To paint the stage
with a play of words.
To bring the house down
with the curtains of
a myriad emotions.
To walk a few miles
down character lane
wearing someone’s shoes
and not your own.
To bask in the afterglow
of laughter peals.
To know that you made
the teardrop fall.
That’s the high.
That’s the uninhibited rush.
That’s the theatre of life.
Applause. Curtain Call.
Fade out. House lights.
A friend of mine who had been in school and college with me mailed me a few days back saying he was coming to Hyderabad for a couple of days and would like to meet up with me. Needless to say I was delighted and spread the word around amongst the other classmates and friends, especially amongst the HPS 1972 ISC batch of classmates.
Since the friend only had this afternoon free, I had to think of calling him home for ‘chai’. On a whim I decided it would be Irani Chai to take us back in time with Osmania Biscoots and Lukhmi to go with it. A few of our classmates agreed to drop by and suddenly it was a party.
Yesterday I got a brainwave. Since this was a meeting of the old boys of HPS it would be a nice thing if I sported khaki. The wife thought I had finally lost it, but having being immunised over the years she took my insanity in her stride. Especially when I told her my plan.
I have a cousin in the army who I was sure could arrange for one of his big built Jawans to lend me his khaki shirt for the day. Imagine my surprise when he informed me that the Indian Army had given up on Khaki many years ago.
He must have heard the disappointment in my voice when he came up with a suggestion. There was a street in Secunderabad which was known for its Army Surplus Stores and he was sure a khaki shirt could be sourced from there.
A couple of hours later his orderly landed up at home with a khaki shirt in hand. I was truly impressed and immensely grateful. Then I tried the shirt (on the advice of the orderly) and found it didn’t fit. That was a downer but I stoically took the “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try” attitude and reported to my cousin the unfortunate news that while I had recently lost weight, it obviously was not enough.
Oh hell said my cousin and we disconnected our phone conversation on a let’s catch up soon note. A few hours later however the orderly was back, this time demanding a shirt that I was comfortable in/with. I was too groggy to wonder why he wanted this shirt but I gave it to him.
Good Morning Hyderabad and this morning the orderly was back with m
y shirt and a khaki shirt stitched to my size and specifications. The tailor had obviously been up the whole night stitching a shirt for the Brigadier Saaheb.
If I was impressed before, I was now in awe. If grateful before, I am now beholden. Cousins like this are hard to find, just as whims like this are hard to fathom. But thanks Bro. Thanks.
It was a few years ago. There used to be an airline called Vayudoot. It was essentially a feeder airline and used Dorniers (twin engined planes) for their services. They used a hop, step and jump approach to travel. Which meant my Hyderabad-Vizag flight was actually a Hyderabad-Vijayawada-Rajahmundry-Vizag trip.
The turbo props had a healthy roar and the flight flew at lower altitudes than what we were used to on the whiny jets that we frequented. The interiors were quaint and the pilot had a small drop down curtain separating him from the passengers. At one stage the curtain billowed and we saw the pilot reading a newspaper.
The hostess had a short spell of hospitality work given the limited passengers and the size of the aircraft. She served a prepacked snack and some juice. Then some water was given to those who looked thirsty enough.
That water served as the trigger to get my bladder going and I had the embarassing task of asking the hostess where the facilities were. When she informed me that there was no toilet on board I was confused first and then in a state of panic.
We had by then taken off from Vijayawada and I heard the Pilot say on the radio that since there were no passengers who wanted to get off at Rajahmundry and none waiting to be taken to Vizag, he was wondering if he could skip the station altogether and save us a few minutes of travel time. Whoever he was speaking to obviously said yes because the next thing I knew he had made the announcement.
My panic levels starting ringing the alarm bells even more loudly. Now I had to wait till Vizag to go to the loo. I didn’t know whether I could hold on. The hostess seeing my plight had a discrete word with the pilot and the next thing I knew the plane was in an uncharacteristic dive and we had landed on a deserted airfield (which I later found was the Rajahmundry airport).
Sir, quickly! the hostess urged me and pushed me out of the plane. From the runway I asked what I was supposed to do and she advised me to look the other way and do whatever was necessary, but fast.
The engines were still running. The other passengers were still in the craft. And I took a long, satisfying pee on the runway and ran back into my carrier. The girl was all smiles and I was all relief.
The moment I was seated the pilot gunned the engines and took off in a jiffy.
I realised that what had been gifted to me was a piss stop, very off the record and very helpful. I realised too that never in my life had someone gone so far out of their way just so I could piddle.
