Struck Traveler

The Knack - 1

2007-02-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

I was eleven years old when my dad worried that his first-born son had the acumen for art. My art was on public display on every reachable part of the wall until they were white-washed when I was ten. I assure you, I had given up drawing on the walls a long time back, but my kid sister continued the tradition until she was six; sibling after all. Early on, I realized that I could cut stuff artistically as well. My parents were not very pleased with this psychotic perspective.

It was very disappointing to see my dad come home one day with the toy set, ‘Mechano’. Given my history of beheading tiny soldier figures, stuffed toys, and some dolls, I was already looked up on as a poster child for juvenile psychiatric analysis. The idea of buying Mechano was my dad’s brainchild with the view to divert his first-born’s attention towards not meting out capital punishment to innocent, lifeless figurines. I think, the sole purpose behind procreating my sister was their last hope to continue the legacy of our family sanity. But what good would that do, if the parents were parsimonious about buying new toys or clothes for my new-born sister. Even before they knew it, there was no hope for my sister. What good could come out of a kid who played with headless toys!

Coming back to the culprit in question, not my parents but the ‘Mechano’ set, I was hoping to see some drawing accessories or may be a potential toy candidate to perform head surgery on, but alas, no such luck. Of course, my disappointment didn’t creep in, until I figured out that I couldn’t do much with metal strips and Lego blocks and wheels. My dad rubbed his hand in glee seeing me glum. My sister who was seven had been brainwashed into believing that ‘throwing things’ is not a game.

It is in my nature to see if I could utilize any equipment towards my constructive interests. The Mechano set just seemed very lame, and didn’t seem to have any destructive potential. Of course, I could cut and poke stuff using those metallic strips, but it wouldn’t work as well as the knife that was beyond my reach in the kitchen. I had to think of something real quick, before my dad converted me into this Frankenstein creature that he had in mind. I shuddered.

I remember, as a school going kid I had a toy gun. My dad was not always an evil man; his goodness glittered when he presented me with that toy gun some days before the Mechano day. Apparently, the toy shop guys forgot to mention that it was not exactly a toy! It had a nice barrel with a mechanism that mocks cocking a real air gun, and then pulling the trigger releases the mechanism which hit a flat panel and that made a lot of noise. Brilliant!

For the first few days, the hearing of my joint-family members was seriously affected, but it was just a temporary phase. There was a random shooting incident in my neighborhood, much to the horror of our guests, my dad quipped nonchalantly, ‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s just our son.’ As their jaws attempted to drop to their floor, my dad helped them by adding, ‘He’ll be here in a minute. Just you wait.’

No, I have not digressed. The tiny nuts and bolts from the Mechano set made for perfect projectiles. My sister jumped for joy when I informed her about the prospects of ‘throwing’ stuff but at a higher speed than she could ever imagine.

The next day morning, the abolished gun was procured from the attic and we decided to experiment when the house would be relatively quiet in the afternoon after school. The hecatomb that was executed that day continues to remain vivid in my mom’s memory. People have not dared to peek through the peephole ever after, for fear of a ‘bullet’ coming through. The brighter side of the whole exercise was totally lost on my bird-brained family members. One of the kids could have gone ahead to win the Gold at the Olympics at target shooting.

I do not remember being gifted any gifts after 12. Neither does my sister.

I am good at sketching with pencils, primarily because watercolors were banned in my house. They said it was against our religious beliefs. That left me with no option but to sketch using a pencil. At thirteen, when all grandmothers ask stupid questions to every kid playing hide-and-seek, ‘Sonny, what do you want to become when you grow big?’ As much as I don’t believe it, but they said, one of them had a cardiac arrest when I said, I would like to become a painter. I was advised to mutter ‘pilot’ to such idiotic queries after that incident.

That was the beginning of the innocent conversion of a born artist into a code-wrenching, illogical, technophobic technocrat.

BRNAD Solution Manager

2006-12-23T05:52:00.000-08:00

The Godson

2006-12-23T05:51:00.000-08:00

Twilight Zone - The Prisoner in the Last Cell

2006-10-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

The prisoner sat upright on his cot and looked around his surroundings. It was cold and musty. The acute stink of urine and human excreta stung his nostrils. The hazy stream of light that seeped in from the tiny window indicated that it was nearing dusk but there was no way to tell. He felt light and fresh, in spite of the odd surroundings. He could see a solitary guard patrolling along the opposite corridor. There were books strewn on the floor, some of the pages were yellowed and the bindings were worn out. He wondered where he was.

There must have been some kind of a misunderstanding. He couldn’t recollect how he got there. He couldn’t recollect what he had for dinner the last night. His mind was drawing a blank. It was dawning on him that he couldn’t recollect anything beyond the time that he got up from his bed.

The prisoner was amazed at himself for analyzing the situation so calmly. His self-composure discomfited him.

‘How can I not panic, given the situation that I am in, right now?’, he thought to himself.

He sat quietly on the cot for what seemed like an hour before he decided to question the guard. Nonchalantly, he slipped his feet into the prison slippers that lay beside the cot and walked towards the cell door.

“Excuse me, Sir!”, he addressed the guard who was facing the other direction. The guard stood alarmed and petrified in his promenade, his thoughts disturbed. The cells were not lit; the corridor lights weren’t very helpful either. The guard walked toward the direction of the voice, slinging his gun off the shoulder. He had been positioned on Island Kiev’s 2nd quarters for the past 17 months and he had never heard that particular voice before.

Slowly approaching the last cell, he observed the prisoner who was motionless. The guard was nervous. He had never heard any voice from this particular cell before; nobody had. There was a mysterious force emanating from the cell that made him want to sound the alarm. But there was no act of aggression, au contraire the prisoner seemed calm, composed and still. A tinge of confusion scrawled on the guard’s face.

The guard had not uttered a word. The prisoner observed that he was being looked at as if he were a ghost.

“Who am I? And what am I doing inside a prison, Sir?”, the prisoner questioned matter-of-factly, “I don’t seem to remember much, actually anything.”

The guard continued to maintain his silence. With a keener eye, the prisoner observed that the guard was looking at the bed on which he lay sometime back.

He turned around to find himself in a corn field; a till lay at his feet. Dusk had made it’s way through, and the sky twinkled with the stars. The sudden change of scenario would have been creepy to any normal mortal, but the prisoner seemed to be amazingly composed. He looked back but the prison and the guard seemed to have vanished.

He couldn’t figure out what was happening to him, but the fact that he was not panicking was gnawing at him.

Memories flitted back to him. He remembered the field; this is where he had fallen in love with the mute damsel. There seemed to be a faint murmur in the air.

The entire episode of him granting her the death-wish fell upon his mind’s eye. The memory of that twilight hour seemed to get vivid by the moment. He was still nonplussed about his identity, and what had happened to him in the past, and what in the world was happening to him now. He looked around for the tree where he had first spotted her, sitting quietly, motionless.

The sky had progressively darkened, but he spotted the solitary tree camouflaged with a mountain in the background. With a desultory mind, he ran towards the tree, not knowing what to expect.

And there she was, sitting just as before, with a tear that seemed to have frozen in it’s place. She didn’t look up this time.

He approached her carefully. She didn’t seem to notice. She wasn’t talking to him through his thoughts as before. In fact, she didn’t seem to realize that he was standing by her.

His thoughts were disturbed by the noise of approaching footsteps. They both looked in the direction of the beholder.

For the first time, in the past one hour of his existence, the confounding transition from the prison to the field, his eyes widened in shock.

The prisoner found himself staring at a person clad in cotton robes, who seemed to be him, now uttering, “Are you hurt in anyway, my dear lady?”.

He turned around to look at the damsel, and almost took a step back to find the damsel looking straight at him. He wasn’t sure whether the damsel was looking at him, or his memory-figure who was standing right behind him.

He took a step aside, and her eyes followed him. “I can see you, Brad.”, she spoke gently. The name struck him like thunder, giving rise to a multitude of memories, none of which he could place a finger on. It was confusing and contradicting.

“You are … Cleo?”, Brad stuttered. That was the only other name he could think of at that moment. He had romanced her in 2 worlds, and this one was one of them.

“And you thought we would never meet?”, she mocked him like she used to. Slices of memories came back to him in bits and pieces.

“What exactly is happening to me now? What happened in our past? I can’t seemed to remember anything. I don’t feel good about myself anymore”, his frustration writ large on his face.

She smiled coyly, picked up her veil, and walked to his memory-figure. “Meet me yonder.”, she beckoned. He knew how it was going to end already.

He turned around to stop her, only to find himself staring at the guard at the prison again. He almost took a step back in shock. His mind was slowly churning into frenzy. He still didn’t understand what was happening to him. The guard was opening the door, still looking at the bed.

He turned his head in the direction of his bed. For the first time, he felt fear. His body was lying on the bed. Lifeless.

Ten - Four. Never Nine - Five.

2006-05-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

The radio crackled, before the voice came along. Brad winced in his sleep, as he lifted a lazy eyelid to check the time. The digital clock blinked 3.43am.

"Base to Lover. Base to Lover.", Leonard's voice boomed through the night eradicating options of any further sleep. Leonard was the ranking officer in charge that night, and he wouldn't call if the situation didn't really demand it. If he answered the call, he knew he probably wouldn't be goin' to bed anytime soon.

"Yeah. Lover to Base. This better be important, Leonard.", Brad said as he started to get up from bed.

He kept the radio by the sink, as he splashed water onto his face.

"We have a situation, Brad." When was there never a situation, Brad thought to himself. He resigned to the fact that he would be sitting in front of his much hated computer real soon. "Brad, you there?"

"Yeah. What seems to be the problem?", Brad dabbed a bit of the cologne around his temples, as he put on his dark blue cardigan.

"There seems to be a problem with the communication radios. I have lost contact with all my men." Aaah, drats. "Al's waiting outside your front door, the engine's running."

To a quiet neighbor, it would have looked fishy, but the Lincoln Signature series didn't make any noise at all. You wouldn't know whether you were driving or parked. It was that quiet.

"How's it goin', Al?", Brad hopped into the front seat, as he always did. Getting into the back-seat was not his style of getting chauffered around. Al gave his customary nod, as he always did.

Al pulled the Lincoln into the reserved parking lot, as Brad ran into the base station. The catastrophe seemed evident as he walked into the room. Not many lights were blinking on the blue screen.

"They have just disappeared. Poof!", Leonard was right behind him. It's been like that for the last one hour. "Any luck, Matt?"

"Dispatch to One-Forty-Six. 146, Do you copy?", Matt hurled the communication piece towards the trash can.

"I take that as a 'no'", Brad rolled his eyes, moving forward to sit in front of the associated computer.

"AVA must have shut down or something", Brad thought aloud, as he typed in his password to log into the communication server. "I am goin' in, fellas"

You think, the satellites must have moved out of their orbits?", Brad hated it when he heard such illogical comments, but that possibility would have been his last guess. The satellites could have a mind of their own, and move out of their orbits, he smiled in his head. If that happened, they might as well shutdown everything and go back to sleep.

AVA greeted him with her usual, 'Hello Lover!' That was something he had programmed her to greet him with. His thoughts rolled back the day when the guys at the base station asked him to pick up a nickname for himself. He was clued in to pick up something nasty, something when said makes the hair stand. He remembered his colleagues picking up 'Vulture', the cliched 'Killer', 'C6' etc. He still thought he had come up with the scariest name ever, 'Lover'. Think about it, what's not scary about love, he remembered telling the others.

He smiled at AVA's terminal administration services, the GPS server was up and running. So, that's one possibility down. He would positively hate to wake up TinTin if the problem was with main server. Brad didn't touch that one.

"Somebody call the Wireless carriers, see if there is a problem with their links!"

"On it, Sire!", somebody barked in the background, just as more lights began to disappear from the screens.

"We might have a serious situation over here, Sir. We have lost communications with all our ships. We will have to face hell morrow.", Leonard chipped his unwanted panicky 2 cents in.

"Shut the fuck up, Leo", Matt voiced Brad's thoughts.

""Chill fellas, I think, I see what the glitch is.", Brad had logged into the main server, checking the plug points of all the supporting servers. AVA seemed to be misconnected. "AVA should respond suitably now.", He hoped, as he stared at the screen.

Nothing happened.

"Oh bummer!", Brad yelled as he logged back into AVA, the actual GPS Server got auto-disconnected the moment the main server was reconfigured. TinTin had put that feature in. He punched in the satellite password, just as TinTin walked in, still in his boxers and T-shirt.

"Dispatch to Two-Ten.", Matt yelled,"What's your Twenty, Sir?" Matt was asking for 210's GPS co-ordinates. "210 to Dispatch. I copy you, Base."

Matt replied, "10-4", acknowledging 210's position.

"Oh Great. Fuckers!", TinTin exclaimed as the lights started to reappear on the screen and heard 210's crisp reply.

Leonard looked guilty, "I am sorry, I just thought maybe we could need an extra hand. So, I woke up TinTin."

"Denny's anybody for coffee.", TinTin looked around, still rubbing his eyes, "Thanks so fuck, Leo."

Al got ready to drive the guys to Denny's, just as Huckle walked in, "What seems to be the problem, fellas?"

Everybody laughed out aloud, as Huckle flicked his middle finger to Leonard. Leonard just shrugged a 'sorry-need-extra-hand' his way.

"Thanks for everything, guys!", Leonard mumbled sheepishly as everybody got back to their stations, just as somebody chimed in from the corridor, "Leo, The President's here for some reason."

Waiting for Purple

2006-05-17T11:25:00.000-07:00

The sweat on her arm that clasped Brad's athletic back glistened in the moon. He kissed her softly on her temple, before moving to her artistic ear. He nibbled on her ear softly, tracing soft circles on her breasts, as she reciprocated by making invisible scratch marks on his back.

Reaching out to the nearby night lamp, she turned the dim-lights on. Snuggling back into her comfort spot, beneath him, she gave him a very satisfied naughty look. Brad felt her heartbeat, which was racing a while ago, was beginning to return to normal. Their bodies had a magical connection, something that he had never had with any other girl. He hoped the night to go on forever.

She felt very happy that she had decided to be with him that night. As she looked at the moonlight seeping through her window, romantically she wished the night never to end. She leaned ahead from the resting pillow and planted a kiss, square on his lips, "I am so happy tonight." She moved her arms up his back, locking them around his neck, and pulled him closer to her.

Brad combed her hair using his fingers, kissing her forehead softly. He wondered whether her neighbors were disturbed by the wild love-making sounds. She sounded so sexy, he thought. Her moans were still echoing in his head.

She could feel him regaining his strength again, and she smiled, and raised a mischievious eyebrow. An hour back, they were passionately kissing outside her front door. If it hadn't been for him, she would have had him right there on the stairs. She thought about this as she smiled, ruffling his hair. "Smoke? Coffee?", she offered, tracing her tongue over his lips.

Brad mocked a tongue fight with her as he agreed to the coffee, and rolled over. She wrapped her torso in bedsheet covers, and rolled on to his back, lying on him, arousing him by her touch, and before he could grab her, she laughed and got off the bed.

It was in the cab he had made the snap decision to kiss her on the nape, as she was fumbling to fetch something out of her purse. The kissing stopped only when he regained his senses to tell her that they should probably go inside her house. The girl had kicked off her shoes onto the porch, all set to get it going right there.

He smiled, as he slipped on his boxers to join her in the kitchen.

"Am I glad or what I met you?", he nudged into her, hugging her from behind. She could feel him attempting to get the bedsheet covers off her body, but they were firmly tied into a knot. "Sugar?", she inquired, twitching her head as he kissed her between the nape and the shoulder. She decided to undo the knot herself.

As they stood besides each other by the window, trying to catch their breath again, she quipped,"That was good caffeine, I must say." Exhaling a stream of smoke, he smiled as he accepted the compliment. She chuckled as she noticed a slight blush.

The friends were the last to bid adieu to everybody at the wedding. The bride had cried inconsolably, but then she had to leave, the wedding was over. Brad had offered to drop his dance partner home; this was one terrific girl he had to meet up with again.

"So what real plans for tomorrow?", he asked her, putting an arm around her waist.

She had looked at him as he was supporting the bride, she also thought she had seen a glimmer of a silent tear in his eyes, as he hugged the bride good-bye. She had hoped he would ask her out again; she would have definitely not wanted to lose out on her dance partner!

"Well, it depends on what your plans are?", she blew her smoke his way.

The acrid smoke hurt his eyes, as they waited on the sidewalk, hailing a cab. She had lit a cigarette up, without even offering one. He had quit sometime back, but the urge to smoke one now was considerable. "I gather, you don't smoke, right?", she had asked. "Sometimes...", he lied, lighting up his first cigarette in several weeks.

"The last one week was fun, wasn't it?", the bride's best friend had said as they walked to the nearest coffee store to kill time until a cabbie stopped by. There were none in sight. She had to agree with him. It sure was fun. She had gotten introduced to him, hadn't she?

"Well, if you can survive without food, we could stay in this room up until tomorrow evening!", he said as he tightened his hug around her. She could go without food, she thought.

