Since yesterday’s post was not really mine, and since I did think of a whole lot of things while on my way to work this morning, here’s a post on that.
Answers anyone? The more the merrier, let me remind you.
1. Why did Tom Hanks play the role of Robert Langdon? I would have put my money on either Harrison Ford or George Clooney. Hanks, whom I have totally loved in so many films, looks way too oily to be Langdon.
2. Why do we have to sleep? It’s such an utter waste, one could do so many other things in that time. I understand our bodies need to rest and all that jazz but still why can’t we do with 3 or 4 hours of sleep every night?
3. Why is the concept of space in any kind of a relationship so difficult for some people to understand? If I do not call you even after receiving ten odd calls from you, it really does mean that I am not interested.
4. Why are almost all advertisements on Radio Mirchi so bad?
5. Why do so many blogs have the words “random” and “thoughts” either in the url or in the description?
6. Why can’t we put a giant curtain across the sky and block out the summer sun as it is in the NCR at present?
7. Why is Aamir Khan all over the media — be it the print or electronic? Haven’t we understood his point already?
8. If something is fun for you, can it be bad for you as well?
9. When (if ever) will this book on water crises that I am currently doing finish?
10. What is it about midnight conversations that make them so addictive?
I know ten is a lot of points, but then again, it IS a long ride.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
The Passion of Aritro
Long post this time...to honor Deepak and Subhadip’s demand that I write something about my brother Aritro and his favorite English football club Manchester United. I thought why not ask him to do it. Initially I had told him to make it under 500 but then knowing his love for the game, I let him write as much as he wanted to. It’s become a huge post, I even started editing it. But when I began reading it, I realized that there is so much passion in every sentence that it would be almost a sin to run my editor’s eye through it. And passions should be encouraged...a life without a passion or two is rather meaningless after all.
So here is my mad brother with his madness for Manchester United. May you, my dear reader, live after this post.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I cannot exactly pinpoint a date when this love story began. It was a day during the summer vacations of 1998 when I accompanied my mother to Calcutta (the British name still persisted I think) to attend a wedding of a distant relative. I was in fact, attending cricket coaching at the academy run by the former international player Vijay Mehra. However, the camp was skipped and Calcutta beckoned us, with its great Victorian buildings, mishti (I have a perennial sweet tooth) and maachh (fish).
It was the year of the quadrennial Football World Cup. France 98 was a relatively small affair back in Delhi. But in Calcutta, people went gaga over the Cup although at times their support for Brazil annoyed me. As if no one else existed! I learnt the rules of the game over countless food sessions. It was as if Bengal finally made an impact in the mind of this DBCB — Delhi-Born-Confused-Bangali.
I returned to Delhi and started playing and watching football, and became a fan of Manchester United. Possibly, my feelings were not generated on a purely footballing basis. I had heard of the club even earlier and it was much easier to pronounce British names as compared to German, Italian or Latin American.
My first year as a ManU fan that is 1998-99 turned out to be and still remains ManU’s greatest year in history. One particular night during the European Cup “we” were trailing 1-0 to Italy’s Juventus. But Ryan Giggs equalized and the sort of joy that erupted in me made me realize for the first time how much the Red Devils mean to me. It is a kind of love which cannot be explained to people not watching the sport. There have been numerous occasions when I have felt like a loner because of this. When we surrendered the League in 2001-02 there was no one to share my sorrow, nor any one to share the immense pleasure on occasions like our 6-1 win over Arsenal in the spring of 2001. In those days David Beckham was a genius and so was Ryan Giggs. Roy Keane didn’t have the technique but more than made up for it with his battling skills perfectly showcased on that great night in Turin, the return leg of the 1-1 draw at home.