Customer Service?
I had not been well but I was slowly recovering. Friends and well wishers were urging me to get back home soon instead of being in a hospital. But none was warmer and more affectionate than my classmates from 1972 who rallied as a group and took it upon themselves to pump me up to normal.
In particular they were Shankar Mani, Saeed Ansari, Aloke Gupta and Pradeep Ramaiah. And all of them agreed that I was the lucky one to have Arun Rao as a brother in law.
One thing led to another and Shankar set a date for a mini class reunion where they would cheer me up and welcome me back to life and also informally felicitate Arun for being the wonderful soul he is.
The plan was to meet at Shankar’s where he promised to serve 21 year old Glen and Pradeep who was actually coming from Scotland for a visit promised to bring some exclusive malt himself.
But on the appointed day I realised that I was not yet up to going out partying. So I excused myself regretfully.
But the spirit of 72 was indomitable. All the boys trooped into a couple of cars and invaded my house with picnic basket, glasses, ice and exquisite scotch.
I who had almost given up the idea of getting to meet them was suddenly transported back into the corridors of HPS, the science block and the labs and funny fights and acts of madness like picking up the St. Ann’s School Bus.
The evening turned riotously funny and I slept well after a long time.
On behalf of my wife and daughters and on behalf of myself let me thank all my 72ers. You are the best part of a life I’d relive anytime.
Looking forward to meeting you all again in full cheer.
When we were children, friends’ parents were a bit of an oddity. Some parents were tough, some were standoffish. Yet others were friendly and some were indifferent.
Aloke, Barun and Sanjoy Gupta’s father Manik Gupta, didn’t fit into any of the categories for me. And in the beginning we restricted ourselves to a hello good morning and bye good night kind of equation. Perhaps I attributed it to the fact that the Guptas were certainly more affluent than us and with their Golf and Clubbing and Partying lifestyle, didn’t see us minions (children of government servants) as someone they spotted on their radar too easily. That is in retrospect a bit unfair as a comment but that is what we felt when we saw the so called Banjara Hills crowd bonding on life.
In fact the Guptas had a dog called Pasha who was a certified killer and the debate always was whether to be more scared of uncle or the dog. This inspite of the fact that I had Bengali roots and spoke the language fairly well.
But it was only later, many years later that I had a chance to interact with the man. And that was indeed a revelation..
My father was very keen that I get into computers but I wasn’t. So when he forced me to join some programming classes I decided to play hooky. I’d leave every morning at 730 with fuel money for my bike and then find a place to park while the class was ostensibly in session. I would of course go once in a while to class to keep up the pretence, not that I learnt anything of value. Punching data cards was definitely not part of my foreseeable future.
Then one day I decided to drop in at the Gupta’s during morning class time. Uncle was awake, perhaps reading the newspaper or something and he casually asked me what I was doing at their home so early in the morning. Till today I have no idea why, but I confessed that I was being forced to go to some class or the other and I had come in search of sanctuary for an hour or so.
Imagine my surprise when he guffawed and welcomed me into the kitchen, spoke to his wife Radha Aunty and organised breakfast for me. Then he called my friend Aloke down and left us to our selves.
But what took the cake however was the fact that he waved me off later with a ‘See you tomorrow’ invite.
And thus started a few days of my regular interaction with Manik Uncle, an interaction I shall never forget.
This morning he passed away and I felt a part of my memories fading into the fond corners of the mind. And I felt bad that I hadn’t managed to see him though he was on the same floor and wing I was at the hospital. But maybe that way I shall always remember him as the ramrod straight surprisingly understanding uncle, and not as a patient in the last legs of his life.
Bye Bye Manik Uncle and Good Day!
I have always been a Mahesh Babu fan. He brings a certain presence to the screen and carries it off with elan. So when I saw on MAATV’s YouTube Channel this movie online I was hopeful for an afternoon of entertainment.
Imagine my shock when the story unfolded.
The movie is about a Zamindari couple in Tamil Nadu who keep killing people with impunity. First they threw a senior cop over the railing. Then they smother a prospective in-law to death. And on and on and on.
And each death is interspersed with Mahesh Babu dancing and cavorting with a pretty Shreya Saran. Or with Mahesh Babu fighting strange gymnastic battles with lungi clad villains. And this goes on ad nauseum.
So the story line is murder, dance, fight in an insane cycle.
And most of the action is centred around the Madurai Meenakshi temple and the yatras and processions that make it a pious, powerful place.
Strange are the ways of the script writer. At the end of the film, the couple dramatically kills each other and thankfully the movie comes to an end.