"So what plans for the weekend now that the wedding is over?", he had inquired. He could still feel her body against his as they danced a while ago. The waltz became jive, and then became something that only they defined. It was like making wild, passionate love, without sleeping with each other; celestial dancing, he had mused.

"Probably go out with a friend, go shopping or something", she had replied, stubbing out her cigarette. She didn't want any cabbie to come by now. She wanted to kiss him passionately, but she didn't want to come across as aggressive. She was partly convinced that he would attempt to make a move in the car; atleast she hoped he would.

"If somebody had said, that the week before the wedding was the most busiest of all weeks, they couldn't have been more right.", she thought as she sat in the spacious dressing room, as the bride tried out her gown for some final adjustments. The bride had mentioned that some best friend of hers was in town, and was coming to the dress trial for some reason.

Brad had arrived 15 minutes before he had said he would arrive. The bride had introduced them from inside the trial room.

He slipped off his boxers as he climbed into her bed besides her. She slipped her hand onto his chest, and then climbed atop him, nibbling away at random places; she had extended her hand then, "Hi, I am Purple, nice to meet ya."

Paris Unlimited - Chapter 2

2006-03-06T00:40:00.000-08:00

The flight began it’s descent at about 6 in the morning. Brad did not get any butterflies in his stomach as most normal people would experience. He was so used to flying, that a flight take-off or a landing was as normal as drinking a good cup of freshly brewed coffee. The air outside the airplane was all foggy obstructing his vision of the terminal. He couldn’t wait to see if his decision of moving to a different country was a good one or not. He had admitted to himself that it was an impulsive decision, one taken in the heat of the moment; one that spread over 6 months.

As the flight captain took his time to bring the plane to a stop, Brad’s mind wandered over to New York. The clubs, coffee shops, the subway tunnels, the parks, the rivers, every place that he saw reminded him of Elixa. He knew that there was no escape if he continued to live in New York. He had to banish her thoughts in order to be happy. His optimism reassured him that ‘happiness’ was still an option; a choice that he could make. He decided to move to Paris for sometime. He knew he was running away from the place, he wished he could run away from reality. A break-up always brought out the escapist in him. He had done it before with Kim, and now he was doing it again.

Inhaling the fresh morning Parisian air for the first time, he felt alive after a very long time. The morning sun had burnt up the fog by then. With not much money in his pockets, or a very strong bank balance anywhere, he smiled at the adventure that awaited him in Paris. Bonjour Paris.

The first challenge came by way of placing a phone call to M. Hubert, (Monsieur gets shorted to M. unlike Mister that gets shortened to Mr.) his would-be landlord. M. Hubert had assured him over email that all what he had to do was to buy a pre-paid phone card at the terminal and place a call at a particular number. As he looked around for a shop at the terminal that could possibly sell a phone card, he thought of dear Ms. Cathy.

Brad felt guilty that he hadn’t got the opportunity to thank Ms. Cathy for all her help before he boarded his flight. Ms. Cathy spoke French and whilst in the United States, had acted as his interpreter in his search for apartments in Paris. Brad searched the internet daily for apartments to rent. He was open to being a roommate or a paying guest or just about anything that would put a roof over his head for a pittance. Every evening, Brad would sit with Ms. Cathy and the English to French dictionary, and talk to potential roommates who always wanted to meet him before they could decide on anything. Brad was beginning to resign to the fact that he would have to spend some money on cheap hotel rooms in Paris before moving in somewhere. And then, one fine morning, somebody had left a message on his voice mail in a thick French accent, stating that he would be willing to accommodate him in Paris. That was kind-hearted M. Hubert who took the trouble to place an overseas call to him, a month back.

The entire luggage weighed a total of 170 pounds, and Brad had done an excellent act of balancing them over one and other over the trolley cart. He trudged along, pushing the cart through the talkative crowd. Since he didn’t know the language, the chatter in the air, the music, and the announcements, all seemed like one solid ball of noise. He didn’t seem to catch any French word. Brad looked at the thin book that he was reading throughout the flight and a whole month before that, memorizing helpful phrases and words, but no word was getting registered in his head at that time. Clutching onto the trolley, he looked around for a friendly face.

A airport attendant walked by. Brad stopped her with a “Excusez moi!”.

“Oui?”, the female inquired with a concerned look. Like every other air terminal attendant, she probably got stopped a lot by tourists who didn’t speak French.

Without realizing that he had just uttered his first French words, he asked the woman whether she spoke English, in his own version of broken French, “Parlez vous Anglais?”. The niceties of attaching a ‘madame’ or a ‘madamoiselle’ were yet to be learnt.

Her ‘Yes’, seemed like the sweetest words to his ears. Enthusiastically, he asked where he could buy a phone card. In halted English and a very cute accent, she directed him to a shop at the terminal. Thanking her profusely, Brad started pushing his cart back to where he had started from. It had been exactly 30 minutes after he had claimed his baggage.

He stood in front of the pink phone where all the instructions were written in French, which did not make any sense to him. M. Hubert was informed of his flight timings, and had requested him to come to Opera using the shuttle bus, and that he would pick Brad up from there. Brad had been instructed to call M. Hubert from a blue phone and accordingly M. Hubert would wait in front of Opera in his car.

After about 10 minutes, Brad was beginning to doubt his visual capabilities, as a blue phone was not in sight at all. Continuing with his search dragging the heavy luggage, he was beginning to get frustrated that he hadn’t learned the language in the past 6 months. Right then, the blue phone peeked at him.

Brad stared at ‘Décrocher’ that appeared on the LCD screen of the blue phone. What could the phone possibly want him to do other than pick up the receiver, he thought to himself. Better safe than sorry, he fumbled through the dictionary to learn the meaning of the word. He struck his head, when the dictionary translated the unknown word to ‘Pick up (the receiver)’. Brad realized that he was beginning to fathom the depth of the iceberg that language difficulties would pose for him. It was going to be a grueling experience, but it was going to be fun, he hoped.

The phone card had instructions in English thankfully. Brad dialed the 4-digit number after picking up the receiver as directed in the 2nd instruction, the first being ‘to pick up the receiver’.

The next instruction was to dial the number that he wanted to reach, but he was interrupted by an automated female voice at the other end. She spoke in a robotic tone, but it was difficult for him to understand. Brad repeated the entire procedure of picking up the receiver and dialing the 4 digit number a couple of times until the female voice began to make sense, ‘Composez votre numero, sil vous plait’. Brad struck the receiver against his forehead this time.

He reached M. Hubert’s voice mail which presumably was asking him to leave a message. He realized that he would have to rely on assumptions, presumptions, and instincts to survive from here on. Brad didn’t realize that he would have to rely on a lot many more things as the future unfurled slowly and surely. He meekly left a message saying that he was at the airport, and would be at Opera in sometime.

M. Hubert had politely declined to receive Brad at the airport, as parking was extremely troublesome at Charles de Gaulle airport. Instead, he volunteered to wait at Opera as that would be easier. Without giving it a thought, Brad agreed to meet M. Hubert at Opera. Brad assumed that Opera was a place close to the airport and as per the instructions provided by M. Hubert, he was to catch a shuttle bus and he would be at Opera in no time.

It had taken a little less than an hour to make a phone call, Brad wondered, how much time would it take to find the shuttle bus that would take him to Opera. After traveling the entire length of the airport twice, he had discovered that ‘naivette’ stood for ‘bus’, and that he was one step closer to reaching Opera. All what he had to do was to look for a ‘naivette’ that would take him to Opera now. He looked at all the numbered bus terminals wondering which one would take him to M. Hubert.

Brad listened to the person who was helping a good-looking lady load bags into the bus, and then almost suddenly held her hand and started ostensibly flirting with her. He couldn’t understand the words, but the body language was loud and clear. The lady coyly shirked away, but the helper wouldn’t give up. Clearly, the non-French lady didn’t understand much of what her admirer was saying, but politely declined to reciprocate. Cautiously, Brad approached him for directions for the bus to Opera.

As if the words were bulleted for him on an imaginary blackboard, Brad stammered a ‘bonjour’ and waited for a customary ‘bonjour’ response, the norm in France.

“Je voudrais naivette Opera.” That sentence, if directly translated in to English would be, ‘I would like bus Opera’.

The amorous guy refused to comprehend the grammatically incorrect sentence forcing Brad to make himself more clear. Undeterred, Brad persisted with more grammatically incorrect sentences and incorrect spellings in his head, ‘Naivette Opera? Vous Connais’. Adding the extra, supposedly, ‘you know?’ The man just looked away. Brad scanned the area for somebody who would probably be more helpful than the helper standing in front of him.

(To be continued...)

Twilight Zone - The Entity

2006-02-27T00:12:00.000-08:00

Cleo stared at the AIM window that said 'Hey there!' from some id that read 'bradmcn'. She couldn't place that name anywhere. With a finger running along her eyebrow, she thought of the possibility of 'bradmcn' being the commentator who had been commenting on her blog for sometime now. Her 'IN' box on her desk didn't have any files, so she was relatively free until the next file came in. She toyed with the idea of ignoring the IM entity, but the sun was shining bright, and the breeze was cool, "Oh...what the hell!", she thought to herself as she punched in, "Hey you!". Before she could hit the enter button, another message popped up, "Anybody home!?". She clicked enter.

That was the last depressing week of December, and the unknown AIM entity had grown to be a regular feature every morning at work. She knew he was on the other side of the world because he said so, but she hadn't delineated anything more than that about him. She hoped she was right about him being a 'him', but she wasn't sure. It was the internet, and nobody could be sure of anything. She didn't think of him as a friend as yet, she probably never would.

Every morning, it was entertaining to interact with 'bradmcn'; she found it easier to say things that she normally wouldn't talk about to somebody in person. For some reason, Brad, as he referred to himself, was quite receptive about whatever she said. He seemed to be online all the time. She didn't give it a second thought, but wondered at times, how can a person be online all the time. Must be some kind of an online geek, she mused.

And then, one day, Brad offered to place a call to her. Unperturbed, she waited hesitantly for the overseas call. A minute passed by. Her eyes darted impatiently towards the receptionist desk who was keeping the phone busy. She conveyed the message to Brad, and gave him an alternate number. She looked at the receptionist again, who was keeping the other line busy as well. She was getting increasingly irritated. She was about to get the opportunity to attach a voice to the entity that she had been chatting with, for over a month now. She wondered how he would sound like.

The phone call got transferred to her desk, and she whispered a reluctant 'Hello' into the mouth piece. His booming voice transcended her imagination, he sounded almost like the way she wanted him to sound. After a bad connection, and a short exchange of nothing, he hung up. She pondered about the unknown entity whom she had just spoken to. In their chats, he seemed to echo her thoughts. He seemed to say exactly what she wanted to hear, and she felt related to him in a strange way. She didn't know who he was, but she seemed to connect with him on a spiritual level. She toyed with a disturbing thought, but rejected it on her way out of the office.

On one ocassion, she found herself thinking about him, even when she should have been doin' other things. She looked out of the window of her car, as her driver drove her homeward. The breeze played with her hair softly, and she let herself breathe the evening air. She didn't mind the pollution then. She felt his hands play with her curls, and his breath on her slender neck. She didn't know what to make of her thoughts, but she didn't want to open her eyes, lest he drift away. Her fantasy was broken when the driver announced that she had arrived.

Cleo looked back at the empty backseat of the car, where she was a moment ago. Was she dreaming, or fantasizing. The thoughts that she had rejected some weeks back, kept coming back to her. Was this unknown entity a spiritual reality, or just a figment of her imagination!? The breath did seem very real. Uncomfortably, she wiped her neck and climbed the stairs to her room. She called up her friend who was getting married and completely forgot about her previous thoughts.

The next morning, on her way to work, the thoughts returned, when she felt somebody hold her waist. She looked around alarmed, wary of a male hand on her waist. There was nobody. Shakingly, she put her hand on the invisible hand, but it landed on her waist, and for a split moment she felt her hand being one with another spirit. And all of a sudden, in a jiffy, everything seemed back to normal. She was surprised that she was pretty calm, anybody else would have been paranoid.

She switched her monitor on, and her messenger showed the mysterious entity online as usual. She decided to ignore him for a while, but she knew, a 'hey' would pop up any moment. It never did. Annoyed, she pinged a 'hey' to Brad. There was no reply coming today. She realized that he could be away. She didn't think about him until lunchtime when he pinged her back. She smiled coyly, and the day seemed normal. Their chats had progressed from normal flirtatious to playful romancing. She didn't see any harm in this. After all, she wasn't at the losing end anyway. She would be happily married in a year's time, and she wasn't doin' anything wrong. She tilted her neck backwards to remove the rising crick, and felt a familiar breath down her neck. She didn't bother to turn back, as she knew who it was.

Days passed by, she was interacting with the paranormal on a daily basis. She was beginning to have her doubts whether somebody by the identity 'Brad' really existed. That night, when she was alone at home, she decided to place a call at the number that was given to her. A sleepy voice answered her call, 'Morning, Hey, This is Brad.' She heaved a sigh of relief, atleast he was real. The rest of the stuff that was happening throughout the day was just her figment of imagination.

The more she interacted with him, the more involved she thought she got. She couldn't believe this was happening. Brad seemed to be on her mind for more time than she had allotted. But she convinced herself that it wasn't her, but him. He was expecting more than what they had. She wondered what did they have, but no answer came to her.

The next day at work, Cleo opened her email, and as usual, Brad had commented on her post. The email in her inbox said so. She had gotten used to that email. She ran through his comment, and it wasn't anything special, but as per her habit she replied non-chalantly. And when she signed onto her IM, her partially unknown entity was online. She was beginning to lose her interest in him gradually. How much can one chat with somebody you just don't know. And she hated the fact that somebody whom she hadn't met occupied some of her thoughts.

That evening, Cleo called up her friend, she wanted to clear a disturbing thought. Was Brad for real? He sounded real, but did he really exist. Could he just be a form of thought, her thought! It left her with an uneasy feeling. The butterflies were stuttering in her stomach, as she knew she was in a for a long wait, until she heard from her friend in Vegas.

The next week, she stared at the unopened email from her friend. For the first time, she was scared, she didn't know why, but she knew she was. With a shaky finger, she clicked open the email. Cleo read what she didn't want to see, and couldn't believe what she was reading. Brad didn't exist, the number was unlisted, and was not associated with any service provider. The house address where he was supposed to be staying didn't match with any Brad. The company that he worked for didn't exist. She didn't know what to say or think. And yet, she could see him online. It was supposedly well past midnight, his time. She shuddered, as she felt a finger move up her spine. She closed her eyes in anticipation, as the touch moved up her neck and traced lines below her face. She grabbed her bag, and rushed out of office.

At night, Cleo stared at the ceiling with the nightlamp on. She knew he lay besides her, and it wouldn't be long before her thoughts would start playing games with her mind. She didn't want to resign, not as yet. She decided, she couldn't possibly have any feelings for an entity that existed as an intangible form, a thought that couldn't be expressed, but very much real as far as she was concerned. She decided to put an end to the story that night. She got up quietly from her bed, and tiptoed herself out of the house to her terrace.

The cool night breeze tinged her body, she felt the chill of the night as she stood at the edge of the railing. He didn't make a move tonight. She waited a while longer, she knew he would arrive. The town clock struck 2o'clock in the morning, and she didn't feel the usual finger or the hand on her waist. Out of sheer desperation, she screamed his name, and took a confident step to plummet.

Right then, he held Cleo close to him. For the first time, she could feel his entire body against her back. She could feel him parting her hair softly. She cringed as he kissed her on her nape. Her neck arched, and a 'No' escaped her lips. The touch behind her seemed to dissolve, as she continued, "You don't exist, and you have to go. NOW." There was no resistance as she expected. She felt the last touch of his fingertips on her back, as if somebody was pulling him away from her. Cleo knew it was none other than herself who was pulling the entity away.

She checked her email the next day, and there was no email. Brad wasn't online on IM as well. His phone responded with a 'Non-existent phone number'. All through the day, she thought whether the last few months had been for real or not. Cleo wondered whether she had dreamed the whole thing. She pinched herself, she yearned for the touch of the finger, a 'hey' on the screen, and she wanted to be away from it all.

To etch the final line on the epitaph, she decided to place a call one more time. Her heart sank, as she heard the mandatory female voice say, 'This number is temporarily out of service, or you have reached a non-existent number...', her thoughts seemed to follow an unlikely straight line, happy and relieved, yet hoping for a ray of reality. The female voice droned on monotonously; Cleo widened her eyes in shock as she heard the final familiar tone, 'Have a good life, Cleo'. Click. The phone went dead.

The Perfect Match.

2006-02-21T02:01:00.000-08:00

If you know me personally, you would know that I am not much of a womanizer. Well, I don't come anywhere near being a womanizer. If you walk into a club, and see a smiling guy gyrating to the swings of the music, with a bunch of ladies clinging to his bulging biceps, begging to be danced with; that certainly won't be me. Now, move your eyes to the bar, and see the guy chatting up the sexy female bartender, cracking jokes, taking body shots, and asking her when she gets off work, so that he could take her out later that night to have a good time; that won't be me either.