Manchester United was formed in 1878 by a group of Roman Catholics in Manchester. Initially known as Newton Heath, ManU’s beginnings were not particularly auspicious, and in fact, we nearly died out as a club during the inter war years. However, post Second World War marks the start of the great United era with the appointment of Matthew Busby as ManU’s manager. He got the best talent from around the British Isles with Lancashire in particular. A great team was formed including Roger Byrne, Duncan Edwards, Eddie Coleman, Harry Gregg, Denis Viollett, Liam Whelan and others. The group was collectively known as the Busby Babes, a term coined by a journalist named Tom Jackson. The team romped to league titles and under Busby’s inspiration United became the first British club to defy the Football Association and enter the European Cup. Little did Busby know that his ambition would lead to literally the downfall of the team. On 6th February the team was on its way back to Manchester from a game in Belgrade. The plane had taken off after refueling at Munich. Because of a technical problem minutes after take-off the plane jerked in mid air and collapsed on the ground below. Twenty two died including 8 players. Two more would never play again because of the injuries sustained. The Busby Babes side died young, and was preserved for ever young. Matt Busby struggled for life and for many months could not bring himself to terms with this tragedy. There was this lingering feeling in him of guilt as he somehow blamed himself for the tragedy. The work of rebuilding passed onto his assistant Jimmy Murphy.
A few years later a boy by the name of George Best was discovered on the streets of Belfast. Denis Law, ‘The Son of a Fisherman from Aberdeen’ was ‘purchased’ and another Mancunian, Nobby Stiles would be central to the great Renaissance as we emerged to be the pride of Europe. We finally proclaimed the European Cup in 1968. A tragedy had made us the most loved club in the British Isles and now it was success which finally consumed the fans.
The following two decades were a period of immense frustration as with Busby’s retirement, bosses came and went. Success eluded us as bitter north-west rivals Liverpool emulated and bettered our success. And then came Alex Ferguson, the next Knight of Old Trafford. He grew in the ship building area around Glasgow and shared much in common with Busby’s working class upbringing. Ferguson had achieved a lot already in the Scottish League with Aberdeen challenging successfully the Old Firm of Glasgow. But United were in such a mess that it took him 7 years till 1992-93 to win the League again after a gap of 26 years. Once that was achieved he went ahead to win the League 7 more times and also the FA Cup 5 times. The greatest glory came on 26th May 1999 as we claimed the European Cup for the second time. Whilst Busby was famous for his Babes, Fergie is known by his Fledglings comprising Beckham, Giggs, Scholes, Butt and the Neville brothers. Roy Keane had been his captain after Bryan Robson had left but most fell that the mercurial Frenchman Eric Cantona was the best. Now the future of the club seems to be on Wayne Rooney’s shoulders as Ruud van Nistelrooy is probably going to be the next in line to be ruthlessly kicked out by the Gaffer.
There are remarkable stories about football which make it the ‘Beautiful Game’. African nations reeling under burdens of debt have been united to support their national teams briefly forgetting the tribal differences. Poverty stricken children find hope for a better life across Africa and Latin America through the game, at a scale on which politicians have never been able to do. The French team which won the World Cup in 1998 had players from different races and how ironic it is that France’s most loved sportsman ever is a Muslim, Zinedine Zidane, the son of Algerian immigrants. There are occasions of footballers defying an oppressive government through the game. Like the Ukrainian team F.C.Start which beat the Luftwaffe XI team in Kiev during the Second World War or Mohun Bagan which beat the East Yorkshire Regiment in 1911.
As much as it can unite, football can spark off violence to an unprecedented scale. Anglican Protestants and Roman Catholics constantly abuse when Rangers and Celtic meet in Glasgow. The Catalans, the Basques and the Galicians all stand tall against Franco 30 years after his death when teams from those regions meet Real Madrid. Some say that the civil war in Yugoslavia was propelled by a game between the Croat team Dinamo Zagreb and the Serb team Red Star Belgrade.
The game may be great but as should be taken up with a sense of caution. In a way it is good that India does not support the game so much. Racial differences are so numerous in our country that such violent games can spark off regional sentiments to the effect of violence.
This was my story of football. These days I don’t play the game much, so it’s become one more literate journey for me. Sometimes I feel saddened by the lack of respect sports is given in mainstream literature. Reading about football cannot be an “intellectual” journey, that’s something reserved for the readers of Dickens, Dan Brown or Vikram Seth! Some say football is only good when you are playing the game I say ‘**** ***’. Twenty two players play but it is watched by 30-40—70-100-200,000 people on the ground and millions more at bars and homes.