Jana Gana Mana.
Wait, I haven’t finished.
There is nothing more embarrassing than seeing a grown man dribble in his pants after he has supposedly urinated in full. But that happens so often that it has stopped surprising me.
It could be due to a medical condition or simply old age but often men (and maybe women too) find it impossible to control the last drops that appear just when they thought their job was over and it was all zipped up.
This is when a friend told me about the 3 Second Rule that suggested strongly that everyone after a certain age or with a particular medical condition, say diabetes, wait for a few seconds after they thought they had finished. This would avoid unnecessary dribbles and drip overs.
It made sense. And since I am one of the effected, I found the advise quite useful.
In fact the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the rule applied to more than just bladder behaviour.
Think about it. It’s a simple conversation. Two people engaged in dialogue. One of them finishes and turns away and for all practical purposes the conversation is over. But what about the leftover conversation. That smirk, that smile, that frown, those afterthoughts.
Sometimes the entire meaning of the conversation can change in the light of these expressions. But do we listen?
Most often we don’t. And miss that blush, miss that look of love and concern. Miss that nuance that takes relationships to a next level. Maybe, just maybe we should practise the 3 Second Rule and the world can be a more beautiful place where conversations don’t end with a comma.
Let me know what you think. You have 3 Seconds. And your time starts now…
When I was advised to shift from my newly done up room on the sixth floor to the Medical Intensive Care Unit (MICU) I was understandably perturbed, especially because I knew that the Bronchoscopy would be scheduled there as well.
What I didn’t like about the MICU was the fact that it was an ocean bereft of privacy and due to the very nature of the patients I was bound to come face to face with death and despair. True to expectation that is exactly what happened, but in a manner most expected.
A couple of years back when I was admitted into the MICU, I was confronted with a strange occurrence. A man, obviously from a family that had considerable clout in the hospital asked about some lady and was informed that she had passed away just half an hour ago.
No! he roared, and announced that she had to pass away a few minutes later. The hospital readily agreed and I was too busy with coming to terms with my own new surroundings even to be baffled. Many weeks after the incident I was casually informed that the change of timing of death of the lady was on religious and astrology grounds.
Apparently there are people who believe in the concept of even dying at a good time. I found it funny, but quite insignificant and irrelevant. One more nugget of information that I tucked away not expecting it to ever glitter.
So imagine my surprise when I walked into MICU a couple of days back the scene was played back with almost frame by frame accuracy.
The same man walked in. Asked when a lady had passed away. Half an hour ago, the hospital informed him. No! he roared. And changed the records to show that the lady in question actually passed away a few minutes after her death. And I checked in, ready to ride the broncho, which I did with very satisfying colours.
But the sense of déjà vu remains a mysterious aura which surrounds my little nugget (now two) and glitters saying I must find out more. I will. I will.
The moment I wipe the smile of my glowing countenance.
It took me a while but it finally fell into place. For the past few weeks I had been wondering what was so familiar about the Anna Hazare story. How was a man who had no serious political antecedents or intentions suddenly emerging as a crowd puller beyond par.
The expression on his face was all about childish glee on having destabilised a system and almost brought the Government to its knees. There was something drastically wrong. this was not the face of a crusader tasting triumph after a hard fought battle but instead it was the face of a village idiot who has suddenly discovered the magic in his flute.
Hey look, all I have to do is point at something and the crowds are going bananas. I casually mentioned that someone should do something about corruption in the country and suddenly I am the face of the anti corruption movement. So what if I am joined by people like Chandrababu Naidu who is alleged to have masterminded Operation Corruption so efficiently in Andhra Pradesh.
Its all good fun. Did you notice the childish thrills he gets when the video camera flirts with him.
But seriously. Remember the story of the pied Piper and you wonder who promised him what to lead a pack of sheep into mindlessness. And what will happen when the promises are not kept. and they won’t. Of that I am sure.
Suddenly the Anna with his newly discovered power will start a private initiative but then he is yet to discover the authority’s power of pulling the rug from under his feet. The child that he is, he will not be able to bear the shock. And either lose his balance or his life.
Then he will become another symbolic father of the nation whose name is still used by cut throats and crooks in vain. Maybe we should first do something about that blasphemy.
In the meanwhile the Ramlila Circus carries on with its many clowns and poor Anna has to jump around the top without safety harnesses or nets. RIP you poor joker. You did have an endearing face even if you looked slightly retarded.
I subscribe to three newspapers at home and have been doing so for many many years. The Deccan Chronicle, The Times of India and The Hindu.