Off late, eHarmony.com has been advertising way too much on the idiot box, and like an idiot I have been watching too much of it. After a whole month of the marketing gimmick of how they would give you a free $50 worth compatibility profile, I succumbed to the dot com. In order to get that coveted profile, I was required to fill out a 'simple' form answering some personal questions. With a lot of enthusiasm, I started out skimming through the first set of questions, which were close to about 20. The progress bar read '0% complete'. No sweat. I started off diligently pondering over every question, and carefully marking out my answers. Are you an arrogant person, and the choices ranged from Not at All, Something more than Not at All, A little more than something more than Not at all, Some What, A little more than Some What, A little less than Completely, and Completely. So, I asked myself if I was an arrogant person, and I marked 'A little less than Completely'. If I wanted a honest compatibility profile, I decided there was no point in marking, 'A little less than some what', lest I get an incorrect compatibility profile.

After a good 2 weeks of intermittent and honest answering of what seemed like endless questioning, well past the initial 20 questions, and now into what seemed like the 238th question, the progress bar scratched at 19% complete. I had vowed not to give up, and get to 100% complete one day. I continued to crawl through the myriad of questions. On some days, the answers seemed like 'Let there be Light'. I pinched myself, and through the haze it turned out to be 'Something like Some What, but Not Exactly that'. 23% Complete. My patience was beginning to soon run out. My choice of answers now ranged from 'Not at all', 'Some what' and 'Completely'. The other options still existed, but I had stopped marking them after 25% Complete.

Questions like, 'Would you like her to respect your views?', I am not entirely sure why would somebody mark 'Some What' or 'Not at All'. I reasoned out that my 'perfect' match should respect my views if she wants to, but can choose to veto them if I am acting irrational. I wanted to mark, 'Completely most of the times, but at times, she obviously should thunk my head if I am giving out stupid views.' There is no point in supporting the idiot, and if she does, I would be seriously scared when I come to my senses. I didn't see the answer that I wanted to tick off, so I marked the next best, 'A little less than completely but more than some what'. I was getting bored of this If...Then, Fish pond question-answer session, so my answers started comin' off really quick. My sole motive was directed to get that 'honest' compatibility profile at any goddamned cost. The oxymoron loomed large over me.

If somebody is confused about what a 'compatibility profile' is, one would be more confused once they start answering those braniac questions. For the ignoramus, a compatibility profile provides you with what qualities your perfect partner should possess for 'you' to be happy forever. Honestly, I had a basic sketch of what she should be like, but I wanted to know whether I was right. After 3 months of arduous answering tinged with a fanatic fervor, I managed to see the light of the day. The progress bar almost said 'Finally'. 100% Complete.

I was mentally prepared to see a ransom note demanding $10 to see the compatibility profile. But the big guys were true to their promise, they gave me 5 pages of fine print stating what my 'perfect' girl should be.

When I read a blog post, or a news article, I confess, if the first few lines don't hold my interest, I don't force myself to read through the entire drudgery. I begin to skim. This does not hold true for a book, however. As luck would have it, the profile of 'my perfect match' didn't retain my interest beyond the first few lines. I could have probably saved a lot of time by reading Linda Goodman's chapter on Sagittarius girls, as they happen to be my star partners. I started skimming through the profile to see if they had anything interesting to say. I did not find '...would be wild in bed.' Now that's a very important factor. I consoled myself by thinking that maybe when they said 'adventurous', I should be reading between the lines.

I hope to be really bored some day, and that day the profile of my perfect match would be read. I decided to rest it until then. Further more, eHarmony.com offered to 'find' the perfect matches for me in a radius of about 10 miles of where I am located. Although, I am not much of a supporter of online dating/matrimony/pimp websites nor do I scorn the idea, my temptation to see what a perfect match would look like got the better of me, I hit the 'find now' button. After what seemed like a whole minute, it returned with 'No Perfect Matches found'. I decided to go ahead with 'in and around 60 miles from where you are located'. I was expecting to see a bunch of my perfect matches when I got back with my cup of coffee, but the page continued to show exactly what it was saying before. Thinking that the internet must have frozen, I decided to refresh, but to no avail. I was beginning to feel a bit perturbed with nobody matching my compatibility profile.

I didn't bother myself with the 'in and around 100 miles', 'in USA', 'in this continent' and other such 50 options. I decided to go with 'Anywhere in the World' option. I was positive there would be a lady in burqua waiting for me in the southern part of Palestine. You probably would have guessed it by now, my luck had run out. 'No Perfect Matches found' stared right back at me. I reminded myself of a funny, I had heard in junior college, 'There's never a Perfect match'. Luckily for me, I never thought there was one. You always got to strike a balance.

Well, if you are still at the club looking for me, I'll be the guy telling you the moral of the story: There's no point in looking for a perfect match, as any match can still light a spark!!! Hell...Yeah, Pun intended.

Twilight Zone

2006-01-19T18:08:00.000-08:00

Cleo looked at Brad with her brown soulful eyes, her locks shadowing the same tear that rolled down her cheek, like it had before. Brad's thoughts ran an era back, and he mused at how a new episode was about to begin. And thanked providence for the change in his capabilities. This time, he wasn't going to listen to her; this time it wasn't going to end the way she wanted it to. It might not be exactly the way he would have liked it, but atleast it wasn't going to be the way like she had it the last time. This time, they were goin' to be happy!

* * *

The farmer was still tilling the soil in his own private twilight zone. The sun had set a long time back, but the rays still lingered in the misty air. He wasn't sweating because he was not tired, although he had been working away in the field since morning. He reached the foot of the hill beyond which the sun had set, and it was then that he heard a faint murmur of a woman.

She looked like a damsel to him, fallen from heaven and yet her eyes were moist. He approached her with noisy steps to make her aware of his presence. She looked up to see the new arrival, but the murmur didn't stop. She was clad in a orangish hue that matched the color of the sky right then.

"Are you hurt in anyway, dear lady", he asked, still clad in his work attire. He didn't step any forward from where he stood. In a snap, he changed into his cotton robes, looking like an ordinary tramp, with no purpose in life. She hadn't moved an inch. The farmer wasn't sure whether the lady had heard him or was even aware that he had spoken.

She looked at him with her eyes that lacked any expression. The murmur stopped, and the silence echoed in the valley. If it were not for the tear, it wouldn't have transpired that she was sad. Her lips shivered with a smile long forgotten. It made him feel like he didn't exist in her world.

Keeping his distance, he leaned ahead, "Would you like me to take you home?", he pressed on. His body was feeling an influx of energy. A suddent surge like the current one, always reminded him of the day when he realized that he was different than the rest of the normal people around him.

A minute rolled by, and the damsel had not spoken a word. She continued to look at him hoping that he would read her thoughts, but he wasn't gifted with those powers as yet.

"I don't feel good about myself anymore.", it was the same murmur that was beginning to form words now. She had been speaking all this while, but he had not been listening.

Not sure whether he should ask her the reason for feeling that way, he probed carefully, "Would you like something to eat? They say that 'food' and 'company' dissolves a lot of things." She smiled softly at his spoken words, and her aura went a shade lighter. He hoped he had said the right thing.

Gently, she rose, picking her bluish veil, and walked towards him. He could hear her breathing now.

"Why do you try to help when you know you can't help me today?", she read his mind as casually as she brushed the leaves off her hair.

The man realized that she belonged to the same clan. She was a demi-goddess. Demi-entities don't need introductions, they read each other, feel each other by their thoughts. They could fall in love in a minute and fall out of it in less than one. Each one had special gifts.

Her tear was no longer visible, but it was still there. He hoped he could make her happy.

"And how do you propose to do that?", she questioned his thought. She already knew that he could make her wish come true, that was his gift.

She seemed to be distracted from what she was thinking before. "Do you really help people by granting them what they ask for?", she tried to read him, but somehow he was restricting his thoughts from crossing over. "Oh well.", she thought.

"I provide them with hope. It's the best that I can do.", he modestly boasted. He was about to add how he hated to see her the way he had seen her a minute ago, but decided against it.

They looked at each other with insouciant eyes, every good thing has it's drawbacks. The chemistry seemed to bubble. She came closer to him; her aura infringed onto his. He could feel a tremor run through his body, she was about to wish for something he wouldn't want to grant. He hoped against hope that she would change her mind. He wanted to hold her and comfort her.

She placed her head softly into his shoulders, "May be in a different world.", she whispered into his ears, "But today, I want to die.", her tear rolled down his shoulder. He couldn't ask why. This time, he would have to let go of her.

"I also wish to meet you as a human the next time, whenever it may be. May be then...", her wish trailed into an ellipsis. He smiled at destiny again, he had never felt emotions before, and there he was oscillating between the joy of new found love, and the sorrow of it about to be lost, but not forever.

He held her gently, and watched her body go limp. It would have to be another era before he held her again. He would accumulate power to 'not' grant wishes then. He walked back to his till, and looked as his nameless love disappeared into thin air.

Cousin Chills

2006-01-05T11:12:00.000-08:00

Driving back from San Francisco was supposed to be good. I had plans of getting out of the business meeting by early afternoon, grab a quick bite somewhere, and get onto the freeway, and be back home in 6 hours. They say that Murphy works his wonders in miraculous ways, except that, over here, in my case, it wasn't Murphy, it was Sean.

It's an established fact that I can't drive at night due to night vision problems. I have tried and I guess, it's going to take some more time than what I had scheduled. The yellow sodium street lamps on San Mateo bridge mingled with the glaring lights from the oncoming vehicles were playing havoc on my retinas. The psychedelic music that was playing was pumping the adrenaline into the driver's head, and the speed limit was thrown to the wind. It wasn't before long that the lilting music were accompanied with the red and blue lights in the background.

"Lemme handle this.", said a confident Sean. Confidence is what defines this guy, and what gets him out of most circumstances. Hey, who am I kidding! That's what gets him out of all situations. He straightened his tie, and I have no idea why he was wearing his dark sun glares; they went very well with the Armani suit that he was wearing. May be the lights were disturbing him as well.

Sean pulled the speed vehicle onto the shoulder, and waited patiently for the onslaught. I could see the officer get out of his car; hey wait a minute, it was a lady officer. I looked towards Sean, I could almost see the halo of a heavy speed ticket over his head. He seemed completely ignorant though. I am sure, he had already made a mental note of the contours of the lady officer. He seemed unperturbed, however.

"What 'exactly' were you gentlemen thinkin'?", asked the officer, without asking for Sean's licence and registration. I realized that my magical incantations to go invisible had been rendered useless, after all she did say 'gentlemen' and not 'gentleman'! Damn it.

Reading her name off the name tag, "Hello, Officer Anderson! We meet again.", Sean's booming voice echoed, in Agent Smith's voice, from the movie, Matrix. He slid the glares down a bit by raising his brows, and without any request, gives his licence to the lady. I cringed deep within. There was no way in hell, anybody was gonna figure that out. Hell, I wouldn't have, had I not seen the movie just the day before.

"And you were speeding because...", Officer Anderson seemed to have relaxed, and was resting her weight on one foot, without her hand on the gun or the baton.

Sean flicked the Bluetooth earpiece a bit and adjusted it over his ears, and turned it on. "I guess, I wasn't plugged into the Matrix, Officer!", I couldn't believe my ears that Sean was saying this and was as cool as ever. If I had been the officer, Sean would have been hanged by now. The officer looked at me, and rested her eyes on my glasses. I was wearing my dark glasses because of the lights, and realized that we did look like the Agent pair, and we had escaped from the movie's set.

Officer Anderson started giggling. Holy Fuckn Molly, Sean had pulled it off again. There was no way he could have made that happen. Oh well...the rest of the story is pretty self-conclusive.

Allow me to introduce you to my 2nd look alike, who happens to be my raring and daring cousin, Sean Smith. As a kid, Sean always wanted to be an airforce pilot. The airforce couldn't take him on account of his poor performance in their examinations, but little did they know what they were missing out on. Well, they missed out on California's best plastic surgeon. Yeah, Sean decided to fly high a different way!

Sean was adopted by my parents a long time ago, but not long enough for us to not know the difference. Our parents never forced on any of us to accept the other as a brother, but thought it best for us to figure things out. The obvious sibling rivalry metamorphosed into a crazy order that still holds good. It just seemed natural to accept each other as cousins. What can I say!

To be continued shortly...

The night before.

2005-12-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

It was the Fall of 2002 at California State University, and people were talking about the beautiful New Yorker who was making waves in our little town in California. I didn't pay much attention until I actually saw her. Elixa was living in the next block and her door was bang opposite my patio. After taking a good look at Elixa, I decided that I didn't see anything special in her. She seemed like a normal, bespectacled, nice girl. I never thought of Elixa for the next 11 months. I just hoped that she would get some good fellow-Californian guy to be her boyfriend for time to come. I continued to be single and not-looking. I had better things to do like research the new algorithm my graphics team was working on to make virtual reality a bit more than virtual. Wow! That was exciting.

Seasons changed, leaves turned orange, then fell, grew again, and were turning green, flowers were blooming, when one fine evening, Rick threw his cigarette at me, and said, "Hey Brad, What are you doin' tonight? There's a bash happening this evening at Allison's. You think, you'll be interested?"

"You know what, I think, I'll go." Graphic algorithms, virtual reality, colorful supercomputers were all beckoning me to leave them alone for a few hours. Rick almost died. Don't get me wrong, he died out of joy, as his best friend was finally talking sense. I just believe, that it makes more sense to NOT go to a party, subject oneself to passive smoking, drunks doin' their drunken deeds, random people making out with other random people; but tonight I decided to break out, and chill out.

By the time it was 6o'clock, the graphic algorithms had changed their mind, and were inviting me to come over to the lab. I didn't want to disappoint anyone, so I decided to call Kipp and ask if he would be able to stand in for me. Besides, who would know the difference. Kipp agreed, and I asked him to stay low, and he said he would. I knew that I could believe my twin, even if he was evil.

* * *

Come evening, I found myself chilling out all alone in the corner of the main party room following Brad's instructions to stay low, what a loser, leaning out at the railing on the patio, with a non-alcoholic beer can in my hand. Don't worry, they didn't serve them there, I had to bring it along with me. Everybody was required to bring some drinks with them. My stack stayed there on the table, untouched, except for the one that was cooling in my hand. Oh well. I knew it wasn't goin' to be any different. I would stay at the rail all night long, watching the fern growing in Allison's pot, and wonder what category it belonged to? I was contemplating to go against the promise that I had made to Brad, and get myself a glass of whisky and coke. But, I stayed put. Random people would come along to blow their smoke out and for courtesy sake, say 'hello', do some small talk, ask me the usual questions about what I do, how I was, and whether I was enjoying, and what would I be doin' tomorrow, and what were my plans after college, and if I knew what life had in store for me! Damn, I have been to parties before, and this is exactly what turns me off.

Not to be a part to passive smoking, I just bummed a cigarette from Neil and was experimenting with blowing the smoke in streams through my nose, and mouth at the same time. I sneaked a look back in the room, and found that my stack of non-alcoholic beers was reduced by further one. My eyes scanned the room for the culprit. Who in this goddamned drinking binge-world was out of their mind to drink non-alcoholic beer!? I was glad that I found something constructive to do to amuse myself. After exactly a minute, I got bored, whoever that felon was, probably trashed it the minute he/she tasted it. Oh well.

"So, how are you doin' tonight?", the brunette leaned out as much as I was, on the rail, with the Exhibit-A that I was lookin' for.

"Wondering how I can kill all these people and run away with all the booze. How about yourself?", I wryly looked in her direction. She did look lovely, and I pretended to be uninterested in making any conversation.

I expected her to leave, but I heard a giggle, "You know what, I was thinking the same." Now it was getting confirmed that she belonged to the same category as Brad did. I was thinking of getting my Brad coat off and ask her to buzz off, but I decided to play along.

"And what would you do after robbing all the booze?" I expected her to give me some wisecrack.

"Hi, I am Eliza, and you are?" What in the goddamned world was happening? Brad had showed me some plump lump opposite his window as Eliza, and here there was another girl by the same name. Wow. Too much of a coincidence to have the same odd name.

"I am Brad. Computer Science major." I just thought, that's what Brad would have added.

As if I had wished for Eliza-I appeared right there, and Eliza-II introduced me to her, "This is Sativa, my good friend. And this is Brad."

"Hey Brad, Wow, don't you stay next to my apartment.", Sativa ogled.

"Yep, yep, that's me with the morning cuppa cappucino in my hand.", I chuckled.

It was getting confusing, and things were sorting out. Some months back, there was this flutter of the new New Yorker, who turns out to be eye-sore. After that, Brad tells me that he's interested in Eliza, the eye-sore. Oh Damn! It unfolded in front of me. Brad forgot to tell me that Eliza was not the fat-sore, but that was Sativa, and Eliza was an entirely different entity. I'll be damned. My twin was interested in this hot chick, but didn't have the guts to walk up to her. My horns were beginning to stick out.

"So what do you do, Eliza? Other than stealing booze, of course. Or is that your main profession!?", I winked.

