have allowed the construction of the new tower at all,’ his wife concurred remorsefully. ‘It has left us with nothing – no space to walk, to park our cars, and certainly no ground for our children to play.’

Mohit laughed nervously. ‘Wow! I didn’t see this analysis coming. You know what – I’m out of here. I don’t think I should entertain this discussion any further. Amit, I’ll see you downstairs.’

‘What sort of a friend is he, Amit?’ a belligerent Talpade demanded. ‘Look how he talks to your father. Is this what his parents have taught him?’

‘Sir, may I request you not to say a word against my parents?’ Mohit charged down the aisle and breathed down Talpade’s throat. ‘Not one about my parents, not one about my fiancée. I’ll hear none of it.’

He thumped his way out of the room and was just about to slam the door when he decided to give Talpade a final piece of his mind. As he would opine often in his life later, it turned out to be a bad decision.

‘And, sir,’ he said. ‘If I may – your problem does not lie in the way we live our lives. It lies in the way you cannot live yours. Don’t blame an NRI who can afford to buy a house here and fly off elsewhere, simply because you are holed up with a family the size of a film starcast.’

---- * Conditions Apply: Coming soon to a bookstore near you.

Change Is A Rogue

A rusted padlock, two keys in a trinket,

And a defunct old clock that needs to be reset.

I grab the hour’s needle and down it goes gently,

It springs back, I sigh, I heave up my trolley.

Farewell, amigo, for change is a rogue,

A charming little story, then a sour epilogue.

New hopes and new joys, I’m comfortingly told,

A travesty, this market – where your memories are sold.

My home, my speechless friend, you did hear much

Of my rues, of my highs, of my glories and such,

You echoed my triumphs, you vaulted my fears

In the cracks of your walls that guarded my tears.

I scoffed at your dwindled lamp, at an oft leaking tap,

But you know, in the evenings, solace lay in your warm lap,

Change is a rogue, and I can’t help but comply.

Do you feel the way I do? Do you silently cry?

I write your unsaid answer on the walls of my heart,

I stash away some memories, with some I must part –

A rusted padlock, two keys in a trinket,

And a defunct old clock that needs to be reset.

Why You May Not Be An Indian

(Note: This post is a response to the Blogadda contest 'Mera Bharat Mahaan' in association with Pringoo )

Not too long ago, I chanced upon an article which, arguably in its own right, ostracized and ridiculed almost everything Indian – ranging from the country’s ethos to its people’s mannerisms. Interestingly, the writer is an Indian. So here goes nothing – my two cents of analysis of the writer’s lament against being an Indian.
Blame it on the days of Baywatch and Santa Barbara. The dope that the Western culture provided us through the advent of cable television offered more than just a grouse in the minds of thousands of conservative Indian parents. It gave us that one element that has become the root cause of the ‘India-will-never-be-any-good’ philosophy – we call that ‘hypocrisy’. And no, I’m not discounting what we have gained from embracing the West, but that’s a separate point of discussion altogether.
Our generation has become very vocal today. It’s a great thing, really, provided this art is channelized at moving a country in a direction of positive construct. Unfortunately, it repeatedly targets only the lacunae in an imperfect system which we are already aware of. But in the entire effort of our so-called evangelists at pointing out these imperfections, we tend to ignore the reality that these loopholes are being bred by us individually, at some level or the other. We are stranded somewhere between compulsive patriotism and a burning desire to project ourselves as a modernist community, seldom understanding what modernism really means.
Every Diwali, the media and public rant about the issues of noise and air pollution alike, simply as a sub-conscious effort to demonstrate our environmental consciousness in the backdrop of a festival that connects us to our roots and our culture. This environmental consciousness disappears into the black clouds of smoke emanated from our manufacturing facilities during the rest of the year.
We have created a fad of ridiculing and lambasting everything associated to the government – from our cops to our defence forces to our intelligence infrastructure. We make senseless comparisons between our systems and those in the West, without bothering to see the obvious difference between the sizes and the demographics of these countries. We cry foul over the corruption amongst the traffic cops who man our roads, but we do not notice that we feed corruption right into their currently deprived pockets by flouting traffic laws in the first place. That traffic constable who lives under penurious conditions offered by our democracy, and who stands on a filthy, polluted road more than twelve hours a day, cannot be expected to decline the temptation of a handsome bribe which most of us consider a frivolous amount worthy enough to weasel out of legal procedures.
Once too often, we come across an average NRI who mocks the Indian system on his favourite social networking site, inviting the ‘This happens only in India’ genre of comments. Little does he bother to realize that he probably has contacts on the forum who are not Indians – people who can afford a snigger at the disrespect an Indian has towards his own country. The real problem yet, is that the same NRI who obeys the smallest of laws in his country of residence, feels the sudden urge to bend the rules when he is in India on vacation. No, this is not a generalization of every NRI’s proclivities, but I know of many such examples that corroborate my argument nonetheless.
The only point I am trying to drive home through the above instance is that we all know our country has its shortcomings. But so is the case with almost all countries. Ghettos exist everywhere, crime is all pervasive, and racial discrimination is a given norm wherever you go. But nothing – absolutely nothing – warrants disrespect towards your own nation. Blaming the country’s inefficiencies for your own failures is also not an explanation that one can subscribe to. This is the same country that has produced the likes of Narayana Murthy, Sachin Tendulkar and Saina Nehwal. Not only have they fought through the same imperfections in our system that we deal with today, but they have also exemplified patriotism in the truest sense.
Those of us who do not quite understand or appreciate patriotism, we must talk to the families of the thousands of cops and defence personnel who laid down their lives while we sat and ranted about our misgivings about the country. Or we must simply ask a racially abused Indian who lives away from home, how much he yearns for the punctured system that at least accepts him as his own. And for those who still can’t help but groan over being born Indian, my humble suggestion to them would be to find the true place where they belong. While I have nothing against Indians who choose to live abroad, I do have a basic grouse against Indians who live in the country without bothering to give it a modicum of respect. My message to them – India really does not need you. As you would surely appreciate, almost all the problems in our country are linked to our large population. And the first step to that solution would be to find a place on the map of the world that suits your aspirations.