Strangely enough I have had some lovely working relationships with all three groups. I produced a few films for DC and in fact headed their internet and multimedia initiative for a few years. I authored the Times Food Guide Hyderabad for two years till ill health put a stop to that. And for about five years I have been associated with the Hindu MetroPlus Theatre Fest in Chennai, Bangalore and Hyderabad.
My daughter works with the Times in Hyderabad as a Features Writer and she is extremely happy.
So if I say I am unbiased in my opinion of any of the newspapers I am qualified to be so.
But my role in life as a theatre enthusiast was in for a rude shock yesterday when I realised that the Times was conducting a Theatre Festival to run parallel with the MetroPlus Theatre Fest in Chennai. What it does as an aggressive marketing tool I do not know but I know that the audiences have been divided. And that was so not necessary.
At a time when even school kids and amateur groups check to make sure there is no clash, this deliberate confrontation and clash of dates is simply not done. It does not qualify as a great strategy nor does it even border on the smart move territory.
It’s simply put, a low blow, a cheap gimmick and one least expected from any of these respectable media groups. In the stupid fight for brownie points it is the the theatre audience who has lost out, and that can be in no one’s interest. Hope better sense prevails, and soon!
I am not the frequent flyer I used to be. But I have flown almost all the airlines at some point of time. The impression I had of SpiceJet was that it was a fairly ‘up there’ kind of airline.
So when the client booked me onto a SpiceJet flight I had no real objection. In retrospect I wish I had objected.
The ground staff was standard aviation industry – a mix of cosmetic smiles and ‘call centre’ automation. The smile comes on, the have a good flight is delivered into your hands but why it is foil wrapped and not even warm, I have no clue. But then that seems to be par for the course.
But it is the aircraft that led me to question the wisdom of travelling airline.
The seatbelts are stiff and in tatters. The bathroom door does not shut. The overall maintenance picture looks dismal.
The SpiceJet flights do not get berthed next to an aerobridge. They have to park their aircrafts on the airport apron which was built for parking damaged aircraft. Apparently SpiceJet is notorious for not being able to pay their bills. But ‘ Saar, important point to be noted is that SpiceJet belong to Maran’s Sun Group’.The moment ‘amma’ came to power she turned all the screws and choked their cash flows. How they will survive poor fellows, asked the porter.
I was tempted to point to the hoards that the Maran family is alleged to have tucked away but I decided to be prudent and discreet.
None of my business I kicked myself into believing.
But it was the South Indian Vegetarian Breakfast that I bought for Rs. 200 that really drove me to despair. I mean can you blame me for expecting a South Indian Breakfast consisting of Idli Sambar and Upma to be of at least Saravana Bhavan class? The owners being hard core tamilians and all that.
But the idlis were a gooey mess and the upma hadn’t yet decided whether to stay asleep or start crawling. The fresh lime juice they served along with the breakfast reminded me of the days when we used to curse the River Cooum for its olfactory assault on us unprotected humans.
I waited patiently for the crew to come around with their garbage disposal bag and dumped the whole unholy package into it.
In all fairness thought, the pilot seemed competent. And executed a perfect three point landing. The flight went on to Kolkatta and I said a silent prayer for the Bengalis who had polished their idli sambars as if it was their last meal on earth or a runaway dish from Cordon Bleu.
For a couple of years, many years ago I handled a leading brand of toothpaste and worked on their advertising. And as was wont in those days the first thing I had to do was learn everything about the toothpaste, from its composition to its manufacture. To its limitations of packaging and to its constraints in printing.
Needless to say the advances in technology in several spheres of production have made many of these constraints redundant. But there are still knowledge bytes that I picked up that are still valid and relevant.
For example we were told that we should always keep a toothpaste tube in the upside down position i.e. mouth down tail up. This makes sure the toothpaste settles near the mouth and makes it easier to squeeze paste out of the tube.
The second thing we were taught was that the width of the mouth of all tubes had been deliberately enlarged so that more paste came out per squeeze and thus consumption of toothpaste was maintained at a sufficiently high level.
Another thing manufacturers and marketers did was to visually depict a squeeze of toothpaste being the length of the toothbrush. This again contributed to consumption. Just to make it customer friendly the amount of toothpaste used increased the foam generated and that contributed to satisfaction.
We were also told that to derive the maximum benefit from a tube of paste we should learn to roll the end of the tube as we consumed the paste so that every little drop of paste found its way onto our brush. And that of course appealed to our typical Indian attitude towards thrift.