Eliza gave me a naughty look, "Designing buildings, construction and stuff. An architect of sorts."

I knew this was it. It was now or never. If I don't do it, then Brad was never goin' to get this girl.

"Wow, architechture. Interesting. I always wanted to be an architect.", I lied.

"Yeah right.", She saw through it. I was beginning to like this girl. The brainy types for my nerdy twin.

""Alright, Alright, you got me. No, But seriously, it remains a wonder as to what goes into designing stuff for building buildings.", I gave my usual winning smile, "I am into graphics, and 3-D visualization, I firmly believe, could probably help architects.", I would have killed myself if I heard me talking such stuff at a take-one-home party. Phew.

Oh my god! Scientific visualization is exactly what I do. Damn, what a coincidence." I couldn't make out whether she was lying or just liking Brad.

The night went on smooth, and into a long conversation that touched a couple of topics other than architecture and graphics, thankfully.

Just before it was time for Eliza to go, I decided to pull a final string, "How about breakfast tomorrow at the foyer. I could probably show you some of my work on my laptop."

"What work?", Damn she was putting up a defence. Oh Boy! This ones' for you brother!

"I don't know if my stuff would be helpful, but I just need to brag about my work at every breakfast.", I tried my best to look cute.

* * *

The next morning, I rushed into Brad's room, "Dude, you got a breakfast date with Eliza. Hurry up..."

This was goin' to be fun.

EviL Twin

2005-11-28T21:13:00.000-08:00

Meet Kipp.

Imagine the time when you wished you had a twin and had all that fun. How you thought of all the pranks you would play on people by switching identities. How you would give 'mischief' a whole new meaning. How you would go out with your twin's partner, and then scare them by revealing your trueself later. Unfortunately, I don't remember making any such wish in my childhood, probably because I was never placed in a situation where I didn't have a twin.

Coincidentally, the worst moment of my life is exactly the minute when Kipp came along about 60 minutes before I was born. Well, that doesn't exactly count as a moment of 'my' life, since I was not born as yet. But anyway, you probably would have guessed by now who and what, I am referring to! Like I said, Meet my evil twin, Kipp. There are some incidents that stand out in my mind like a red feather, but the ones that I am goin' to talk about are a little about Kim and then some about Elixa.

Kipp and I are practically the same person as far as physical appearances go. Thank goodness for the differences that exist inside that body, inside that head to be more specific. The differences are not enough to throw off a stranger, but good enough for our mom to make out who's who. I was never sure whether that was a good thing, but I was sure that it was a bad thing when Kim couldn't make out whether it was Kipp's tongue or mine.

Kipp's simple explanation to that was quite simple. "Didn't you break up with her anyway, bro!?" Is it a crime to pose as your brother and make out with his ex-girlfriend just before she left town. So Kim ended up making out twice with Brad before she left town. How did I get to know about this little rendezvous? Kipp told me. The brothers share the common trait of brutal honesty if confronted. Kim called up that morning before she left and said, "Goodbye Brad. I feel bad that I've to leave town and leave you here. I wish I didn't have to. I hope to meet you sometime. Last night was wonderful, I'll cherish it for a long time to come." What the fuck!?

"What the heck, man!? That is so not cool.", I screamed, "Kim said she 'came' for a 'long' time." Kipp reciprocated with a platitude, "Chill budd. Nothing happened. You were just kissing her goodbye." I had broken up with Kim about 4 months back.

"I am over Kim, dude. She and I talked about this, and decided that separating was the best thing, as we were goin' to different universities." Kipp disagreed. That was high school. We went to the same university, to major with the almost same degree, and to kill my peace of mind.

Sometimes, I ask myself, whether Kipp ever thought that I was a pain in his neck. I wouldn't obviously go kissing his girlfriends, but maybe I could study more, and give one of his papers, and make him the topper of his class. Yeah, that would probably be the best way to get back at him. Yeah right! Like that was goin' to work. God, How could I be so pathetic!?

Things were goin' pretty smooth for the 2 of us. Kipp was doin' whatever that he was doin' and I was doin' pretty much my stuff. After Kim, the next girl I got attracted to, was Elixa. Elixa looked like an intellectual type, the one who would discuss rocket science before having sex. Totally my type. I happened to discuss this with Kipp over coffee in the foyer.

"So what's the problem?" quipped my 2-horned brother blowing the disgusting smoke my way.

"Err...I am not sure whether she likes me, man!", I sipped my coffee, observing Kipp drag on his cigarette.

The conversation ended after discussing who would call mom and when, and who was to send flowers to Aunt Katie etc. Kipp paid the bill and moved off, leaving me with 'Ulyssess' that I was studying that month.

The next morning, Kipp barges into my room, and pulls the blanket, exposing me in my pyjamas, "Dude, you got a breakfast date with Elixa. Hurry, you are to meet up with her at the State Fountain Bakery. Now."

"WHAT!? What the fuck, dude!", I glared through my sleepy eyes, jumping out the wrong side of my bed.

"I just called Elixa for some notes. She'll be expecting Brad to receive some notes at the bakery. Pronto.", Kipp said matter-of-factly plomping onto my undone bed, "Don't be late."

What the fuck. What notes. "What notes?", I screamed from under the shower.

"You are researching how computer science can help architects make the world a better place to live. You are writing a paper on that.", Kipp blabbered, "You could talk to Elixa about that. She could give you some notes, and then you could play them on her lovely body. He he heh."

Kipp would never understand my feelings. I was seriously attracted to this girl, and lust was not on my mind as far this girl was concerned. To think of it, lust was not on my mind at all. That reminds me, my frivolous brother was a glib talker, a smoothie, a verbal flirt, but never did he sleep around, to the best of my knowledge. Strange, I always thought. Hmmm.

The breakfast date went on to many dates to her being my girlfriend, my live-in partner, and then a difficult break-up. Kipp was with me through all of that. Wicked that he was, after the break-up he fixed me with a job in Paris. He joined me a little while later. Ronnie was introduced to me by Kipp, and so was Zara, Winona, Preitre, and Yvonne.

Kipp probably fucked up a lot of things for me, but also helped me in a numerous ways. The worst moment of my life also happens to be my best moment, I guess. A conundrum in it's simplest form.

Harking down the Memory Lane.

2005-11-20T01:19:00.000-08:00

Found some posts that were written in the beginning of 2004.
When I used to rub my nose against hers, and feel her eye lashes brush against my face, her curls tickling my neck, it felt like bliss never felt before.

The tingling giggling that escaped her soft lips, the light fingers that ran through my hair, the beady look in her eyes, used to get me lifted to the top of the world.

The way she used to wrap her arms around me, hold me tight and snuggle into my neck, nibble my ear, and blow my hair back.

The time when I used to peck her neck, steal a kiss, and touch her hair, and whisper a 'hey' into her ears, used to get her high.

And when she broke her hand, the stunts that she used to try in kitchen, her attempt to cook, whilst me sneaking up behind her to give her a helping hand, and blow air into her ear, tickle her back, caress her elbows, and all that still brings a smile to my face.

The shine in her eyes, when I used to go to her office, the glee on her face on seeing me, was worth all the effort to walk up to her place.

The way she used to sneak up behind me when I used to be punching away at the keys, and cup my eyes, and I am sure, she always hoped, that I never guessed another name other than hers.

The time when she sat and watched me wrap up my documents on Valentine's, and how I messed up all her plans to go on a long romantic drive.

The night when we had a small misunderstanding, and I could feel the tear rolling down her eyes over the phone, and listen to her stoic voice. I hitched a ride from a stranger to go to her place, the test next day could go to hell.

The drive to Billoxi holding her hand, while she sat besides me, very coy. Her nails digging into my arm as we watched 'Red Dragon'.

The day when I never saw a tear in either eye as I boarded my flight to NY. The three trips to Boston, from New York. The last one trip, I wanted to see her so much, and she declined, and then she changed her mind, and asked me to come by at the last moment. For we knew that after that day, we would not see each other for a long time to come.

The bus ride to her city, in the rains without any rain gear, no food to eat, and no bus to board for long, the never ending wait in the pitter-patter, to get onto the bus for her. The arrival at 4 in the wee, the sleepy look in her eyes, and I hugged her real tight that night.

Watched a movie at home, that was one of the things we loved doing. The romantic mood in the air, the buzz of the television, and the two of us cuddled into each other.

The hug the next morning, the last kiss before we let go of our fingers, the sight of her walkin into her department, the final wave of goodbye, the walk to the rail-station, with the thought that she would never be mine.

* * *

I sketch, she sketches better. I paint, She paints better. I am unconventionally sensitive, she is conventionally sensitive. I am lil' emotional, she is super emotional. I am indifferent, she is quite indifferent, but chooses to believe that she is not. I am a chatter-box, she talks reasonably. We both like the same kind of scenarios for photography. She loves fast-cars, I love driving any car fast, but choose to drive safely most of the time. We both have gone to sleep at the wheel. I love to laugh, she's got the best smile. I am not coy, she is sorta-coy. I love to hold her hand, she's got the nicest hands. She likes to nudge, and I love her nudge. I don't like to see her cry, luckily she doesn't cry. I like the adventure-spirit in the girl, she is quite a sport. I am hyper-ambitious, she's got her head on her shoulders. I am fantasy-minded, she's practical. Her smile makes me feel good. She loves being with me, I trust. I simply love being with her. She is 3 months younger to me, till somedays back, she thought she was older than me. She is my best dance-partner. I have seen her going all red with blush. She doesn't get green with envy, she's gets white with envy. Hmmm. I have seen her that way. She looks cute, and lovely, anyway, just as she is. She looks beautiful, when she gets up in the morning from bed. She sounds wonderful when I wake her up in the middle of her sleep, sometimes. He he heh...No no, I don't do that on purpose. She's a nice person. She thinks too much. She thinks way too much. She worries a bit more than a normal girl. She is not the nagging types. That's kinda odd for a girl, but that is true. Never seen her nag. She does not crib, she does not gossip. She talks sense. She is good-humored. Sometimes, odd-humored, with only her laughing, which is not funny. Especially, when it is my leg that is getting pulled. She loves to get cosy. She rocks my world. She laughs with me. I love her very much, and she does not love me. End of story. Hmmm. And I still haven't written much about her. Something went wrong somewhere, and I don't really know why and how. Guess, I shoot my mind, without really thinking how the other person might hear it. Hmmm.

Complaints/Comments/Remarks: The red crepe skirt.

2005-11-17T23:30:00.000-08:00

Age: 5; Grade: 1st

It was Class 1B with Mrs. Briganza as my class teacher. If I had a better analogy than Hitler, I would have probably used it for Mrs. Briganza to describe her, but alas Hitler is all what I have got. Mrs. Briganza sincerely hated me, and as luck would have it, she stayed in the same building as I did. How many sins did I have to commit to get that accomplished!?

I never comprehended Mrs. Briganza's sinister and ulterior motives behind making me the Class Monitor. Probably, as my dad always put it, the class monitor was the one who used to stay behind after class and shut the window panes, and be the first one in the morning to let the sunlight in. Other than possessing those window skills, I did not consider myself to be talented in anyway. In retrospect, I would like to say, may be she did notice my people skills even at the tender age of 5.

Parent's Day is what I thought it should be called, but they always tagged it as Parents Day, making the same grammatical error every year. I was amongst the 'chosen' ones to perform in a dance onstage on that important day. Parent's Day was the day when all the bright kids were felicitated, and it was rubbed into other not-so-bright kids how not-so-bright they were, by not permitting them to be there for that 'Day'. So there were the chosen bright ones, and there was me chosen to give my two left feet performance.

I had no qualms about the dancing on stage, as I loved participating in shows. Primarily, all the participants for shows always had to go for rehearsal, so I could legally skip classes; that explains my love for shows. That year the little guys were required to wear a white frilled shirt, black pant and red crepe paper bow tie. I never asked myself why did they not advise us to wear a cloth bow tie, probably because the little girls were required to wear a red crepe paper skirt. Some questions went unanswered.

During one of those rehearsal times, I was sitting quietly in the third row of the class benches, right behind Nikki. Nikki was a beautiful girl and was wearing the red crepe paper skirt and was also my 2 left feet partner in crime. Until this date, I sincerely pledge that I dropped my eraser and I had gone under the bench to retrieve the eraser. And in my efforts, I ended up ripping apart Nikki's crepe paper skirt leaving her in her panties and white shirt. Risky Business.

In school, we had a small blue book where teachers used to write down remarks and complaints which had to signed off by one of the parents, just to make sure that the parents of the felon-kid were aware how 'bad' their ward was at school.

Back home, I silently crept up to my dad, who is way more sensible and considerate than my mother, and showed him the little note in my blue book which I did not comprehend. My dad read the note twice and looked at me with an inquiring glance, and laughed out aloud. Hitler-at-home a.k.a mom was immediately called for an audience.

"Our son has got his first complaint in his book. You won't believe what his teacher has to say about him."

My mom gave me a stern glance, and inquired what did the teacher had to say about their darling son.

"Brad went under the bench and tore off a girl's skirt. Such behavior cannot be tolerated. Please meet up with me at the earliest possible." My dad chuckled and looked at mom.

I wasn't questioned, plausibly because the note was beyond comprehension.

Dad and Mom decided to meet up with Mrs. Briganza at school the very next day. I knew I was in trouble, but just didn't know how deep.

"Your son is a disgrace. He has spoiled the name of his teacher, the name of this school, and and the name of his parents." The diatribe went on for sometime, I believe, before I was condoned and let off.

My parents didn't know what to say, and apologized for their son's crime and came back home. I had to apologize to Nikki and kiss her on her cheek for some reason, as my gesture of friendship.

At home, I was given a warning not to get into trouble 'ever'; now I didn't try to convince them that I don't really try to get into situations like that. Ssshh...It just happens.

The wolf in the lambskin nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Knuckled.

2005-11-12T21:35:00.000-08:00

Would you believe it if I told you that I work for the Mafia? Of course, the Sandlers don't call themselves that, but I have my concerns. And my concerns are very gradually metamorphosing into fears.

4 months back, I was a happy man. Life seemed like it had nothing but the best to offer. I had a good job, a good family life, and most importantly, my peace of mind. July 29th 2005 changed all that. I got accepted into Eagles Corp for the position of a... err...uhmmm...oh well...whatever, they were paying me handsomely, I didn't bother to ask. They mentioned the word 'software' here, a 'manager' there, and a '$8000 a month plus benefits' underlined, and coated with sparkling glitters. I should have smelled something fishy; not only was the wool pulled completely over my eyes, but stuffed deep into my nostrils as well. I flew into California, business-class, all paid for. God, what company pays a 28 year old novice, eight thousand bucks and flies him first class. I had tied a knot to the woollen cloth behind my head.

My first day at work, I was introduced to everybody who worked at the company headquarters. It seemed a bit awkward to hug and kiss anybody, but I thought that was just the way people greeted when one was to work at an Italian place. How surprised was I to be when I was to realize that I was actually being made a part and parcel of the real-life 'The Godfather'. Ignorance was bliss. Since I had no idea what my designation was, I assumed that I would be informed of my responsibilities after all the introductions. But Chuck was of the opinion that we should go and celebrate my California arrival. Who was I to complain? The mexican luncheon was awesome. I was tempted to ask about the job profile, but I let it rest. I was done working for the first paid working day in California.

Two months went by with me running from the Accounts department to the Software Division to the Garage. By then, I had gathered that my work around the company was to keep people informed and happy, come what may. For past-time, I used to sit and stare at the computer screen, and stare real hard for long hours. Sometimes, I thought I did telepathically manage to switch the monitor off, but that was just Windows doin' it's usual thing. I started thinking of new ideas to keep myself amused and occupied. I organized projects like hooking up surveillance cameras in every unit, getting the employees on the time-clock, having GPS notifications to my server so that I get to know where my employee was all the time. Those were company phones, I could do whatever I wanted to. The owner, Mr. Sandler had jokingly told me in my first week at Eagles Corp, "Brad, you have the License to Kill. Do whatever it takes, to get this company organized." Little was I to know that, that was not a joke at all.

Our conference room is a nice little place, with a nice round rosewood table, matching chairs, technical facilities, and other niceties of life to keep everybody happy. Though there were certain facets of the room that had me confused, like the hook in the ceiling. I know for a fact that the company wouldn't hang a chandelier in there, and that's when it all dawned on me. That hook wasn't for hanging chandeliers at all, holy cow. I shuddered, and tried to push the thought out of my head. I concentrated on the 'ON' that was pasted on the wall. I thought it was a nice word to keep everybody motivated, and focused on their goals. I looked at the 'ON' real hard, and almost shrieked. That was no motivation symbol, that was a cue for the person who would be hung upside down from the hook to say what it read. Oh my god, Oh my god, what have I gotten myself into. The wool was beginning to shred.