Enjoy the World Cup!
-- Aritro Dasgupta
So here is my mad brother with his madness for Manchester United. May you, my dear reader, live after this post.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I cannot exactly pinpoint a date when this love story began. It was a day during the summer vacations of 1998 when I accompanied my mother to Calcutta (the British name still persisted I think) to attend a wedding of a distant relative. I was in fact, attending cricket coaching at the academy run by the former international player Vijay Mehra. However, the camp was skipped and Calcutta beckoned us, with its great Victorian buildings, mishti (I have a perennial sweet tooth) and maachh (fish).
It was the year of the quadrennial Football World Cup. France 98 was a relatively small affair back in Delhi. But in Calcutta, people went gaga over the Cup although at times their support for Brazil annoyed me. As if no one else existed! I learnt the rules of the game over countless food sessions. It was as if Bengal finally made an impact in the mind of this DBCB — Delhi-Born-Confused-Bangali.
I returned to Delhi and started playing and watching football, and became a fan of Manchester United. Possibly, my feelings were not generated on a purely footballing basis. I had heard of the club even earlier and it was much easier to pronounce British names as compared to German, Italian or Latin American.
My first year as a ManU fan that is 1998-99 turned out to be and still remains ManU’s greatest year in history. One particular night during the European Cup “we” were trailing 1-0 to Italy’s Juventus. But Ryan Giggs equalized and the sort of joy that erupted in me made me realize for the first time how much the Red Devils mean to me. It is a kind of love which cannot be explained to people not watching the sport. There have been numerous occasions when I have felt like a loner because of this. When we surrendered the League in 2001-02 there was no one to share my sorrow, nor any one to share the immense pleasure on occasions like our 6-1 win over Arsenal in the spring of 2001. In those days David Beckham was a genius and so was Ryan Giggs. Roy Keane didn’t have the technique but more than made up for it with his battling skills perfectly showcased on that great night in Turin, the return leg of the 1-1 draw at home.
Manchester United was formed in 1878 by a group of Roman Catholics in Manchester. Initially known as Newton Heath, ManU’s beginnings were not particularly auspicious, and in fact, we nearly died out as a club during the inter war years. However, post Second World War marks the start of the great United era with the appointment of Matthew Busby as ManU’s manager. He got the best talent from around the British Isles with Lancashire in particular. A great team was formed including Roger Byrne, Duncan Edwards, Eddie Coleman, Harry Gregg, Denis Viollett, Liam Whelan and others. The group was collectively known as the Busby Babes, a term coined by a journalist named Tom Jackson. The team romped to league titles and under Busby’s inspiration United became the first British club to defy the Football Association and enter the European Cup. Little did Busby know that his ambition would lead to literally the downfall of the team. On 6th February the team was on its way back to Manchester from a game in Belgrade. The plane had taken off after refueling at Munich. Because of a technical problem minutes after take-off the plane jerked in mid air and collapsed on the ground below. Twenty two died including 8 players. Two more would never play again because of the injuries sustained. The Busby Babes side died young, and was preserved for ever young. Matt Busby struggled for life and for many months could not bring himself to terms with this tragedy. There was this lingering feeling in him of guilt as he somehow blamed himself for the tragedy. The work of rebuilding passed onto his assistant Jimmy Murphy.
A few years later a boy by the name of George Best was discovered on the streets of Belfast. Denis Law, ‘The Son of a Fisherman from Aberdeen’ was ‘purchased’ and another Mancunian, Nobby Stiles would be central to the great Renaissance as we emerged to be the pride of Europe. We finally proclaimed the European Cup in 1968. A tragedy had made us the most loved club in the British Isles and now it was success which finally consumed the fans.