I was recently subjected to a series of presentations by a group of young MBAs from various schools in India and abroad. And I realised that the art of talking for a long time without having to say anything was still the basic lesson taught at B-Schools.
(Now don’t get me wrong. I am a drop out from the Indian Institute of Management, Bangalore and I have immense respect for the overall MBA course but I’ve always had a problem with the jargon, with the going round in circles etc). And it struck me that my understanding of the toothpaste tube put me in a unique position to understand these MBAs better.
First of all they make much more sense when made to stand upside down i.e with their mouth below and their feet up. It has perhaps to do with the fact that this seems to be the only way they get a realistic understanding of the world we all live in.
The next revelation is that MBAs seem to have a congenital big mouth (much like our tube) so the art of brevity has been lost and they are chronic patients of Verbal Diarhorrea. In plain English of course that means they talk too much. Way too much.
And the amount of gyaan they disseminate is much more than necessary. It’s given to justify the consultancy bill but has no real significance whatsoever.
But the most important commonality between the tube and the MBA is that they are both eminently ‘squeeze and throw’. And maybe that explains the hordes of MBAs from non descript institutions who can be seen basking in the false glow of self importance.
.
Over the years I have come to terms with the fact that nearly all newspapers exaggerate their circulation figures. Some do it within the limits of credibility and some indulge in wild fantasies.
And the phenomenon gets funnier when it comes to magazines printed at local printers where we get a lot of work done. The total print run for such and such magazine was 3000 we are informed when the publisher is touting about 30 000 as his circulation.
But this blatant lying is fairly common knowledge for those in the business. Many years ago I had an experience with circulation that left me, to use a modern phrase ROFL (Rolling On the Floor Laughing).
There used to be a newspaper called NEWSTIME. A wonderful, literary treat, it was published by the Eenadu Group. I was a regular contributor and was quite happy with the Rs. 200/- cheques that used to arrive promptly by mail, no questions asked. Needless to say I was also a subscriber.
One morning, at about 630 I received a call from my friend’s father who is a wonderful old man and a gifted writer. Vijay, he told me after ascertaining the fact that I had been awake for sufficiently long to be coherent, I have written an article that got published in today’s Newstime. Please, when you are more awake, do pick up a copy and give me your feedback.
Since I was a Newstime subscriber I already had the paper at home and it took me but a few seconds to find his article and just a few minutes later I was back on the phone with him, thanking him for his kind mention of me in his piece.
He was amazed at the speed of my response. And when I confessed that I was a subscriber, he pronounced that from that day on, he would officially say there were at least two subscribers to Newstime. Him and me.
Mind you the official figure being quoted by the Eenadu Group was a few thousands. But in retrospect, after having witnessed the sad closing down of the paper I am inclined to believe that my friend’s father was closer to the truth than he realised.
As for my wife, she thought it was one of my better investments. I invested in the subscription amount which was less than Rs. 100/- per month and I used to get a minimum of six Rs. 200/- cheques every month for my writing. QED.
This morning I saw someone’s post referring to the rude and uncouth behaviour of the security detail attached to some obscure minister. And I was reminded of an incident that proves that the problem is endemic and has a long heritage to boast of.
In 1985 when I was packing up from Chennai and returning to Hyderabad (for the first of many times) I suggested to my sister and brother in law that they came down to Madras, and that we could drive down to Kodaikanal for a relaxing week at the Carlton.
They agreed immediately and so we went for a cosy foursome of a holiday and coochie cooed through the week. The fact that a few months later both my wife and my sister had babies may indicate how romantic our sojourn was.
But like any other magical holiday this one too came to an end and we drove back to Madras where everything lay ready and packed for our departure to Hyderabad.
I was driving as we entered Madras and we were on Nungumbakkam High Road, barely a kilometre away from our home on Sterling Road when a flag bearing Ambassador Car tried to overtake us. The car was being driven rashly and I noticed that it seemed to be filled with Security Detail kind of goons.
I was in Highway mode still and my car was a Fiat that was perfectly tuned so I had no difficulty in speeding up to disallow the Ambassador taking the lead. Within seconds our turn off came and we swung off towards Sterling Road and forgot about the ruffians and their brash handling of the car.
We reached home and freshened up and barely were we discussing where to go for dinner when the door bell rang and I found the Madras Police at my doorstep informing me that I had been accused of eve teasing on Nungumbakkam High Road and my presence was immediately required at the Police Station.