A lot of previous incidents and situations were being replayed in the head. When Mr. Sandler said Ramon Lopez was to be fired from his job, I didn't realize it then, that Mr. Sandler never jokes. Ramon was to be fired in reality. Ramon was never seen from that day onwards. It's like Ramon never existed at all. I made the mistake of asking Billy about Ramon, and Billy replied with a glare, "Ramon, who?" Ramon had been vaporized.(Apologies to Orwell) It would have to be a devil's dare even to think about Ramon hereafter. The pieces were slowly, and gradually falling into their respective places. Everywhere I looked, a piece of the puzzle peered back at me. Why would people refer to each other always by their nicknames? The title music of 'the Godfather' was playing itself over and over again at the back of my mind.

The software that I had just designed to arrange for money influx was to be used to organize the flow of money directly into bank accounts, with no human intervention. Credit cards could be used, as all the channels were overseas accounts. I was not asked to make it hacker-proof, my orders were to make sure everybody saw the eye of the Eagles Corp on the page. The 'company' had a webpage to receive payments. I had rigged everybody's phones with triggers to send back location data to the main servers. Everybody was on the map, nobody could escape. Anybody could be contacted anytime, I had enabled Push-To-Talk technology on every phone.

My discomfort didn't go unnoticed. A week after everybody got done looking at me as if I was the white sheep in the family, I was called into the 'conference' room for a talk. I stared at the upside down 'NO' and met Mr. Sandler who politely broke the ice, "Brad, how's the company functioning?". I am not sure whether I nodded, or my head bobbed in an attempt to duck the fussilade of imaginary bullets.

"Brad, we have to talk." Mr. Sandler looked hard in the eye when he said that.

Damn, that bastard must have slept with my ex-girlfriends, where else did he pick that up. And all of them must have broken up with him using that line, just as they did with me. Served him right, I thought. "Yes, Sir. Mr. Sandler.", I replied.

"The time has come where you have to be rewarded handsomely for your services to Eagles Corp."

Didn't they shoot somebody down after sayin' the exact same sentence in some movie. Thank God, I had visited the men's room before I walked into the conference room.

I rubbed my neck in anticipation. "I am very happy with what I get, Sir!"

"No, no...You have to be promoted. I have been thinkin' about you for a long time now." What company gives a promotion in 3 months, I thought.

Well, come what may, I had gotten myself into this mess, and I had to get out. Resignation, are you kiddin' me! There is no such thing as 'resigning' from Eagles, you get out when you are fired, or 'fired', depending on how that term is executed. I couldn't run anywhere, as I didn't have another job. I wished, the wool had been in it's place, and I had not noticed anything. Life would have been such a bliss.

"Brad, how would you like to be a partner in business?" Is it not a sin to be messing around with a dying man? Why was Mr. Sandler doin' what he was doing? He was a sadist, damnit. I have seen him in action before with other employees. The best way to crush a person is to do it mentally, is to kill a person from within. What else could I say about a man, who has a sign in the parking lot, 'Exclusive Parking for Mr. Sandler. Trespassers will be eaten by the Eagles.' Another piece had fallen into it's place.

I smiled my best smile, not knowing what to say to the unfolding drama. Mr. Fowler, our chief head hunter, the true meaning of the term struck me hard, was smiling at me. Damn, everybody was a partner in this company. I was probably being recruited to 'fire' somebody. I was not very much off the mark.

"But before that you have to do one last brave thing." I am a Business Analyst, atleast that's what academia would vouch for, and the bravest thing that a business analyst could do was to open up his own company, and I hadn't even done that. So my 'brave acts' record was sparkling clear. I swallowed hard and blurted, "What would that be, Sir!"

From then on, it was made clear that I was to go my competitor's office, bribe somebody to be the insider, obtain news and corporate secrets. I heaved a sigh of relief. Phew. I could do that.

The meeting ended shortly. I am usually driven around in a chauffered company vehicle, but I was handed over the keys to a company car, and was told that it was to be used for my personal benefits. I was elated, the guys had done a great job at darning the wool.

I put the keys in the ignition, fired the engine, and was all smiles, until I noticed that the 18-wheeler truck had also turned it's lights on at the exact same time. I knew it was time to escape.

Fictional Realm!

Phoenix, Arizona

2005-10-26T21:04:00.000-07:00

Tintin and I were suffering our respective Monday Blues on August 29th, 2005. The entire week yawned before us. The news made a mention about the coming long weekend, and that news sparked a life into the day. There were no second thoughts about it, it was fixed even before it was decided that we were going on a roadtrip to Phoenix, Arizona. Ri in Phoenix would have to be hospitable whether he liked it or not.

MapPoint became the order of the day as Friday started drawing closer. We agreed upon driving straight to Ri's crib, starting Friday afternoon. When Friday afternoon did come, I was still waiting for the office pile to unclutter. I could see the traffic getting thicker and dense, wheels whizzing past me with untold fury, my hands glued to the steering wheel, and TinTin would be saying, "Brad, we have to go. Brad..."

"What the heck? What do you mean we have to go?", I mumbled. Day-dreaming had graduated into 40 winks at the office desk. Uh oh.

With no further ado, we sneaked out of the office, lest we invoke the wrath of the superiors. They had been informed the day before. "Errr...I'll be out of the office before 5pm tomorrow sometime.", I whispered into the aura of my immediate senior. That should do the trick, I retrospected on the roads, sinking my teeth into a snack bar.

Starting off at 3 o'clock would help us beat the outgoing Los Angeles traffic and exit the city quickly. We started driving at sharp 4 o'clock, just an hour off the mark to soon find out that everybody had thought just like us. Miraculously, we escaped the traffic jams and were soon driving out on I-10 off to Arizona.

Since we were eastbound, the sun was behind us all the time. Driving back, however, would be a bitch. Yeah, we knew that already. After about 3 hours of driving we were travelling through the deserts that cover the southern part of California. We would be approaching the Grand Canyon State of Arizona. The myriad of windmills outlined by the lovely sunset, was an amazing site to witness. The ups and downs through the hills and dales, we were beginning to get into a tizz

(To be continued...)

Big Sycamore Canyon

2005-10-26T21:03:00.001-07:00

Adventure Sports is good for you.

Last Friday, when I went to bed, I didn't know that the next day was goin' to involve a lot of physical training, by way of adventure sports. But thank goodness, that my Friday night sleep was peaceful, as it wasn't goin' to be that way for the next 5 days.

Did you know why the LazyBoy is called the 'LazyBoy'? That's because one just doesn't feel like getting out of it. That cozy chair brings out the indolence in you; that's the real you.

Saturday morning, I am chilin' out and my superfighter friend, in the best of his health, Charles pops the question, "Do you wanna go mountain bikin' with us, hommie?'

I rolled my eyes, since I like to think of myself as an 'outdoor' guy, even though the intervals between the hikes seems to get longer by the year. TinTin exercises 3 times a week, and is the last part of the aforementioned 'us'. The last time I ever did anything that came close to exercising was 2 years back, so this 'mountain biking' event was more like a challenge. I decided to go ahead with it. The unknown was staring at me in my face, and I was staring at it right back.

Charles and I drove over to NewBury Park to hire mountain bikes; Tintin met up with us 5 minutes later. We had picked up the full-suspension bikes, and Tintin had to settle for something less extravagant. It was 3 in the afternoon. The LazyBoy thoughts were still hovering around my halo, and slumber was settling in as we drove quietly to Big Sycamore Canyon.

Slipping quietly into the parking lot near the mountains, we pulled out our bikes, played around with the gears, and set off for a bike-climb of half a mile to the top of the mountains to ride all the 8 miles down to the beach. That half a mile seemed like the Devil's ride to me and I was already thinkin' about what's goin' to be on my will. Charles and Tintin were already on their way without waiting for me, and I was figuring out what gear was good for this climb.

In about 10 minutes we were beginning to zoom down the hills, careful not to jam our brakes too hard lest we topple off the mountain to our death, and those 2 minutes of zooming with the wind in our face, was bliss. The guys were waiting for me to catch up with them, and ungratefully, I zoomed right past them. I reminded myself again about the brakes, and there were no casualties as yet. Charles and I had just crossed the wooden bridge that marked the end of the downhill zoom, and we hear a 'WAIT'. Somebody had fallen to his death, I thought.

That somebody turned out to be Tintin. He escaped death with a scraped palm and a bruised leg. Holding the handle bars was not goin' to be easy for him now.

Charles led us off the main cycling route into what looked like maize fields, with the regular ups and downs, and uneven grounds. It was difficult in the beginning, but we soon got used to handling the gears, lifting our butts up whilst banging into the ground and getting both the wheels to point in opposite directions to get through some tough spots.

Skidding through the muddy fields became second nature in no time. I almost felt like a professional, biking on those terrains. The adrenaline rush when we swooshed through passing streams was terrific. That was also the time, when my tooth cap came off. Ouch!

Tintin was not enjoying the bumpy ride as he was not on a full suspension bike, so we got onto the normal paved biking route all the way to trailer camps. We were approaching the beach. The point that separated the sandy grounds and the solid mud was bikable but not undertaken by us.

We were on the beach for just 20 minutes as we had a gruellin' bike up. Chillin' out on the beach was good. We rested our bikes on the sand, jumped across a tiny backwater stream and had a couple of PowerBars, gearing ourselves for the bike climb back up to the top of the mountain.

In moments, we were back on the route. I was leading for exactly 3 minutes and after that Charles and Tintin were out of sight. My muscles were beginning to give away. In 20 minutes my gear chain gave way, and Charles had to come to my rescue.

After about 4 miles of cycling way behind the others, I was on my own. I couldn't care less. I finally had some time to take pictures of the beautiful surroundings. The bike ride was slow, but do-able.

Since I was alone, I decided to cheat. I got off the bike, and decided to walk it for sometime, until I could feel my calves all over again. In about 5 minutes, I was bored of walking, but cycling wasn't exactly enticing then. Clicking pictures, walking my bike, biking my legs and mustering up my remaining courage, I arrived at a fork.

Now, I had to take a crucial decision. Either I could take one way and be jungle-boy for the rest of my life, or I could take the other way and reach the car where the other guys would be hopefully waiting. I decided to be JungleBoy.

Cycling for 10 minutes, I didn't see anybody, and call it my instinct or what, I just decided to turn back and take the other route. This was the route that we had taken on our way to the beach, but it was through the fields; I just thought it made sense to stick to the normal route, so that even if I don't run into Charles and Tintin, atleast I could run into somebody, instead of bears and snakes.

It was getting to be sunset, and I had to cycle faster. I hadn't seen any humans for atleast what seemed like an hour. Amusing myself by clicking different pictures, I finally find Tintin and Charles waiting for me to turn up. Thank God, I was on the bike and not walking.

The zoom ride was lurking around the corner, and the mere thought of it was exhausting our minds. Crossing the bridge, and marking the spot which was already blood marked by Tintin, there was no way we could ride up. The three of us decided to walk our bikes, something that I had done for about 1.5 miles already. That walk up was onerous. I was far behind, as usual. A very well deserved 'Phew'.

Back on flat ground, and completely energized, we had the company of other bikers. All of us were very glad that somebody invented cars. We stopped on our way at Yama Sushi to have chow.

Adventure Sports is good for you. Yeah, that's what I thought too. I was aching for the next 5 days. And Charles asks us again today, "Is it goin' to be a wine tour or mountain biking tomorrow?'

Mountain Biking, Hell yeah. On second thoughts, Hmmm...Oh yeah. Wine Tour, please.

The coup.

2005-10-26T21:03:00.000-07:00

Smriti and I exchanged worried glances wondering whether everything had gone as planned. Kasim should have been back at the cottage by then; he was late by 10 minutes. The candle flame flickered, listing more in the direction of the silent, cool breeze that was blowing outside. The power cuts were more frequent, and nobody seemed to complain. A bead of anxious sweat trickled down her neck, finally getting absorbed into her dull pink blouse.

"Kasim's always late; I am positive he must have stopped over at Mishra's for a puff.", she sighed and looked in the general direction. Had she not smiled, I would have missed the humor, and would have assumed that Smriti had succumbed to the mounting pressure.

Smriti's smile in her eyes had always been the explaining factor to her cryptic retorts, and caustic humor. I was proud that I could figure out what was in her mind, though I did have to wait for the befuddled sentence, and the explanation in the eyes, of course.

The wait continued. We both played with the same thoughts, "Where the heck was Kasim? I hope he is not dead."

* * *

Should I hope to find a gold ring inside this one's tummy or what? Atleast that is what it looks like the way you have priced this one!", jibed the young Bengali lady to the fish vendor. I looked up from my tobacco chore, with a lit match cupped in my palms.

The matchstick flame burnt my fingertips enough to distract me from the haggling girl, clad in a white sari and a crimson colored blouse that blended well with the border of the former garment. I uttered a silent shriek, and her eyes darted in my direction, catching me suck on my sore finger.

"Are you alright, Sir?", inquired the girl with a touch of concern, taking a step towards me.

"No, I am not 'alright'", I said with a twinkle of mischief. "I am Kaushal, that's what my grandmother named me; Kaushal Roy" I wasn't trying to flirt with her, and after having blurted the first words that came to my head, I hoped she would take it in the right spirits.

"Well, that's good then, as I didn't want to be the cause of any arson early this morning." Her smile heard my sigh of relief, but her instant reply presented me with a new warrior of wits, it did seem to have a touch of naughty pride, or had I taken the place of the fish vendor now. She didn't give me any time for a comeback; her basket of groceries sans fish, changed hands, and grabbing the free end of the sari with the same hand, she walked by me saying, "Have a good day, Mr. Roy."

My eyes followed her till the end of the crowded street. Just when I was about to turn my back and swing my way, had she not turned around and given me a glance with those spirited eyes, she would have slipped away into sweet oblivion.

I thought to myself, 'She could be the one.'

* * *

The fragrance of the jasmine flowers in her hair spruced everyone's spirit in the room as she playfully walked in to the conference, albeit a minute late. Her eyes caught mine, and she had the same expression in them the day I saw her first.

It would be a lie if I say I was not in love with her, and it would not be the truth if I said otherwise. The whorl of emotions that played upon my mind is inexplicable as it was never understood by me. I doubt, if she ever fathomed my thoughts.

The Civil Disobedience movement had been declared by Gandhi, and the 1857 uprising was being incarnated by the day. I considered myself a revolutionary, and peaceful talks were my first attempt, but if that did not help, I would have had no qualms about an exploding situation. The difficult part was getting the others to believe in themselves and in me. Something more difficult than that would be finding 'the others'.

It was quite a coincidence that I arrived in to Midnapore in the summer of 1942, a few months before the announcement of the movement. The patriot in me survived the 2 years of academia spent abroad, and I was back, with a mindset to make a difference. I was holding my patience reins, everytime I seen and read about the atrocities committed by the British Government. My father was a very influential and affluent man, but political enough to keep the British at a distance. I respected him for that, but there were times when he had to give in.

Having stepped onto my motherland, I kept an eye open for fellow thinkers and revolutionaries. They could be disguised anywhere working as a sweeper to the horse-cart pusher to the clerk who held a high position in the law courts.

Lallan was my first hope in this foray of revolution. Lallan performed his duties as a priest, performing morning worship rituals at the Kali temple located next to the town center. I circled the temple in an attempt to locate him, but it was futile. And I didn't want to hound Lallan out of his house, as that would spoil the surprise. I hadn't informed anybody that I was returning. I even wondered how he would react on seeing me.

I was born a non-believer, and stayed away from any religious activities as much as I could. My mother, the person who helped me take this stand, used to enforce sanctions if temple worship was not attended twice a day, especially since I was born into a Brahmin family. Lallan was the priest's grandson, and grew to be my best friend due to similarity in thoughts. Lallan disliked all the activities associated with temple worship, but he grew up to be a priest, as it gave him easy access money to survive, and pursue his interests in journalism. He was a glib talker, managed to gain access to inaccessible places, squeeze news out of situations and people, and provide them to Kasim, the news editor. Kasim would then publish them under a pseudonym.

Talking of Kasim, he was next on the list to be surprised. I was about 99% percent sure that Kasim's reaction would be exactly the way my dad reacted. That would be nada or zilch. But once in a while, Kasim does the unexpected, hence the reserved one percent.

(To be continued...)

Kids with Cams

2005-10-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

The kids squirmed with anticipated pain, when the needles pricked into their tender brown skin. The results came out within a week. As the movie rolled on, I waited with baited breath; I couldn't heave but a sigh of relief when I heard Zana say 'Good News, they are all negative."

It is a sober moonlit night, with the garden sprinklers humming away quietly, without a worldly care. Inspite of being a Friday night, I am at my pad watching this splendid documentary titled 'Born into Brothels'. The movie is based on kids born in North Calcutta's red-light districts, and captures the moments of rejections, failure, and success involved in the director's efforts to rehabilitate these kids, with an intended view towards a better future for them.

The movie introduces the viewer to 8-year old Puja, whose mom is a sex-worker. The mother's primary concern is to bang in the green whichever way it is given. Kochi, Shanti, Avijit, Gour, Suchitra and Manik are Puja's friends who share similar fate of being born into a brothel. Hats off to British-born photographer, Zana Briski and her co-director, Ross Kauffman, for making a movie that held my attention for an entirety of 85 minutes.