The following two decades were a period of immense frustration as with Busby’s retirement, bosses came and went. Success eluded us as bitter north-west rivals Liverpool emulated and bettered our success. And then came Alex Ferguson, the next Knight of Old Trafford. He grew in the ship building area around Glasgow and shared much in common with Busby’s working class upbringing. Ferguson had achieved a lot already in the Scottish League with Aberdeen challenging successfully the Old Firm of Glasgow. But United were in such a mess that it took him 7 years till 1992-93 to win the League again after a gap of 26 years. Once that was achieved he went ahead to win the League 7 more times and also the FA Cup 5 times. The greatest glory came on 26th May 1999 as we claimed the European Cup for the second time. Whilst Busby was famous for his Babes, Fergie is known by his Fledglings comprising Beckham, Giggs, Scholes, Butt and the Neville brothers. Roy Keane had been his captain after Bryan Robson had left but most fell that the mercurial Frenchman Eric Cantona was the best. Now the future of the club seems to be on Wayne Rooney’s shoulders as Ruud van Nistelrooy is probably going to be the next in line to be ruthlessly kicked out by the Gaffer.
There are remarkable stories about football which make it the ‘Beautiful Game’. African nations reeling under burdens of debt have been united to support their national teams briefly forgetting the tribal differences. Poverty stricken children find hope for a better life across Africa and Latin America through the game, at a scale on which politicians have never been able to do. The French team which won the World Cup in 1998 had players from different races and how ironic it is that France’s most loved sportsman ever is a Muslim, Zinedine Zidane, the son of Algerian immigrants. There are occasions of footballers defying an oppressive government through the game. Like the Ukrainian team F.C.Start which beat the Luftwaffe XI team in Kiev during the Second World War or Mohun Bagan which beat the East Yorkshire Regiment in 1911.
As much as it can unite, football can spark off violence to an unprecedented scale. Anglican Protestants and Roman Catholics constantly abuse when Rangers and Celtic meet in Glasgow. The Catalans, the Basques and the Galicians all stand tall against Franco 30 years after his death when teams from those regions meet Real Madrid. Some say that the civil war in Yugoslavia was propelled by a game between the Croat team Dinamo Zagreb and the Serb team Red Star Belgrade.
The game may be great but as should be taken up with a sense of caution. In a way it is good that India does not support the game so much. Racial differences are so numerous in our country that such violent games can spark off regional sentiments to the effect of violence.
This was my story of football. These days I don’t play the game much, so it’s become one more literate journey for me. Sometimes I feel saddened by the lack of respect sports is given in mainstream literature. Reading about football cannot be an “intellectual” journey, that’s something reserved for the readers of Dickens, Dan Brown or Vikram Seth! Some say football is only good when you are playing the game I say ‘**** ***’. Twenty two players play but it is watched by 30-40—70-100-200,000 people on the ground and millions more at bars and homes.
Enjoy the World Cup!
-- Aritro Dasgupta
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The Jalebi Lover's Story
My football-crazy demented brother’s charming friend, Komal, nudged me this morning and reminded me that it’s been awhile since I’ve updated my blog. Suitably nudged, here I am, this is me, there is nowhere else on earth I would rather be...you get the drift, right? Komal asked me to write about my days in Stephen’s, but I will leave that for a later day...too many memories to be packed into one post. So a different one today, but one that I was thinking of writing last Sunday in fact, while having lunch with my family...one of the rare occasions when all of us are at home at the same time and are eating together.
My father, or Baba as my brother and I call him, is a very disciplined man...be it about his life, its myriad dimensions, his hobbies, his website, his daily yoga, the number of calls to be made to his daughter in a day (three in all...will I ever find a more devoted man?), the kind of books, movies, music to enjoy and remember...everything. The only exception to the rule? His love for jalebis. They could be piping hot or blandly cold, from the fanciest store or from the shadiest cart, as long as they are jalebis they can and should be revered.
One of Baba’s most endearing habits can be seen at the dining table. The scene is always somewhat like this. Baba sits at the head of the table, flanking him on either side are Ma and I, and beside me my brother. The process of helping ourselves to the food is quite democratic. Either Ma ladles it out or we help ourselves. And when we need second helpings it’s again the same democratic process indeed. But there is an exception to this rule as well. At the time of the second helping, if Ma is not seated with us — maybe she has gone to answer a phone call or is adding a last minute garnish — and my brother or I happen to ask Baba whether we should put some for him, his answer invariably is, “No”. Always, and without fail. Never ever will he say, “Yes”, unless and until the questioner is my mother. Either she will ask him or will directly put food on his plate, and rarely if ever will he protest. She is the only person whose question or insistence can make all the difference between whether my father just eats or eats well.