PS: I don't endorse bursting loud firecrackers on Diwali either.

Why I Won't 'Go Air'

Last week, I committed the mistake of booking a flight with Go Air – 13th July 2010, flight G8/101. Will never do so again. Here’s why:

1) I had to travel to Bangalore for a very sensitive cause, and I could not afford to get late.
2) When I crossed the security check point at the Ahmedabad airport at 8.20 AM for the 9 AM flight, I heard an announcement that the Go Air flight was late by an hour.
3) With great difficulty I persuaded the security officers to permit me to cross back to the check-in counter so that I could get my ticket cancelled (even if not refunded) and board the Indigo flight which was to depart soon.
4) The lady at the check-in counter was either too stupid or too pompous, but most certainly very rude and unprofessional in her conduct, without any provocation whatsoever. She declined the cancellation and said the announcement was a ‘mistake’ – the flight was late by only thirty minutes. This behaviour – in spite of having told her I had to go attend a friend’s funeral, and I was already late.
5) Hence she re-issued my boarding pass and I crossed back over the security check point, only to find out that the flight was late by fifty minutes, and not thirty.
6) I spotted a Go Air staff member loitering around the security check area (he was not to be seen earlier), brought this anomaly to his notice, and sought his help in getting me an Indigo ticket.
7) Horror of horrors, he said he couldn’t help me! And that I should have checked with him earlier!
8) I told him he was nowhere to be seen earlier, and that the security officers won’t allow me to cross over again. And that hence he should please assist me in liaising with the Indigo staff.
9) He said I could go find an Indigo staff member around myself! (Hold on, it only gets worse)
10) I finally couldn’t hold my own, and sternly reminded him that it was a goof-up on part of his airlines that I was put to such inconvenience. The least he could do was to help me out.
11) He made statements like “You are unnecessarily getting angry”.
12) Finally, a personnel from Go Air did get me a ticket with Indigo, only in the nick of time.
13) I wrote a complaint to Go Air, demanding an apology from the senior management not only for the inconvenience, but also for the churlish and callous attitude of the staff.
14) I got a call from Go Air the next evening, asking me either for my Indigo boarding pass or a written certification from Indigo that I traveled with them that morning, failing which they could not help me!!! Needless to say, no passenger would keep a boarding pass after travel. And contacting Indigo for a written confirmation would mean inconveniencing myself further. Sounds stupid to me at least.
15) I replied saying I WOULD NOT do any such thing, and that this requirement was but a lame excuse to cover up for their pathetic service.
16) She said “Then we cannot help you.”
17) I said, “Alright then, I’ll take this matter to the Consumer Redressal Forum.”
18) She said, “Ok.”

I have nothing personal against any airline, my only grouse is that customers are often taken for granted. This must stop, and it won’t, if we don’t make some noise. I hope the concerned authorities consider my two cents of advice. Customers have plenty of choices.