Zana is also the founder of the non-profit organization, 'Kids with Cameras'. She does a splendid job of getting the kids to channel their interests into photography, thereby offering them a different perspective of life. Most kids who are born into brothels, often regard their lives as 'normal'; and finally succumb to the viscious circle of flesh trade. Without proper education, it is impossible to get the kids to realize that they have an option.

It is mighty pleasing to see the kids embrace photography with both hands that soon get busy clicking away day-to-day activities. Zana teaches them the basic 'how-to's of photography, and the tricks of the trade.The kids turn out to be naturals at photography. Their brilliant photography is a feast for the eyes. It is not surprising to see how these kids pick up photography with a lot of enthusiasm. The kids have been exposed to a hard life up until now, and thereby find it relieving to express themselves through their photos.

Zana's main aim is to get these kids a proper education. The kids have to realize that they could lead a better life with good schooling. The mission workers manage to admit every kid into a boarding school. The schools are concerned about them being HIV +ve. The negative blood tests are very comforting.

Zana helps them organize photo exhibitions to raise funds towards their benefit, and also manages to get Avijit, one of the kids, to Amsterdam for an international photography workshop. Before going to Amsterdam, Avijit has his concerns about school life, but gets convinced finally.

The kids' smiles, mischief, laughter, all bundled into a neat movie is a viewers' delights, and sheer pleasure for the heart. Of the kids shown in the picture above, only 2 of 'em continue to be in school, the rest of 'em have been withdrawn from school by their illiterate parents or relatives for purposes unknown, but none too good.

It just makes one realize that money accumulated serves no purpose if it's not being put to good use. There are millions of kids out there in similar situations or worse, and it is really sad that not much is being done. We would love to help and do social service, but the real question is, can we afford to? This is indeed a selfish line of thought, but take a moment over here to think really deep.

And while you are at it, do take a moment to appreciate their pictures at their website. You will realize that my pictures do not capture an iota when compared to what these kids have to show you through the pictures clicked by their innocence.

A Salute to the Captain.

2005-04-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

Ron had sworn to get everybody drunk, as that was the Captain's wish, and as I stepped into the library of Shakespeare & Co Bookstore, I could see Ron abiding by his promise. The seemingly tiny room of the Tumbleweed Hotel was bustling with people, some of the usual smiling faces, the usual inebriated, the usual bystanders and some welcome new. The thread that bound us all was, we were there to pay our respects to the Late Mr. Christopher Cook Gilmore, better known to all his friends as 'Captain'.

The minute I stepped off the last wooden step onto the floor of the children's section of the bookstore, I could hear Anita, the captain's wife, announce,"Guys, please have some more wine, we've got plenty of it on the table outside."

There was still a minute or two for the 26th April 2005, 7o'clock memorial to begin for Captain Cook. With a copy of the Captain's autobiography in one hand, all set for the reading, Ron gestured me with his cupped palm, beckoning me to grab a bottle of TsingTao Beer. Anita Gilmore stood up to pay her last respects to her dear departed husband, for one last time at the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, the place where the Captain had spent a majority of his traveling life, meeting people, writing poems, and books, and experiencing a world that cannot be explained in mere words.

What thoughts breezed through Anita's mind when she started to talk about her husband, we shall never know. The moist eyes held back a fond tear, and the words poured from her heart. She recounted the Captain's stories and stay in Paris, his encounters in and around the bookshop, and their previous memorial that they had in Morocco.

...and here in this jar, we have the Captain amongst us,” concluded Anita, carefully supporting the little jar that contained the ashes of the Captain, as she placed it atop the pedestal of books over the benches in a corner. Those ashes evoked many a dear memory, in the minds of those present, and sincere tears of remembrance in the eyes of those who were close to the Captain.

The fascinating introduction of Captain Cook by Anita, was followed by a short reading by the daughter of George Whitman who is the proprietor of Shakespeare & Co, Sylvia Whitman from the Captain's book, Atlantic City Proof, published in the year 1978. Whilst the reading by Sylvia, the quibble between the characters in the book, Garvey Leek and Minnie Creek, at the onset of their ensuing friendship, reminded the audience of the different facets of the Captain's seafaring nature, and his love for boats. Anita informed the listeners, that the insider story about the book being an honest tribute by the Captain to his passion for boats.

The room was overflowing with people now, and the wine and beer bottles were floating in the air, being passed over heads from one corner to the other. Ron, a true believer in the Captain, could not help, but shed a tear in his memory. Under Captain Gilmore's aegis, Ron had given up his career in technology, and had taken up world-touring with the Captain. That, according to Ron, was probably the best decision he has ever taken in his entire life, and owed it to his 'guru'. Ron's description of their adventures at sea, at Morocco, had his listeners enchanted with their journeys, held them in awe with their dare-devil stunts, and the same audience were in splits with Ron standing before them, narrating and mimicking the Captain's idiosyncrasies.

Jonathan, who has devoted 2 years of his life to the well-being of the bookstore, recited the poem, 'The Raven', by Edgar Allan Poe as a mark of respect to Mr. Chistopher Cook Gilmore. Jonathan informed us, that his younger brother was a good friend of the Captain. The two of them used to sit in the cafe nearby, Cafe Leffe, and have bouts of discussion, play chess with ideating thought pawns, and enjoy their beverage. I would commit the poem to memory, but Jonathan had everybody in giggles, and chuckles, with a splendid recital of the said poem, which he had committed to his soul. The words poured with a rhythmic cadence, and had the people were mouthing the words with him.

Mr. Edward, who knew Captain Gilmore from his drug days, recounted a flat race event that took place inside the prison where Captain Gilmore was held in custody for more than a year, for illegal possession of hashish. Mr. Edward told everybody about a record breaking racing event; the results of the race were not acceptable to the jail authorities as it was an unofficial event. Ron chipped in, by mentioning how the Captain was unbashful of telling his war stories as well as his prison stories. “The Captain was against any kind of violence, so war was an improbability.” said Ron.

Mary Varme, a long standing friend of Mr. Gilmore, recited the beautiful 'The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock', composed by T. S. Eliot. Ms. Varme read the poem with quivering thoughts about her dear departed friend, a poem that saluted her friend in the best way possible.

Ricardo, who has been a visiting member of the Tumbleweed Hotel for quite sometime now, had been introduced to the Captain in the year 2001. Ricardo recited an Italian poem by Pier Paolo Pasolini, translated into English for the benefit of the audience. The poem, 'The lament of the excavator', was much appreciated and lauded by those present.

Mr. Raman, a good friend of Mr. Gilmore, recounted the times that he spent with the Captain. Mr. Raman also recited a poem in his language, the words that not many could understand, but with a depth that touched everybody deep within.

The curly haired man, Mr. Mark Lipman, recited a poem about marvelous shooting stars, harking down the memory about the sporadic returns of the Captain to Paris; Mark fondly spoke aloud his memories about how the Captain wrote letters and kept in touch with his father, amidst his travels. Mark also quoted the Captain words, “'...stop writing about life, and start living it...'” The Captain was a witness to the numerous aspiring writers who had lived at Shakespeare and Co. before proceeding onto their journey of life.

After Ron finished reading Mr. Christopher Cook Gilmore's autobiography, written in 1984, whence he was staying at the bookshop, Anita asked everybody to refill their glasses to hear a lovely poem, which they referred to as 'The Greatest Poem' ever written. After a singing a lovely song, Ron gave us an insight into the origin of this poem, about how the Captain used to add a line or two every time he visited Paris. Anita had us astonished by the fact that the poem was written over a period of 31 years, beginning in 1969.

The poem, titled, 'Paris Blues', got some people nostalgic about their days with the Captain. The poem reflected the thoughts of people staying at the bookstore, when the poem talked about having infrequent showers, wearing unwashed clothes, a walk across to Notre Dame, the hungry sleep, the 'oh' for those Paris girls and many more little incidents that group together giving the big picture about the blues that one faces in the city of Paris.

The recital of the poem concluded the memorial reading for the Captain; Anita invited everybody to join her in the sprinkling of her husband's ashes into the river, La Seinne that flows under the bridge that one walks from the bookshop to get to the Notre Dame cathedral. We all walked down to the river with the bottles of wine and beer. Anita scattered the ashes from the jar into the river, as a boat filled with sand passed by; friends had begun throwing a bit of wine in the general direction of the flowing ashes, and cheering the Captain and his memories, with songs and laughter.

Everybody returned back to the bookshop, arranged the benches outside, and sat down together with more bottles of wine, singing Elvis songs, smoking a joint, eating Greek food and making merry, just as the Captain would have wanted it to be. Amongst all the tears and laughter, with the surge of colorful emotions in the environment, with the wine pouring from the rim of the bottles, it almost seemed that we had relivened a special moment of being with the Captain.

Captain Cook lived life to the fullest, traveled the world over, lived in over 14 countries, sailed in a boat that he built, wrote books, served time, slept under the bridges, smoked dope, drank beer, took the bull by his horns, and gave a lot of people the mantra to live, and not just exist.

Our friend, the Captain, expired on July 1st 2004, due to a serious malignant ailment, but continues to remain in our hearts, where he will be cherished fondly, forever.

A Natural Mimic by Petite Anglaise.

2005-04-22T03:32:00.000-07:00

This article is posted on an 'as is' basis from Expatica Website. The original post can be found here. Please leave any comments for the author Petite Anglaise at the site of original posting. The author has been notified of the posting.

A friend of mine came round for a cup of tea after work and confirmed what I had suspected: Tadpole has a broad Yorkshire accent. Short 'a' sounds (bath, glasses), nice Yorkshire 'u' sounds (mummy) and little phrases ('come 'ere!') that wouldn't be out of place in The Last of the Summer Wine. I have been unwittingly teaching my daughter Northern English.

As far as accents go, I've always been a bit of a chameleon. It's not an affectation: I don't deliberately adopt a plummy 'Received Pronunciation' (BBC English) voice to speak to VIP clients on the phone, or a thick Leeds accent when I see my family there'. I just can't seem to help myself. Whether I intend to or not, I reproduce the accent of the person I'm having a conversation with. I am a mirror of sorts.

I have a very clear memory of answering the phone as a child to a caller from my father's company head office in Dundee. In the space of a two-minute conversation I became Scottish. When I put down the phone, I felt mortified at the idea the lady might have thought I was mocking her accent. However, if you asked me to 'do a Scottish accent' right now, I guarantee it would be abysmal.

Apparently this is a well-documented phenomenon called 'unconscious mimicry'. Most people do it to some extent, and it has implications far beyond accent alone: a person will often adopt the same sentence structure, intonation and vocabulary as another. A form of linguistic empathy, or solidarity. While all children are natural mimics, as this is how they learn, most lose this ability progressively as they reach adulthood, which is one of the reasons why it makes sense for children to learn foreign languages from an early age. Evidently some adults retain a greater faculty for mimicry than others. Whether they like it or not.

The upside of this unconscious habit of mine is that my French accent is near perfect (even if my gender reassigning skills still sometimes give the game away!). It is probably a Parisian accent, if such a thing exists in this cosmopolitan city, although I'm generally poor at recognising regional French accents apart from the very obvious North/South vowel differences. I do frequently get mistaken for a native, which is something I never cease to feel childishly gleeful about.

The downside is that when speaking English with Mr Frog, I adopt a faint, but tragic Frenchaccent. It makes me cringe, but it is beyond my control. Not only do I mimic the Frog's (very charming) English accent, but I also reproduce his grammatical errors. Now that's what I call solidarity.

All in all, I suppose I should be thankful that I am naturally inclined to speak to the Tadpole in this dreadful franglais, given that she is as near to a linguistic clean slate as you can get.

I can definitely live with her being bilingual in French and Yorkshire.

Raking the Embers of YesterYears.

2005-04-21T02:21:00.000-07:00

““Dude, Is that all what you got for the trip, fucker,” Joshu exclaimed, looking at Brad's tiffin carrier, mentally comparing the teeny parcel with his V.I.P suitcase and an extra baggage, lunging at his shoulder.

“Yeah, man. I told you, I am an expert packer,” Brad flaunted, taking a drag on his second cigarette, as they were waiting on Platform No. 2 at Mulund, the railway station closest to the suburban area where their entire group was located. “ 'And I doubt if I have forgotten anything behind. Where the fuck's the train!'”

It had been a year since those words were exchanged on their trip to Ganapati Phule sands, a local beach near Ratnagiri, on the Konkan coast lining the western shores of India. This time, the guys were off to their dreamland, 200 kilometres (125 miles) further down the previous coast.

The guys were gathered on the same platform, late at night, to travel to V.T., Bombay's major rail centre, to board the Goa bound out-station train. Lalit was making a mental note of all the bags that were gathered around on the platform, around him and everybody. Lij was with the group this time, unlike the spot entry that was seen on the last trip; he was consistent in running away from home though, without gaining any parental consent. That Lij had informed his mom and dad about his whereabouts was a consolation to everybody; abating the fear of being reported to the police.

Pushing his weight onto one leg, resting his right hand on his hip, lurching it forward a bit, Avi was toying with his short growth of beard, pondering over a residential matter with the bespectacled Ralph. Nick was hyper-excited as usual, and was beginning to mutter curses about the tardiness of the Bombay local trains, a minute after their arrival onto the platform.

An hour later, comfortably seated in the unreserved compartment of the out-station train, the feeling of ecstasy was slowly and steadily, sinking in to everybody. It was their first real getaway to another state, not just the physical state of residence, but an escape to a state of freedom and euphoria. It was their first escape to the land of parties, naked women, miles of clear sand, bugging tourists, U.V. parties, and nocturnal escapades. The boys were unaware of the roller-coaster ride that lay ahead of them, but they were sure, that they weren't going to sleep and waste the best part of the travel through the night. The horn blared, and the train heaved a bit, to move itself out of inertia, amongst the continuous chatter, their exciting 7-day trip was just about to begin.

“Who's got the Old Monk?” chirpped Brad, eager to whet his appetite for alcohol as were the others. The train had barely been moving for 2 hours now. The train snaked through the newly dug tunnels in and out, the hollow sound inside the tunnel, that is distinctly different than what the train makes when it is not inside one, was very soothing to the ears. The mood inside the compartment was beginning to mellow down, as the hours advanced, and the train sped past the smaller stations.

The group from Bombay, however, had not intentions of grabbing any sleep, and letting anybody around to catch 40 winks either. Smoking inside trains is not allowed, but is not strictly prohibited either, and the guys had started their chain-smoking, and merry-making. The 'chakanaas' (snacks) and the quarter (180ml bottle) of Old Monk rum was changing hands, cupped in a brown paper sac. The old man huddled in a blanket had begun to say his last prayers, when he found himself among the 6 Bombaites, with smoke billowing out of his blankets, and he found himself being offered the sacred alcohol and the spicy snacks. Nick had decided to hit the bunk, for an early awakening the next day.

Unfortunately for the passengers who were traveling with the group, everybody got into high spirits, and not just idiomatically; the group with their 'mellifluous' vocal-cords had begun singing enthusiastically. For those of you who know how ridiculous the song 'Banno teri ankiiyaan...' and for those of you who know Joshu as well, can very well understand the plight of the befuddled old man, when that song was being boomed into his tympanic membranes by Joshu, cupping his hands around the old chap, as if he were leaking out a gross secret. The song was not a secret, but gross nevertheless. It shall always remain a secret, whether the old man ever led a normal life after that night.

The songs were intermingled with talks ranging from murderous plots to sport discussions, and all the commotion ended up disturbing a person who had managed to snooze, up in his bunker until then. Mr. Seriously Disturbed, climbed down from his sleeping berth, and addressed Joshu very seriously, “Gentlemen, do you realize that you are disturbing everybody and that people are trying to sleep.”

At this, instead of quietening up, and apologizing for the ruckus, somebody quipped, “Sssh! Don't you see our friend, Nick is sleeping and that 'you' are disturbing him NOW.” This called for everybody around to snicker, chuckle and giggle and roll over. Mr. Seriously Disturbed climbed back onto his bunker, solemnly resolving never to travel in an unreserved compartment ever, and if forced to, he would carry a glock with him at all times, just to shoot and put himself out of misery.

It was Lij's turn to keep a watch for the station, and Avi and Brad were giving him company at the compartment door. With his legs dangling out of the train, sitting at the door ledge, alongside Avi, Lij was keeping a sleepy-eyed watch for the Margao station that we had to disembark to proceed to reach our final destination. Anjuna Beach, Goa. Nick had gotten up by then, and was washing his face at the 'sarvajanik' faucet that was spewing out metallic tasting water. Fiddling with the last cigarette in his first pack to be finished, Josh quipped, “Do you want to light another one, man!” Without watching Brad nod his drowsy head, Joshu struck a match and cupped the flame with his left hand, lit his cigarette. Margao was not even an hour away.

“Is anybody interested in 'chai'?” Lalit enquiringly looked at all the faces, finally meeting Ralph's eyes, who agreed to get down onto the platform where the train had halted. It was early in the morning, the normal chirping of the birds was drowned in the 'tring-tring' sounds made by the cold-drinks vendors. The sweet aroma of tea was awakening everybody in the train. It was a long halt, as the train had reached a spot on the tracks where just one train could pass by. It was a scheduled stop, so nobody grumbled, instead everybody decided to get off the platform and have a good stretch.