I was aghast and tried to explain to the ACP or CI or whoever that accusing me of eve teasing when both my sister and my wife were in the car was not even bordering on the ridiculous. And I admitted that I was impressed at the speed at which they had managed to trace me.
The cop was sympathetic and told me off the record that he understood perfectly well that I didn’t seem to be the eve teasing sort but his hands were tied since he had received instructions to apprehend me from the higher ups. He was kind enough to let me go with the advice that I better use whatever influence I had to negate the powers that were at work because by then an All Points Bulletin had been issued and my Car Number had been flashed to all the border towns.
What I had to do in the next 12 hours to wriggle out of this conundrum is embarrassing so I shall desist from recounting my harrowing experience. Suffice to say I had to call in a few million favours from friends and family to untangle myself from the web. Finally I was told that all they could manage was a 48 hour window of freedom and that I had better cross the border before then.
So we ran away from Madras like fugitives that we were not and swore never to eve tease the security guards ever again.
From the post that I stumbled across I see that nothing much has changed. And nothing ever will.
Jai Hind.
In 1994, some of the old palaces of the Nizam were opened up and the public was allowed a glimpse of the wonders of the past. Since this was after a few decades of being hidden behind closed doors there was a lot of excitement in the air. Old timers who had seen the palaces in the past regaled us with stories of crockery, cutlery, furniture and architecture that put fairy tales to shame.
One of the palaces to be opened up was the famous Falaknuma Palace.
And I was privileged enough to be chosen to head the video team that documented all the palace insides to show off to people on television etc.
I spent four days in the Falaknuma Palace and I can quite confidently state that there can hardly be a corner of the place I did not explore or shoot for posterity. Magical times indeed.
An old retainer Sardar Saheb was assigned to us and he was a treasure house of stories since he had served in the palace for a few decades and apparently even today is attached to the refurbished palace.
Since it made sense for us to be fed in the palace, the Nizam’s cooks used to cook us some delicacies everyday. And one day when the Minister decided to join us for lunch the finest was brought out, gold rimmed et al. We ate, my crew and I at the fabled 100 seater dining room off plates which were reputed to cost the earth. Like I said, magical times indeed.
With the amount of ornate bedrooms and glitzy bathrooms we were shown I thought I didn’t have to worry about where I could go for a pee. And go, I had to at some stage or the other. The crew was walking out of the palace into the open grounds and letting loose but I thought I should maintain some dignity and poise befitting my position as Chief.
So I asked Sardar Saheb whether it was okay to use the bathrooms in the palace when I needed to. He looked aghast and vehemently denied me permission. Do you want to pee or take a dump, he asked me in chaste Urdu. When I relied that all I needed to do was pee, he led me to the front balcony and corridor. I followed blindly.
Those of you familiar with the palace will know that as you climb the entrance steps you come across this huge, long corridor/balcony at the ends of which are quaint rooms. Sardar Saheb led me to one of these rooms explaining that this was his humble abode.
I thought that was extremely hospitable. I mean taking me to his quarters for the use of facilities. Wow! That was Hyderabadi indeed.
But when he opened the door I realised that it was his bedroom and nothing more. There was no attached toilet or anything remotely resembling it. Seeing the puzzled look on my face Sardar Saheb smiled and pointed to the huge window. Let loose Master, the city awaits your blessings, he announced.
I looked out of the window and saw that the room was on a cliff and the window actually overlooked the city. I understood what he meant and when he stepped out in the name of discretion I stood at the window, unzipped and yes, let loose. Flowing down the cliff in wild abandon.
It was quite an exhilarating feeling. And one I have never experienced ever again. The feeling of pissing away at the world was so strong, it was almost invigorating.
So now when I meet these wannabes who want to tell the world that they were recently invited to the Falaknuma Palace for dinner, I feel like a dog who’s cocked his ears and is wagging his tail knowing full well that he has indeed marked his territory.
When we used to come from Madras for our vacations during our college years, (in the early and late 70s) we naturally looked at Hyderabad as a place where we could be pampered by the parents and as a party place where many of us classmates from school got together and celebrated life.
While chips and coke and maybe a bottle of Old Monk rum were bare essentials, one of the key ingredients of the parties was naturally a group of girls. As many as we could convince to party with us. Most of the girls were willing as long as we respected their parents’ deadlines but understandably they could not attend all the parties for the fear that their parents branded them wastrels etc. So we invited girls by rotation.
This group today, that group tomorrow. In fact we had a couple of girls we labelled as spare parts. They would be invited only when the ratios of boys to girls were getting alarmingly skewed.