The Last Missed Call

Early this week, I lost a friend to an untimely and unanticipated death. As was his wont, he left us a bit of priceless advice even as he took the final walk – of always taking the calls that matter.
Two weeks before the tragedy struck, he called twice, and I couldn’t take his calls. I may have probably been in the midst of some important work, I don’t remember. But I do remember I made a mental note almost every day thereafter to call him back and speak to him. Just that I couldn’t. Two weeks later, I got a call that told me I was too late to do anything about it.
In retrospect, the reasons that held me back for those two weeks don’t weigh well against the loss I feel now. But there is little I can do now, except for remembering in admiration the effort he always made to go an extra mile for his friends. I remember that unassuming smile, and a phone glued to his ears, as he trotted across the campus attending to his daily quota of small talk with friends. I remember not only his facility with good humour, but also his compassionate countenance. And I remember his frequent pats on his colleagues’ drooping shoulders as he asked: “Why are you so glum, chum?”
Ironically, he has a reason to ask all of us that question again. Only, he knows the answer this time. But the least I can do for him now is to retain that sense of humour and his effortless smile. As well as to spread across the message that he always exemplified – to pick up the calls that matter. The phone won’t ring forever.

Housekeeping Has A Name

The health club that I go to is one of the most modish gymnasiums in suburban Mumbai. It boasts of an illustrious clientele (I don’t include myself in it!) of pot-bellied industrialists, toned and botox-ed film stars, and a bunch of twenty-something rich dandies and dudettes. In a stark paradox, you also get to see a handful of housekeepers there, dressed in staid uniforms nearly ready to tear at the seams.
The housekeepers stand at various corners of the gym, looking around curiously, and sometimes aimlessly at the machines and the jazz-exuding spin studios which they will probably never use. They hold a Colin spray or the like in one hand, and a damp towel in the other. When the big sahibs and the memsahibs finish their routine on the treadmill, they rush to the machine and dutifully wipe the sweat off every corner before the next fitness enthusiast hops on to it and trots away to a five hundred calorie burnout.
Occasionally, when he misses a droplet or two, an irate customer calls out ‘Housekeeping’ with all of a hand gesture or a curt clap. Or worse, that ever irritating snap of the finger.
Come on, people! The guy’s got a name. It’s no more than a second’s effort to know his real name, but it might work wonders for his self-esteem. Let alone the self-esteem, I think that is the least bit of recognition he deserves. Rationally speaking, the demand-popularity ratio is severely skewed for the poor chap. Everyone seems to need his attention at the same time, either for cleaning a treadmill or for getting their bottle filled at the water cooler. But surprisingly, nobody considers it necessary to know his name.
I’m not sure if I sound too cynical making a fuss of the whole thing. But I did give it a thought. If I walked into my client’s office and someone snapped his finger at me saying, “Over here, consultant,”, I would not possibly take to it too kindly. Would I? Or would you?
For those who are unaware, or have simply not bothered to be aware: you know that shiny thing on the housekeeper’s tattered shirt pocket? That is a name plate that bears his name in fine print. Next time, do consider walking up to him and reading the name. It doesn’t matter then, if you return to your original position and call him by his name.
Do not take that unassuming smile for granted. It comes at a price too. ‘Housekeeping’ has a name.

Indian Idol - talent hunt or a debris of hopes?

Somewhere in the corners of our vulnerable hearts, each one of us is a star. This belief is instilled in our minds like a tacit law, governed by our talent that people around us swear by. The adolescent girl in your neighbourhood is told by her friends that she is made to walk the ramp. A middle-aged man in a nearby village struggles year on year to have his stories published because the kids subscribe to his narrations with immense awe. Among the shanties that line up a distant suburb, dwellers reckon there is a certain rockstar among them. Riding on a million such assurances is a dream – a dream that all of us have seen now or before – of being admired as an idol. When we set off in insane pursuit of such a dream, there is but one emotion that catalyses all our moves – our self-pride.
A few weeks back, countless such dreamers congregated at what they thought would be the platform where they could show the world their flair. They lay outside the gates of the Indian Idol audition buildings for a whole hot night, yearning for that single moment that could convert their dreams into reality.
For most of these contestants, the smug judges sitting inside the hall may have been their idols they looked up to. I only wish the esteemed jury would spare a thought for the emotions, the pain, the struggle that nestled in the susceptible sensibilities of these people before lampooning them in front of an entire country. Of course, not everyone is necessarily as talented as one expects to be. But that does not warrant such assassination of emotions. Because at the end of the day, the self-pride is a constant. It doesn’t vary with the level of talent that a person claims.
If anything, a reality show should focus on encouraging new talent. That certainly cannot happen when its agenda changes to ridiculing someone’s emotions to an extent that he loses faith in his own talent.
Nobody is born a star. Nor were these three judges. Forget not that what goes around comes back, and it comes back hard.
(The irony that Anu Malik judges a singing contest is an altogether different matter. )