Ralph was returning with a pack of vada-pavs (fried and breaded potatoes) devoring one himself.
“Where did you lose Lalit?”, Avi inquired, mildly scanning the platform behing Ralph.
“He's coming. He's gone to make some inquiries about the train timings,” Ralph stammered with crumbs of bread falling onto the platform.

The minutes passed by, with everybody sipping their second cup of chai, breathing in the morning fresh air, and everybody was eager to get going again. The train blared its horn and made a soft chugging sound, indicating that it was about time to get going.

The sun had come out from behind the mountains, as the train slowly and hestitantly pulled into Margao station, albeit 2 hours after the intended time of arrival. This did not dampen the spirit of the group, as they trudged their way out to figure out how to proceed.

The place was crawling over with buses, cabs, trucks and jeeps of varying sizes, and with varying fares to take their passengers to their destinations. After much haggling, Avi and Lalit found a seemingly sturdy vehicle for our journey to Anjuna beach; the price was Rs. 20 ( 50 US cents) per head, and rounded off to Rs. 100 for everybody.

The house locator was Ralph who had the address to the bungalow, where the guys would be camping throughout the trip. However, it was difficult to find out where the gang was dropped at by the driver. Those palm trees in almost every direction did not aid their sense of direction. The calm ocean waves were inviting, beckoning the guys to jump in and the azure sky was lulling everybody to sleep. Nick decided to move their baggage and shove everybody into the shade before proceeding any further, in the scorching sun. The smokers decided to take a small break before starting to walk. The first group consisting of Nick, Lalit, Lij and Ralph moved on with their bags.

After much contemplation and about 30 minutes, Avi succeeded in dragging the remaining two to walk to their house instead of camping right there, as Joshu had removed his shoes and was wearing his hat right over his eyes, all set to take a small nap. About half a kilometre ahead, they found the other group trudging along slowly.
“Hey look, our guys haven't got really far. I guess, walking in the hot sun on this beach with those heavy baggages is really difficult,” Further thoughts about their difficulties were arrested by the sighting of the first naked breasts on the beach. Those breasts were just lying right there atop a naked woman, who face was shaded beneath a straw hat. Within 5 minutes of beginning to walk, Avi, Joshu and Brad realized how tired they were to proceed any further, and decided to park for 20 minutes right besides their hot and brand new resting partner.
“Aah...Now you know why those guys didn't get any further than that...he heh” Avi chuckled, and Joshu and Brad joined in, almost waking those tits up.

After having an eyeful of utopia that lay in front of them, they started walking reluctantly in the general direction of their compatriots who were not in sight presently. Walking like a troll, Joshu was reminding bystanders of the dying sheikh in the Arabian deserts, dragging his suitcase behind him.

At the same time, Ralph was talking with his aunt from Bombay, who was there much before they arrived. She had made all the arrangements for her nephew and his friends to rest and have a wonderful stay, right from the free coconuts to the made up beds. By this time, Joshu and Avi were crawling into the bungalow; closely following at their heels was Brad, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Within moments of arrival, Lalit, Lij and Nick changed into their swimsuits and strolled towards the warm sea for a dip. Avi's hunger had kicked in and needed some good food and water, really exigent, as he was convalescing from a relapse of hepatitis. Joshu unpacked the food, spread out the spicy Indian pickles, and chappati (kneaded and rolled wheat bread) onto a leaf of newspaper that was lying around.

Brad was lying on the cot, observing the dried white paint that hung loosely from the ceiling, shifting his gaze to the swaying palm leaves outside the mud hut, pulling at his cigarette softly. Picking up the offered cigarette, Joshu visually caressed the bare backs of the women that were seated on the verandah.

“I think we should offer them some of this stuff. Foreigners usually love spicy pickles. What say?”, Avi suggested, mocking Joshu's stare.

“Sure, why not? Go ahead, my man,” Joshu winked at Brad, as Avi got up and dusted his back, packing the stuff with one hand.

Brad got up from his resting position to follow the situation, and Joshu had already started chuckling with anticipation. Avi walked up to the girls, and offered the eats, which was politely declined and the bearded man walked back into the room.

“Well, that was a good show of feeding the dogs some shit, 2 minutes after getting to be neighbours,” said Brad, in an attempt to irritate Avi.

Avi did not respond and walked to the back of the room, showing his middle finger to Joshu and Brad. Brad got his cigarette back from Joshu, and the two of them laughed harmoniously.

On the beach, Lalit was swimming vigorously, against the waves, as it was high tide then. Lalit stood up in 4 feet of water, and yelled to Lij, "Come on further in, man. The water's pretty darn good."

Lij hestitated for a moment, before moving in. Nick was further away from the 2 of them, trying to compete with Ralph who was practising his underwater strokes. After a long haul from Bombay, it took not more than 35 minutes for the four of them to move out of the water and bask in the afternoon sun. 10 minutes later, they were carrying their sand-covered bodies towards the house that was sheltered amongst a thousand palm trees.

Dusting the sand off his chest, and flicking his head to one side to get the hair out of his eyes, Lalit was enjoying the warmth of the rays on his bare neck, savoring every movement of the trees ahead. It seemed like Mother nature was orchestrating a panaromic dance just for his benefit. Lapping every bit of it, he raced the others to the bungalow.

Certain facts about the bungalow were hidden from its presents occupants though.

(To be continued...)

Beads of Euphoria.

2005-04-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

I walked out of FranPrix, a local supermarket, a stone's throw from my place of work, grabbing 2 chicken sandwiches and a bag of tortilla chips. I had planned on eating in the privacy of my air cubicle, at my work-station. I was feeling quite proud about not having succumbed to the pressure of smoking, over the weekend that had just scampered by. The thinker by the road, lay in shambles, with his adamantly dirty coat covering his head, a needle by his side, and crumbs of bread strewn around his limp hand.

It was about 2 in the afternoon, the sun was abnormally high in the winter sky, and it felt good basking in those rays as I trudged over the cold snow beneath my feet. Just then, I am not sure whether it was my subconsious that spoke to me as I stared at the lifeless form of the man, or a meta-physical entity, and I guess I shall never know. “Hearken! My dear friend, you were right and I was wrong. You had chosen rightly, I wish I had; I can't change the past, for I am alive no more.” It felt like a thought from a swiped chunk of memory was addressing my conscious being, beckoning me to write out about him. Tinnu, as he was then called, was taking me back down the memory lane, to when it all started.

If I had to describe Tinnu's story right from the beginning to his adolescent death, I would have to say, 'cliched' is the word. I shall spare you the suspense, Tinnu died 8 years back as a result of an overdose of methampethamine, more popular these days as 'crystal meth' amongst the hip-hop, mobile totting, youngsters hanging out in flashy outfits, atop their trendy mode of transports, whilst fashionably pouting over a cigarette. The colors of glamor and vanity, as seen
through the tinted shades, pull the wool over their innocent eyes, as they take a long, supposedly satisfying drag that pulsates the euphoria right through their systems. Tinnu got his hits via injections, another excellent mode of self-destruction, which finally led to his cosmic calling.

Parikrama, the rock-band from Delhi used to play often at Mood-Indigo, during my undergraduate years, and it was the second year of my engineering debacle, and we could hear the other bands ululating the red carpet welcome for the P-band that was to play in a short while. Thanks to inflation, we were forced to buy our 'quarters' (180ml containers) of alcohol, and make ourselves comfortable in the backyard of an isolated shanty, guzzling our lurid liquor to glory. There were too many of us to place a finger on the actual count, but a ballpark figure of 15 would be satisfactory. Through my glazen vision, I could see my drinking buddies roll and strike up a cigarette. Olfactory senses told me that this smoke was laced with THC, and unfortunately, it seemed to make perfect sense to 'try'.

Well, I am not a druggie but I have 'tried' herbal narcotics on some ocassions, a fact that I am not proud of. I am quite happy that I did not venture into other aspects of the drug-culture, that included snorting, sniffing, pill-popping, injecting, palette-lining and other methods of abuse that I am thankfully ignorant of. However, I have been a mute witness to acts of self-destruction, and am also guilty of indirectly promoting this behavior in some of my friends, by not opposing their dreadful actions; a crime that I shall forever atone in repent, a realization put into focus by the demise of my friend, Tinnu.

After the quick 'vamoose' from the Chinese stall, the freebirds flocked at the entry points of the rock concert. Some of us gate-crashed into the concert, as that was the 'in' thing to do, and some of us bought entry tickets in 'black', using a lefthandshake. We all met up inside, and were sitting snugly, with our backs resting against the topmost step of the concrete structure. The crowds were smoking anything and everything, a collosal destruction that I look down upon with contempt and sincerely wish that I could rewind and orchestrate the whole affair in a different manner. I don't regret my actions though, funnily; but given an opportunity, I would play my cards differently. Cuddled in the arms of somebody, we were blowing circles of smoke, entertaining the crowds with blith rings, and then a syringe dropped to the ground. Tinnu died with a smoky halo around his head.

The shrieks from the bystanders, as they watched him convulse, perversely trying to congress the steps. Tinnu's friends were high on substances unknown to me, his group had joined our group outside the gates, so he was more of an acquaintance than a friend to us. We were in a better position to think, considering our levels of sobriety. None of us were trained in any sort of paramedic action to be taken in such a situation. I tried to massage his already over-heated body foolishly, thereby aggrevating his already worsened situation. Tinnu's body stopped contorting, and he lost consciousness, and the scene of his possum body rolling down a few steps, still remains vividly clear in my mind. The well-wishers scooting away from the scene, but remaining within a good distance to witness a case of serious overdose. Another friend of his, probably his companion in deed, stubbed out the cherry of a burning cigarette on his body, trying in vain to revive his dead friend.

The ensuing silence in front of the operation theatre, the singed look on everybody's face, the fear in the eyes, the wailing of Tinnu's parents over his lifeless body, leaves me numb even today. I recollect Tinnu's mom, holding onto his beaded chain, as they rolled his body into the autopsy room, the distinct drop of every link to the floor, echoing through the hospital corridors, ringing through every soul present, shattering the ephemeral beads of euphoria.

Fictional Realm.

Tinge of Salt.

2005-04-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

And then something happened...

The clock applet dropped a minute after 6.35p.m., and I shuffle my legs,pushing the blood into those limbs, running the mental prep of 'what to do next', not really expecting an answer. I don my jacket, pick up my bag, and waving a quick 'Au revoir' to my colleagues, I step out onto the wooden verandah, to breath in the fresh green air into my smoke-free lungs. I have been smoke-free for more than a commendable 2 weeks now.

I dribble my feet down the wooden steps, and my mood has swung into an altruistic nook. Ruminating my thoughts, mulling over the troubles of a friend, I pass by the local bakery, mentally rejecting the thought of an expensive croissant, feeling the embossment over the coins in my pocket. I walk by the usual thinker, who must be in his late thirties, who sits by the road, puffing away to glory, drinking a bottle of cranberry juice, and muttering unaudibly to himself.

I have seen him sit there by himself everyday, with the usual berry juice in his mud-stained hands, clad in an unclean shirt, and a matching denim to go with. I have seen him polish his light brown shoes with newspaper folds, and pull up his socks for an unchallenged day. I have seen him dutifully put 40 cents to use the public toilet, rather than ease himself on a wall nearby, for free. People walk by, throwing their extra change in front of him. He is not begging for alms, he is reading his newspaper, commenting on the current affairs unaudibly.

I am standing on the left side of the cross-walk waiting for the lights to turn green so that I can walk by. The light turned green three times, probably or more, as I continued to observe my thinker. On closer observation, I see his slightly wrinkled face beneath the sage like beard, telling me an untold story. He is not a beggar by choice, actually, he is not a beggar at all. Those coins could fool anybody, it fools him as well. I wonder what is it that happened that brought him to this stage, and what is it that he plans to do to walk the rest of his long remaining life.

The light turned green again, and I crossed the stripes. I glanced back again, to see him staring at me; uncomfortably I kept walking on, and musing over his situation. Why would he polish his shoes, why would he not use the walls to take a leak, why would he not drink alcohol like a normal wastrel but cranberry juice? If I spoke French well enough, I would have asked.

I often used to wonder, why am I in a position where I am right now! Was it where I had planned to be, according to my 5-year plans, five years back.

5 years back, I was sitting at the local tapri, with a short stubble, grieving over a then-lost-now-forgotten girlfriend, didn't drown myself in alcohol, but numerous cups of chai, smoked cigarettes on credit, read the Times cover to cover, watched every friend of mine doing exactly what they wanted to do or so I thought, and I looked at myself and sighed.

I put out my cigarette, blew the filthy smoke in streams down my nostrils and said to myself that even this shall pass. The future is not entirely in my hands, some people chalk a framework, some keep the scaffolding ready, and most of them like me then, lived in the past, but atleast they were worrying about their future, trying to stitch a net, and there I was, sitting unconcerned. Many of them, continue to worry even now, since I haven't done anything to change or save the world as yet. Luckily, I chose to differ and never turned back. Awakening from my grieving grave, I walked into another land, and it didn't just happen one fine day. That was 5 years back.

Those wrinkles behind that beard reminded me of a story that I hadn't asked for. I walked on, fiddling my keys in my pocket. I toy with the idea of defining what is 'present', for by the time, I savor the present, it's already become the past. With every passing moment, the past continues to move away from the present, and a moment in future becomes now. I had just seen what I could have become, and I shudder, and I find myself more at peace at what I am now.

A better tomorrow depends on how you choose to define it. Life does not end with the loss of something, as Robert Frost has said, 'it goes on'. You have to realize that it is your birthright to enjoy every moment of it, to savor and relish the delight of being what you are right now. You may not like the situation that you are in right now, but go easy on yourself and think about the fact that you are better off than many unfortunate souls.

It was time to put my cribbing and anxious mind in the backseat, when I see friends pick sandwiches out of the trashcan, sleep on the sidewalks with a book on their face, the temperature plummets to a minus ten degrees celcius, and he re-defines 'open house'. I consider myself lucky that I am not driven to that state of hunger, when there are no rules anymore. In the dead of night, as I walk back to my apartment after a binge, I see a soul digging his hand into the trash bag, searching for a morsel of food to apease the obvious hunger. I climb down with some remaining food, but I don't see him any where in sight. I try to offer the food to another lady, who refuses my gesture politely. With the growing concern for psychopaths who kill by feeding poison, it is better to eat from the trash than from an aluminium foil. Her concerns are not unjustified. I place my food carefully in the trash, and walk back home. What must have been their 5-year plan, if they had one, ever. Did they see themselves like this before? Where had they gone wrong? Are we not lucky? I eat food everyday and many a sight prove to be the salt for the best sauce I have ever had.

(To be continued...)

Date comes out of the Closet.

2005-04-18T09:37:00.000-07:00

This happened on the third date, and we hadn't got to the 'let's go home' thing. In fact, I was mentally prepared not to make it to the fourth date, because I was finding it difficult to find interesting facets about my date, and making conversation with guesses is not easy.

I was running late, as usual when Donna called up an hour before the scheduled time, to check if I was goin' to be late 'as usual'. In order to save my non-existent pride, as far as punctuality is concerned, I assured her that she should come atleast 30 minutes late, thereby saving us both the mandatory argument about 'keeping her waiting' and yes, I was going to be late by 15 minutes even then.

With some stroke of luck, it started snowing very heavily, and she got stuck in the traffic, and it was my turn to deliver the 'kept me waiting' kick-off statement. But, I am a Gandhian, and politely showed her the time on my watch, her watch, my celfone, and asked the waiter if the restaurant clock was running fast by any chance. I am not sure whether that was it that triggered what was to follow, or was it something else. I wouldn't be surprised if you guessed what bush I am trying to beat around, but you will be taken aback nevertheless.

Something was fishy about Donna that evening. She seemed normal, but I was beginning to smell something fishy. Call it my clairvoyant nature, or attribute it to the sushi joint that we were sitting at, Huka-Shi-Wa! Nice place, but what a peculiar name. Wonder what it meant!

Donna quips very chirpingly, "Hey, Guess What!?". That's Donna's usual way of starting any conversation, so I have given up guessing. The first time she hit me with that, with a lot of enthusiasm, I started guessing different things, and it turned out that her maternal cousin in Cambodia was chosen to be the chief priest of the temple in that village. How in the 'world' is one supposed to guess that kind of a thing! Another time, she met MaryJane in the train. That was our first date, and I was beginning to resolve, that the next time, I was goin' to guess that 'I was soon not going to be seeing her anymore'. But it never got to that.

So, there I was sipping my cabbage soup, trying hard not to guess anything, as I would be disappointed anyway.

I am a business woman!", with the standard Donna-smile on her face, and this time with a twinkle of excitement in her bright brown contact-lensed eyes.