So to all those of us, who have either found that person whose one sentence alone can make all the difference between contentment and sheer bliss, or are still in search, may the journey be rewarding even if it is as circuitous as a jalebi.
My father, or Baba as my brother and I call him, is a very disciplined man...be it about his life, its myriad dimensions, his hobbies, his website, his daily yoga, the number of calls to be made to his daughter in a day (three in all...will I ever find a more devoted man?), the kind of books, movies, music to enjoy and remember...everything. The only exception to the rule? His love for jalebis. They could be piping hot or blandly cold, from the fanciest store or from the shadiest cart, as long as they are jalebis they can and should be revered.
One of Baba’s most endearing habits can be seen at the dining table. The scene is always somewhat like this. Baba sits at the head of the table, flanking him on either side are Ma and I, and beside me my brother. The process of helping ourselves to the food is quite democratic. Either Ma ladles it out or we help ourselves. And when we need second helpings it’s again the same democratic process indeed. But there is an exception to this rule as well. At the time of the second helping, if Ma is not seated with us — maybe she has gone to answer a phone call or is adding a last minute garnish — and my brother or I happen to ask Baba whether we should put some for him, his answer invariably is, “No”. Always, and without fail. Never ever will he say, “Yes”, unless and until the questioner is my mother. Either she will ask him or will directly put food on his plate, and rarely if ever will he protest. She is the only person whose question or insistence can make all the difference between whether my father just eats or eats well.
So to all those of us, who have either found that person whose one sentence alone can make all the difference between contentment and sheer bliss, or are still in search, may the journey be rewarding even if it is as circuitous as a jalebi.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Here and Now
It takes all kinds to make this world, sure. But the kind that I personally have no sympathy for are those who forever feel victimized. The ones who will always crib, always complain, who are always waiting for a future when life will be perfect, when all their dilemmas and problems will fade away, when they will be happy. I have the personal misfortune of knowing two such people rather closely. For them, life is never pleasant, life is never good enough, therefore the time to be happy is not now…it is somewhere in the distant unknown future.
As I see it, the time to be happy is now. We’ve all been given one life after all, it’s up to us to make the most of it. Meet as many people as possible, do as much justice to the relationships we already are in or the ones we are forging every day, make as much of the professional opportunities that come our way, live every goddamn dream.
Of course, life isn’t hunky dory every day, no one’s is, it isn’t supposed to be so. Stop kidding yourself that your life is tougher than of the one sitting next to you. For the simple reason that you are not leading his or her life, you are just leading your own. Your experiences, your ways of dealing with problems, situations, people are uniquely your own. Your life probably sucks because of the way you are dealing with it. Similarly somebody else’s life could be in ruins because of the way he or she is handling it. To each of us, our life is the toughest because the challenges we face are strictly individual.
Take a break, stop feeling like a martyr, you are not doing anyone a favor here by being on this planet, you think you have problems, chill...so does every one. Just that their way of handling it is different.
So you had a bad day at work, big deal...all of us go through it.
Your partner betrayed you, again, tough luck...but it happens.
Your friend misunderstood you, screw it...you know your conscience is clear.
Bad things happen to all of us, some call it misfortune, some call it destiny. You talk out your problems, share your bad days’ experience with someone…be it a friend, a spouse, a blog, and life bounces back, cool. But if you are the kinds who think life is in tatters no matter what you do or where you live or who all are a part of it, the problem lies with you, not with others and not with life as such.
To those who visit this blog regularly, it is okay if the post does not make sense. I probably would have very little to say if I read something like this somewhere else. You are welcome here of course, but it’s ok if this unlike-the-usual-Sayantani-Dasgupta post, fails to provoke you into making a statement.
As I see it, the time to be happy is now. We’ve all been given one life after all, it’s up to us to make the most of it. Meet as many people as possible, do as much justice to the relationships we already are in or the ones we are forging every day, make as much of the professional opportunities that come our way, live every goddamn dream.