One girl among the gang was unique. She was studying at Women’s College, Kothi and used to live in the hostel attached to that venerable institution. Getting her to come out meant we had to resort to strange stories and untruths. Strange calls were made ostensibly from her ailing aunt, her dying uncle, her visiting from the USA cousin and so on. But whatever we did, her cut off time was 9 pm.
And most of the time we respected that deadline and arranged parties accordingly.
But one day the mood at the party was swinging and no one wanted to leave, nor let her go. So the party went on till the early hours and this girl stayed on.
Only when the first rays of dawn hit her face did she realise that she was in for trouble. Expulsion from the hostel and rustication from college was imminent. The girl broke down and the party came crashing down with her spirit.
For some strange reason her tears touched a chord in my heart and I decided that something dramatic was called for. I had to swing into the rescue.
Having just passed out of Hyderabad Public School khaki shirts were never in short supply. So I rushed home, grabbed a khaki and borrowed my father’s car. I returned to the party venue and told the girl to get into the car.
She was still sobbing but I brooked no nonsense and literally bundled her into the vehicle. I made her sit in the back seat, still sobbing. And I, in my khaki uniform took the wheel.
I drove to Kothi, into the Residency (Women’s College) and drove straight to the warden (or whoever was in charge those days). I walked in, confident and told the lady that my young mistress was distraught at the loss of her uncle and had been in no position to return to hostel the previous night. Her father and mother had now instructed me to hand her over to the authorities and were in any case waiting for a call confirming that all was well.
The combined effect of the driver look and my acting prowess did the trick. The lady fell for the story hook, line and sinker. She gently walked up to the car and led my ‘ward’ to her hostel and signalled that I could go, and that everything would be taken care of.
That is when the girl, our friend came up with the masterstroke I shall never forget. She stopped sobbing, she stopped walking. She turned around and gestured for me to come close to her. And when I did, she tipped me two rupees. This sealed the whole transaction.
The girl went on to the hostel and graduated as time went by. My khaki shirts became too small for me as I discovered the new girth of adolescence. And I qualified to write in my resume, that my first job was that of a driver.
Protest is a birth right. I totally agree. And having understood the Telangana imbroglio I truly empathise with those who feel cheated. And I have done everything in my strength to support the cause.
After all, I AM a Hyderabadi by upbringing. And my wife is from Nalgonda. My children don’t even know what the other two parts of AP look like, except what they have seen in Konaseema Dance Sequences and Rayalaseema Faction Feuds.
So I echo the sentiments of Jai Telangana. Let there be no doubt about that.
But where I take umbrage and differ from the so called leaders of the Telangana Movement is in the method they have adopted to spark off madness.
The movement has degenerated to one of utterly disruptive protests. It has fostered violence and skulduggery all in the name of a noble cause. And it is being masterminded by people who have no ideals, no values, no real concern for the issue they have championed or seem to be championing. It is at the heart of it a race to see who can milk the issue driest and to whose advantage.
If one man has formed a party and built a palace with donations and has his family being ferried around in Audis and Bentleys, the senior members of the ruling party are posturing for all that they are worth hoping that in the new state, they will be recognised and rewarded.
Will the lot of the common man of Telangana improve after separate statehood is granted. I don’t think so. Will the so called leaders benefit. They already have.
Does the movement have anyone of the stature of Potti Sreeramulu? No. At most they have children of the erstwhile leaders of the cause who were shamelessly bought off over the years, and all these kids want is a chance at the jackpot.
So we have dramas being enacted. Biryani being cooked on the road. Bandhs being called for. Resignation dramas being enacted. All yielding a net result which is in the vicinity of zero.
If the kind of activities this bunch has indulged in is any indication, the management of Telangana State will first fall into the hands of cheap crooks and roadside daadaas. Only after the systematic draining of resources will any real management team be allowed to fall into place. And by then it maybe too little, too late.
My question is simple. Everyone seems to be reading the same writing on the wall. Everyone is in agreement about the quality (or lack of) manpower at the helm of the agitation. Everything from existing business to future prospects have suffered. But life goes on regardless.
Who is going to take the matter seriously and stop this nonsense of pushing idols into the hussain sagar? Who is going to say with confidence that Telangana deserves better, and have the gonads to prove that THEY have it.
I hope this realisation dawns soon. Jai Ho. Jai Telangana.
Over the years a phrase has made its presence felt in my life in various forms and adaptations. If ‘what the hell’ was an expression of everything from awe to anger when I was young and scared of being boxed in the ears if I used a more serious profanity ‘what the bloody hell’ was a graduation of sorts.