"Yey, Good for you!", trying desperately not to guess what kind of business she was into. I know for a fact that she dropped out of under-graduate school, because she wanted to pursue more 'aesthetic' interests. Since, I wasn't going to ask her to marry me the next day, I didn't prod much into that. "So what is it that you sell?", I posed, biting into the wasabi dipped sushi rolls, and fiddling with those plastic chopsticks.

"I sell myself." Donna states matter-of-factly. I give my natural reaction when I don't comprehend, "Ok". But she's a nice girl, and seemed very excited at the thought of confiding in me, I add, "But, what is it that you sell, yourself".

"I sell myself.", and she starts giggling with no restraint, at me being non-plussed. Donna speaks good English, but I am not understanding the language now. The verb has to be applied to an object, and either I was going selectively deaf, or Donna was upto her Donna-Tricks. She had referred to one of her previous pranks with that misnomer. I give her the usual I-still-don't-know what you were doing last summer look.

"I wouldn't say I am a prostitute, but most people choose to use that term. I think of it as another form of labor. And it wins me my bread." I was about to stand and clap, as her conviction had me convinced. My Mensa brain kicked in, damnnit, she was an actor, and a might good one too, but why did she choose this topic of flesh-trade to break the news to me, that she had gotten her first break somewhere, some theatre, some movie, I thought.

"Wow, That's some news, so how did all this happen?", retaining my genuine interest, and polishing off the sushi rolls.

"You are not taken aback by that?" She did look a bit taken aback herself though, ironically.

"Taken aback with what", replaying her statement again in my head.

"That I am a prostitute!". She didn't seem to be dicomfitted with that, and it was too late for me to be discomfitted, as I had already congratulated her on being one, just 10 seconds back.

I was beginning to think, that this could be one of those Donna-tricks, which I do not understand. And I wasn't sure, whether I should play along and see how far she went with it, or just fall for it. I decided to fall.

"Wow, That's some news" I didn't know what to say, toying with my wallet.

"You are the first guy who has been so cool with that. It is dignified labor, especially when one is hungry, and besides, I always use contraceptives. Always. So you see, I am very very careful. Always." At that, I began searching my back pockets for that Nobel that I had tucked away during the day.

"What in the world was a dignified laborer doing in the metallurgical sciences section of the public library? It was the Reference Section that I met Donna, or was it Dirty_Donna? I could understand Anatomical Sciences, but Metallurgy for Heaven's sake! I ran through my checklist of top 100 things-to-do in my life before I started with the 101st one, whether dating a body-waiter was one of them. I didn't realize that I was using my chopsticks to knit a sweater with the noodles, by then.

"Uhmm...Well, So how did you get into it". I actually wanted to ask about the connection between metallurgy and sex. I know, I should be annoyed that she didn't tell me this in the first place. But hey, we started off discussing mineral ores in Siberia the first time we met, and the topic about what I do, and what she does for a living never came into the picture. And she said that she was a self-learning student, who didn't want to be registered at school, possibly because of the high tuition. So basically, we didn't get a chance to discuss our bread-winning duties as yet.

"You sure, you are not upset with what I just said." It's been 2 minutes since she has declared 'Huka-Shi-Wa', and I haven't given the reaction that she was anticipating. Hell, what reaction was I to give, even if I had recognized that she was in fact what she said she was.

"Nopes, not really. In fact, I think, it is very honest of you to confide in me.", I retorted matter-of-factly, disguising my astonishment. I was still toying with the connection between metallic ores, and human orifices, and my date.

"Hey, can I ask you one thing, do you put on make-up?", Donna was looking at my face very inquiringly, and a teeny weeny bit of irk.

Nature plays tricks on everybody, by giving them unwanted birth marks. Some people cover up by calling it a 'beauty spot', others have them concealed, with luck, in some unseen part of the body. When it came to me, I can imagine the impish grin on my maker, when he/she must have been saying,"Hey, I have given this one some good sharp features, proper brains, all's well, now give me some clues on how should I mess this one up!". And his boss must have yelled, "Do what the fuck you want, just be creative." So my creative creator, gave me eyes with permanent make-up. My extra long eye lashes curl up way too much, as they have been artificially done to give it a very feminine look. And to provide finishing touches, the eyes give off a super sharp look, thus projecting my eyes onto anybody's impressions, the first time, I look at them. This is not me complaining, but this is me saying what one needs to know, when I replied to Donna.

"Yes, I do." It was my turn to see how she would react.

"But why?" It didn't sound like an exclamation, but more like a curious inspection, and I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable, with the lying.

"I have always put on make-up onto my eyes. It's something that I feel comfortable with."

"Errr..Uhmmm...Are you what it means! I don't mean to pry, but you have to make that very clear."

With no clue, what Donna was blabbering now, I blabbered along,"Errr...Uhmmm...Yes. I hope that's alright with you!"

"No, of course not. It is certainly not alright with me. What do you take me for?" Donna was not smiling anymore. She looked glaringly, and with a touch of stern indignation, she muttered, "And, for your kind information, I am not a whore like you think, I was just trying to see your view point on the subject. I wanted to know the psychological setup of my date. And I can very well see that you are messed up."

"Hmmm...I know.", not putting up a defence of any kind. To be honest, I didn't see any point. I didn't even feel like asking what did she think of men who put on make-up, and in what way, did that qualify to be crowned with the adjective 'messed-up'.

"No wonder, you didn't get shocked with my statement, you sick man! I am gonna leave now, and don't bother calling me up. I am not interested in seeing a person like you any more." She flicked some bills out of her purse, and left without having her dessert.

I tossed a coin, for heads, to go after her and tell her that it was a joke, and tails, to finish my dessert. The coin called heads, and I started to sip my cafe, wondering what is it that she thought I was, since I didn't have any idea. And what was a prostitute turned psychology student doing in the metallurgical sciences section.

I tipped the waiter heavily, and made a quick exit, to catch the last Metro to the nearest pub, to hangout with some cooler people.

Fictional Realm!

Enough Time?

2005-04-16T09:39:00.000-07:00

"The earth revolves around the sun in about 365 days. One day has 24 hours in it, an hour has 60 minutes in it, and a minute has 60 seconds in it. The physical concept of time has been quantified and sealed. Defining a second in terms of the movement of the planet around the solar power does seem to be the best way, or is it?

'Time flies', as they say, depends on the circumstantial moments. Reiterating a known cliche, a minute with your lover is not the same minute over a lit gas stove; banging on the same nail, would it be correct to say that after 30 years of being with a person, one can remain elusive, and spending a moment with another could reveal soul facts.

The qualitative measure of time is developed within a person in a myriad of ways, and is different for each person. 20 years could be a long time for a teenager to have spent with his or her parents, 20 years could be a moment's glance for a happily married couple. Circumstantial evidence would be much needed to quantify time qualitatively.

If you do not know what is going to happen tomorrow, is there any point in thinking about it? In the present book that I am reading, 'Life of Pi', there is a brief mention about how death is jealous of life and hence sticks very close to it. The inevitable finality is eternal, and that fact cannot be argued against. Death causes physical separation, but that does not deter one from loving another, getting involved with another, and being together. Should it be considered to be a risk? Must one accept the risk of separation and hope for the best? Or should one think a day ahead in life and do what's best for tomorrow instead of today?

Can we compare death of a partner to a divorce or to distancing; they are all separation in their own ways. They all lead to something that cannot be be called as 'joy', except that the latters could be worse, if a despicable view is taken into consideration. Must not we enjoy the fact that the person is alive and is in a position to counter react, rather than think about the day when he or she is not going to be there. Must we not love the fact that he/she is right there in front of us, rather than think about sustenance in absence.

The temptation to shield oneself from the unforeseen future in anticipation is quite a difficult one to resist. Nobody likes to be hurt or suffer intentionally. Is it justified to react defensively in lieu of taking risks or treading on invisible steps, and masking it as a precautionary measure?

Is prevention really the cure?

Cuisine en France

2005-04-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

Cuisine en France. (Cooking in France)

*Listening to 'What You Waiting for' by Gwen Stefani.* Pretty catchy.

Ever since June 2nd 2004, the day I landed up in Paris, I have been eating out at various restaurants, not because I suddenly realized the existence of a silver spoon in my mouth, but out of sheer compulsion. Somtimes, the team of cryptographers go out to eat lunch, and I am one of 'em. No, it is not a office dictat to eat together, but I prefer to join them every now an then; helps me increase my knowledge. No, not technical knowledge, but linguistic knowledge.

Well, June falls under the 'summer month' category, so the then preferred luncheon by most Frenchies is 'salad'. Now, the mention of a 'salad', can be surely prevaricative. Now imagine salad leaves, lots of salad leaves, scattered with sauteed onions and potato chips, slice up 2 boiled eggs, a couple of tomato slices, 3 slices of whole wheat bread toasted with butter on the reverse, and the obverse is overed with melted cheese of different types. Put some ham slices below the leaves, and pronto, you have 'Salades du Berger', roughly translated to 'Shepherd's Salad' or 'Salad of the Shepherd'. Now, you can mix and match different types of cheese, and meat, and salad leaves, and call them different names.

'Chevre' is goat cheese, 'Rockfert' is cheese from cow's milk and fungus is 'compulsorily' allowed to grow into it, and tastes amazingly swell, 'Reblochannade' another type of cheese made from cow's milk, although the preparation method is different obviously and unknown to me, 'Emmantel' is another good variety, and there are about 396 of 'em, whose names I can't remember and don't care to. And a particular cheese tastes exceptionally good when consumed avec (with) a specific type/cut of wine.

There are more varieties and blends of wines than people in Paris, and I have tasted most of the cheaper variety, primarily because of the obvious reason that they are less expensive. They do not taste as 'celestial' as the more expensive wines though. I have tasted some of them as well luckily. Most wines are named after the region where the come from, so you will find their names on the wrapper on the bottle. For example, Chateau, Bordeaux. Champagne is the name of a place over here in France, and that's how the drink derives it's name. So calling sparkling white wine as 'champagne' made somewhere else would be incorrect. (apologies to Rob Lowe in 'Wayne's World')

France is inhabited by people from all over. Mostly Algerians, Romanians, Sri-Lankans, Greeks, and surprisingly not many Indians or Chinese. So obviously, there are many restaurants by all the aforementioned folks. Greek restaurants have sprouted around almost every corner. Since this city is just like Bombay, you will see cartwaalahs with their wares, sometimes food, sometime trivia, sometimes antique stuff, almost anything. Greek restaurants can be identified by their extremely poor hygiene, oops...can be identified by a triangular mass of mutton slabs strung together on a rod that rotates and stuff gets heated by a chamber of burning coals on one side. That might be a tad difficult to imagine, I shall admit. They are certainly the cheapest among all the restaurants in Paris. I just love 'Merguez Sandwiches', merguez are Spanish sausages. A 'Grec'(Greek) sandwich is characterized by it's pita wrapping, with salad fillings, and extremely oily meat in it, and super crisp fries. Err...In France, we don't call them 'French fries', you see. Just 'Frites', that's French for 'Fries' !

Indienne or Indian restaurants are also seen once in a while as you drive; I have been to just 2 of them, and the 'baingan bhartha' was good. Since I keep going to the same restaurant pretty often, atleast once in two weeks, the chef knows me, and makes it in a good manner, to be read as, does not scratch his balls or armpits before touching those 'aubergines' ( US-eggplants, IND-brinjals) and puts in extra spice, without the previously required nod. So, it's the usual Indian food, chicken tikka masala, tandoori, naan, kulcha etc etc...You know it all. And KingFisher of course, that is guzzled by my French friends, I choose to abstain. Now if it were Khajuraho, then it would have been difficult.

Let's come to Thai. Aah...I have not had Thai food in France, so I can't say anything about Thai. Same goes for Chinese, Malaysian, Euthopian, Nigerian. Alrite alrite, I'll stop pakaoving.

How can I forget Italian or Italienne! The first time, I had pizza over here, I had no idea what was in store for me. I am quite used to the nice, hand tossed pizza in the United States, all sliced up, with garlic sauce on the sides, with numerous customized toppings, that makes your tongue drool, and salivate for sure. And over here, the crust is so thin there is no way, you can slice it up, and if it you shall be having one 'flaccid' slice in your hand, and that is not a good sight. So you are served the entire pizza, 12"...I am still talking about pizza...diameterwise, and the names are lovely, will
come to that in a bit. The basic ingredients would be mozarella (Italian cheese, of coz'), tomato salsa and the flour that goes into making the crust/seating. Now on top of this mandatory stuff, you can order a Vegetarienne-vegetarian pizza, which consists of mushrooms, onions, brinjal slices, olives, fat red peppers (Shimla mirch), Texane-cornbeef, smudges of other fat, and parsley, Orientale- Merguez pieces and that's it. Napolitane- sea food stuff, and me is not interested, DonCarlo- Horribly perfect circular, extremely thin slices of superHuge sausages, embedded in cheese, Royalle- Everything, and there are other names that are not comin' to me right now. And all these pizzas have got No-Paltee egg thrown in, and when you spread the yolk on the pizza, it apparently tastes good, but I hate it, and its always 'sans oeufs' for me. Oeuf equals Egg.

Plat du Jour. Plate of the Day. That's usually the most interesting dish in any restaurant. Once, somebody ordered 'boudin', which he asked me take a bite from his plate as an experiment. I did, and it tasted lovely. It was made from the blood extracted from the intestines of a pig. Now that was said with an intention to make my stomach shudder, but I exclaimed 'C'est Magnifique'. Now, what can I say to something that tastes like 'New Azaad made onion bhajiyaas'. That was good. If that's on the menu, I am getting that, so what if it's made of pork blood. 'Yech', is that what I hear you say. Trust me, you will have to taste it to acknowledge my words. That was just an example of 'Plat du Jour', there are other dishes, like lamb chops cooked with some special herbs, making it taste like cauliflower, that was 'C'est Formidable'. (Formidable in French means 'fantastic'!
Queer... isn't it).

Likewise there is Tartine du Jour. The basic idea being bread toasts with 'X' on it. X could vary, eally vary from fish eggs, cavier, to goat cheese, to chorizo sausage pieces. They are named sometimes after different artists, for reasons unknown. Rembrandt is my favorite. It's got spicy sausage slices, with fried tomatoes, cheese of course, and salad leaves on the side, with mustard, sel and poivre (salt and pepper...You guessed it) Tart du jour. This is different. Imagine wooden bowl, with 'x' number of cheeses that you have requested, melted cheese, with pomme de terre (apple of the soil...if literally translated, for the simple minds like me, it's potatoes), oignons (onions...yeah, that was simple). It all depends on what kind of cheese you want in your Tart du jour. Just so that you don't make a mess with all your stupid choices, the restaurant, pre-arrange the choices, and you just select. Numero Dix pour moi/ma, si'l vous plait. Number 10 for me, please. Simple. Reblochannade, if you want to Google. That's a kind of cheese, already talked about a few paras up.

Kir, or Keer, is white wine with berry juice in it, tinged with something, and laced with another something, both are the bartenders choices, and you have control over him. So when you say 'Kir', you have no idea what you are gonna get. You just have to try. Rest assured, you won't be disappointed, if ou are a 'kir' lover. I think, I would pass on 'Kir', if I had a choice between Beer and Keer. It does not rhyme with Beer, it rhymes with....hmmm....Try this...The drink that is available at Dadar station r mebbe Byculla called 'Neera', remove the letter 'a' in it, and that's the closest rhyming word that I could think of. Can't think of any English or Hindi words that rhymes with the pronunciation of 'Keer'. ut it certainly does not rhyme with 'Beer' ! Oh yeah, how the gaavtiis say 'beer' as 'beeeeeerrrrr'...something like that ! He he heh.

'Leffe'. That's my favorite beer. It's Belgium, 6.5%, and has got a bitter taste to it, and a very ...hmmm...good flavor. Next in line would have to Amstel, it's good, and cheap. Oh oh...Before I forget, 'Pastis' or more famous with the brand name 'Ricard'. It's got this dumb liqourice flavor to it, which I dislike. The bartender serves a small glass filled with pastis, and another jar with ice cubes, and cold water. You are supposed to make your own drink combination, as you like it. Liqourice is 'Jeera Goli' taste, and certainly not good when it's a drink. Absinth also tastes exactly like JeeraGoli juice. Does give you a good high though. The way the guy makes you the Absinth drink is cool. Alrite, Squarish crystal glass on the coaster, now keep a stylish wire guaze on top of the glass, keep a lump of sugar on top of it, pour the Absinth into the glass over the sugar through the gauze, and set the lump of sugar on fire, it burns with a bluish tinge, very cool sight, and then after the flame dies out, put the burnt sugar into the drink, and stir the drink. Neat! The absinth that I had was the one with NO hallucinogens in it, very unfortunate indeed. It's not really legal, but I am sure there are places where you can get them, if one really wanted to. My curiousity hasn't been picked as yet. I got drunk on that itself, so was cool.

Well, there are many things that I could continue to write about, but I believe I have touched the important items. The myriad of genres of French food is amazing, and certainly tastes better than the food that I was having in the United States, no offence. The French don't make burgers as good as the Americans do, of coz'!!! But you know now, where 'burger' (berger) comes from, nei !