Of course, life isn’t hunky dory every day, no one’s is, it isn’t supposed to be so. Stop kidding yourself that your life is tougher than of the one sitting next to you. For the simple reason that you are not leading his or her life, you are just leading your own. Your experiences, your ways of dealing with problems, situations, people are uniquely your own. Your life probably sucks because of the way you are dealing with it. Similarly somebody else’s life could be in ruins because of the way he or she is handling it. To each of us, our life is the toughest because the challenges we face are strictly individual.
Take a break, stop feeling like a martyr, you are not doing anyone a favor here by being on this planet, you think you have problems, chill...so does every one. Just that their way of handling it is different.
So you had a bad day at work, big deal...all of us go through it.
Your partner betrayed you, again, tough luck...but it happens.
Your friend misunderstood you, screw it...you know your conscience is clear.
Bad things happen to all of us, some call it misfortune, some call it destiny. You talk out your problems, share your bad days’ experience with someone…be it a friend, a spouse, a blog, and life bounces back, cool. But if you are the kinds who think life is in tatters no matter what you do or where you live or who all are a part of it, the problem lies with you, not with others and not with life as such.
To those who visit this blog regularly, it is okay if the post does not make sense. I probably would have very little to say if I read something like this somewhere else. You are welcome here of course, but it’s ok if this unlike-the-usual-Sayantani-Dasgupta post, fails to provoke you into making a statement.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Badi Madam and Chhoti Madam
I was arm-twisted into writing this post and putting up this photo.
Please forgive me if either or both of them are not to your liking. But then again, they better be to your liking. Because the words are mine, and like every self-respecting blogger I am quite fond of my words, and the photographer is Rohit, and I am very fond of him too. And the subject is inspiring as well. It’s Badi Madam (BM), that’s me, and Chhoti Madam (CM), meaning Richa, suffused in a soft, golden light inside the Café Coffee Day, Janpath.
The three of us had met up for coffee and conversation. Rohit’s camera was with him, so he decided to have fun at our expense. Anyway, here’s in brief the story behind BM and CM.
It was the cold winter morning of January 28, 2006. Incidentally, it’s also Rohit’s birthday. Five people had decided to go to Old Delhi’s famed Paranthewali Gali for brunch...sinful parathas and lassi. We entered one of the shops (cannot remember its name, sorry) lined with photographs of Nehru, Indira Gandhi and other stalwarts eating parathas, presumably at this very same joint itself. Thoroughly restless to bite into this piece of history, all of us sat down, made ourselves comfortable, and waited. The waiter himself, about hundred years old, and with infinite knowledge about every kind of paratha there is, launched his menu on us, orally. His recitation just went on and on!
I fell in love with him there and then. Wanted to hire him for my office...so that the moment an author arrives, our man here can recite one after the other, all the books we have ever published, and all that we are ever going to. Very cool indeed. Secondly because, like all nice gentlemen he developed a special liking for the ladies, and christened them Badi Madam and Chhoti Madam. And the names have stayed since then.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Karan
I met Karan last evening after nearly one year. One hopes that when one meets a dear friend, his first words would be, “Hey Sayan! So good to see you!” or that you would be enveloped in a giant, bear hug and given the nicest smile ever.
Instead what did my friend say?
“DUMB BITCH! What have you done to your hair?”
“Err...as you can clearly see, tied it.”
“WHY?’
“Because it’s so bloody hot!”
Lapse of five seconds, and then...
“Tell me Sayan, why are you so dumb?”
“Huh?”
“Why did it take you forever to figure out where I was parked?”
“Maybe because you were supposed to wait outside PowerGrid Apartments, which is where I live, and not outside Mahalaxmi Apartments, which is where I have never been?”
After two hours of Karan-versation I returned home, happy to have met him, and motivated enough to dedicate a post to him.