So when I saw a daring phrase like ‘what the f@#k’ being reduced to an abbreviation, all I could ask was WTF.
I felt that the expressive potential of phrases beginning with ‘what the’ were being trivialised and in the process were losing their bite.
I knew I was the last one qualified to complain. After all I had argued with my father many years ago that Bastard was actually a term of endearment. But still I felt a kind of a loss when I saw the slow but definite marginalisation of the universal cuss phrase.
And then when the internet exploded with jokes about how after Monday and Tuesday even the week says WTF I thought things had fallen as low as they possibly could. But FM (no not the Finance Minster) taught me that there was a low point that was lower than low.
One of the RJs (Congrats to him BTW) came up with the phrase ‘What the Pulihora’.
And the phrase went on to become a super duper hit. Prompting me to say ‘What the Pulihora’. Prompting my kids to start with a smirk and a sneer but end it with a smile.
Pulihora is Tamarind Rice. A dish made often for festivals and celebrations. How it became a word that politely substituted for the offensive F word is beyond my imagination and understanding. But popular it did become. And became part of normal parlance.
So Sharukh thinks he can take on the Big B. What the Pulihora. So they want a separate Telangana State. What the Pulihora. So BCCI thinks they can bully ICC. What the Pulihora. The usage multiplied and the phrase discovered a life of its own.
I realised that the attraction the phrase now held stemmed from the fact that no longer did we need to couch our words and sentences with asterisks and at the rate of symbols. The P word was safe and extremely polite. Not even my grandmother could object to it. So the kids started running around chanting ‘What the Pulihora’ without any fear of being pulled up. So the students knew that they couldn’t be punished for uttering the word.
Amazing. Amazing how an expression of utmost anger has been reduced to an item on the menu. I now sit waiting for my old aunts or my aged mother in law to look at something mildly objectionable and saying under their breath ‘What the Pulihora’. And blushing, just in case some of us had overheard them.
I guess it’s official. I now tend to forget things. While a friend often confesses to Alzheimer’s I find myself blaming old age and medication for the several slip ups. The wife and the kids smile knowingly and accuse me of selective amnesia.
But it’s early AM now and everyone is asleep, and I have stumbled onto a singer who I used to worship in the early 70’s when in college in Chennai. So why can’t I remember…
Before I say anything further do click on http://youtu.be/Bnq3Zge4NiU and http://youtu.be/TNJWvKP85Ts to give you an idea of what or who I am talking about.
I distinctly remember that the last time I saw Radha Thomas was at the Black Cadillac Pub in Bangalore in the early 90’s. And I remember wondering whatever happened to the svelte little girl who had power packed groups like The Human Bondage (I think) and belted out Immigrant Songs of the Led Zep kind so well that someone remarked that the group should keep her instead of the original singer.
But I cannot remember where that show was in Chennai…the auditorium was near the beach. It most likely was part of the Madras University Campus. It was my first ever ‘Rock Show’. We had gone as college students and came away as Rock converts. Radha Thomas was the cause. She electrified the stage with her presence and challenged the sound system to a duel which she easily won.
Where was that show? Yes in Chennai. It does host shows beyond Carnatic you know. Which was the group? If there is anyone out there who remembers better I’d be grateful…
In the meanwhile do check out Radha in her new, mellowed avataar. The voice still speaks.
A few years ago when the late Rajiv Gandhi was embroiled in the Bofors scandal, the amount he was supposed to have received as a kickback was Rs. 64 Crores.
No amount of spin doctoring could save him and he lost Prime Ministership and eventually lost his life. But a Media Professional calculated that the amount of media space dedicated to debate whether he took the money or not cost much more than the Rs. 64 Crores in question. Add to the front pages debates the amount of executive time dedicated to the issue, the figure multiplies exponentially.
A few years down the line we are seeing a slew of scandals hitting the headlines and the number of zeroes being bandied about has left us, or most of us, breathless.
Did Maran make a thousand Crores? Is Jagan’s take really 75000 Crores? Is 214 Crores all that Kanimozhi made? Questions like this have occupied mind space for too long now and the cost of debating these issues has crossed the figures being thrown around. Just look at the Print Media, the Electronic Media and the opportunity cost of a million bureaucratic souls.
And at the end of it, the net result is that the Tihar Jail has been offered to the Taj Group of Hotels as a property they can manage. And convictions are a far off dream.
So where is the logic? Are we guilty of a crime worse than the criminals’? After all, the corrupt at least took the money for a healthy cause. We on the other hand are just wasting it!!!