Karan joined Quark, Chandigarh, nearly six months after me. Within his first few days in our 70-member department, he was so well settled, that I literally checked with a couple of colleagues whether he was really a new joinee or a transfer from another department. Turns out he really was new...to the city, to the office, to the people. You wouldn’t think so, because everywhere you went, you heard only him. Holding forth, and that too knowledgeably, on a multitude of subjects --- what all to do in Goa or India’s military history or the newest weird computer game or Britney Spears. I love people who ooze confidence, but in Karan’s case, he doesn’t merely ooze it. His confidence crashes all around him in gigantic, swirling waves. Within a week of his joining we were friends, and within a month nearly inseparable. I just knew when to look at my monitor to get his 72-font sized, red-colored, single-worded, all-capital email that asked, “COFFEE?”
In our nearly two years of association now, the ten things I have learnt from Karan are:
1. When you want to sing a song, and you don’t know its lyrics or tune, fear not. Imagination and vocal chords are your solution to everything.
2. Everything can double as food.
3. It is possible to make a Maruti 800 fly and reach Chandigarh from Gurgaon in three hours.
4. One is never too full for icecream.
5. It is perfectly sane to want to drive to the hills with thick fog all around you and zero visibility.
6. There is nothing funny about two 25-year olds renting several animation movies and watching them back to back with Bloody Mary for company, then getting a massive craving for McDonald’s McChicken burger at 10.30 pm, yet not driving to the nearest McDonald’s which is half an hour away and instead driving for two and a half hours to Karnal only to find the McDonald’s there closed and therefore making dinner out of paranthas.
7. Just as it is perfectly normal for two people to finish six bottles of wine in a spate of an hour and a half.
8. All travel plans should be made ten minutes before starting for the destination. If you have to travel, you just have to. No cash, no ATMs, no petrol in the car...none of these can or should be a deterrent.
9. You never ever hold a grudge against a friend.
10. Spending money on the people and things you love is the only real way to live.
Photo credit: Neha (Karan’s gorgeous girlfriend)
Friday, May 12, 2006
Being Bitchy
Ah! The bliss of it all. When you get an itch inside you to share a particularly bitchy scoop, the agonizing feeling that takes over the itch immediately is what if the person you want to share it with isn’t around to pick up the phone, or worse is busy with some chore and cannot talk to you for a few hours at least, and then finally, the mind numbing relief of being able to get through and spill the beans...sheer relief. More potent and addictive than any drug known to man (or woman), being bitchy is a state of mind that should be celebrated.
There were two such instances today. Once when I was bored with the brain-numbing essay I am editing, and desperately needed a break, so called my best pal, Saswati, currently living and working in Bangalore. We talked for twenty minutes or so, cribbed about every man on this planet who has ever been a part of our joint or individual past, poured poison over every wrong (imagined or real) meted out to us, cackled over every sin we have committed or abetted in our life, and took solace from the fact that every bit of all our conversations over these last twenty-two years have been worth their while in gold.
Interestingly, Sas and I have a theory about why life decides to treat us badly every now and then. It is because once, about three years ago, when she and I had gone to Rishikesh, we had sat on the calm, peaceful, sacred banks of the Ganges and bitched to our hearts’ content. Don’t ask me the whys and the hows! We did it because it was fun! And because life as we knew it was perfect then. Since then it hasn’t been so. Wrong men, wronger circumstances have taken their toll but we are still at it. We haven’t learnt our lesson! We spoilt the pavitra vatavaran of a dharmic place like Rishikesh with our venom, and that’s why life is the way it is!
The second bitching session today was with Richa. Frantically hoping that she wasn’t saddled with any friend or work or anything else, and instead could give me the 100% concentration that I so needed, I called her. She was fortunately free, and we talked, and bitched and laughed hysterically. Babe, you are a lifesaver!
By the way, before the men who read this blog decide to leave comments to the effect, “Why do WOMEN bitch all the time?”, let me hasten to add that some of my life’s most pleasant bitching sessions have been with men. It’s an art after all...either you have it in you or you don’t.
There were two such instances today. Once when I was bored with the brain-numbing essay I am editing, and desperately needed a break, so called my best pal, Saswati, currently living and working in Bangalore. We talked for twenty minutes or so, cribbed about every man on this planet who has ever been a part of our joint or individual past, poured poison over every wrong (imagined or real) meted out to us, cackled over every sin we have committed or abetted in our life, and took solace from the fact that every bit of all our conversations over these last twenty-two years have been worth their while in gold.
Interestingly, Sas and I have a theory about why life decides to treat us badly every now and then. It is because once, about three years ago, when she and I had gone to Rishikesh, we had sat on the calm, peaceful, sacred banks of the Ganges and bitched to our hearts’ content. Don’t ask me the whys and the hows! We did it because it was fun! And because life as we knew it was perfect then. Since then it hasn’t been so. Wrong men, wronger circumstances have taken their toll but we are still at it. We haven’t learnt our lesson! We spoilt the pavitra vatavaran of a dharmic place like Rishikesh with our venom, and that’s why life is the way it is!
The second bitching session today was with Richa. Frantically hoping that she wasn’t saddled with any friend or work or anything else, and instead could give me the 100% concentration that I so needed, I called her. She was fortunately free, and we talked, and bitched and laughed hysterically. Babe, you are a lifesaver!
By the way, before the men who read this blog decide to leave comments to the effect, “Why do WOMEN bitch all the time?”, let me hasten to add that some of my life’s most pleasant bitching sessions have been with men. It’s an art after all...either you have it in you or you don’t.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Real Gold
Today morning I dug out an old favorite book to read on my way to work. A collection of Bangla short stories by Satyajit Ray. While flipping through the familiar pages, I chanced upon what had served as the bookmark the last time I had read this book. A Rajdhani train ticket from New Delhi to Calcutta made out in the name of Sayantani Dasgupta, age 19. Dated October 1998, when I was on my way to attend the 50th wedding anniversary of my grandparents.
Although I was the only one from our family in Delhi who went to attend the party, since the others -— meaning Mum, Dad and brother -— were all caught up in various activities, procuring that one ticket was an uphill task. Dad’s regular travel agent had said no, the Pujas were either just over or were round the corner so tickets to Calcutta were as un-gettable as tickets to the moon, I was falling short of attendance in College (there were two teachers whose classes I just couldn’t bring myself to attend therefore bunked their lectures religiously), so ideally couldn’t afford a week-long vacation...but what the hell! Grandparents are special, and this was their special day, so come what may, even if I had to walk it I was going! I was that determined.
Like manna from heaven, a classmate told me about this travel agent in Kamla Nagar who could get you tickets to anywhere anyday. So off we trooped, she leading the way, I following her with my fingers tightly crossed, and with us, my friends -— Andy, Sakthy (you might remember her, she taught “What If”), and Sachin. One look at his shady office and my heart sank further, but wonder of wonders, he promised me a ticket, for the very day I wanted to leave for Calcutta. Next morning, we (yes, all of us loved bunking) went and picked up the to and fro tickets.
The party was immensely enjoyable. There were about 75 invitees but that wasn’t my real reason for wanting to attend it. Nor was it just because we were celebrating fifty years of togetherness. It was because I had to salute my grandparents’ indomitable spirit and romance, I had to celebrate their incredible love story. My grandparents had fallen in love with each other when they were students in the same school. Once news of their romance leaked out, they faced tremendous opposition because of social and economic differences between the two families. So they eloped (we are talking pre-Independence days here) from their village in Bangladesh to Calcutta, got married, my grandfather broke his right arm in the process so his “signature” on the marriage certificate is his thumbprint. With tremendous kick-ass attitude they returned to the village, caused a huge scandal in the whole district of Chittagong, continued facing terrible setbacks including the Partition, yet all turned out for the better. They came to Calcutta, settled down, my grandmother went on to do her Master’s, and my grandfather joined the civil services. Bit by bit, they made a family and built a home.
I’m pleased that I wrote this today. In a world where relationships are fragile, where people are cynical and judgmental, where neither of the partners has either the time or the patience to make a relationship work, where in spite of tremendous chemistry between two people commitment is still a phobia...here is the most priceless love story I have ever come across.
To my grandparents’ delicious madness! (Hoping that some of it has rubbed on to their first grandchild as well.)
Although I was the only one from our family in Delhi who went to attend the party, since the others -— meaning Mum, Dad and brother -— were all caught up in various activities, procuring that one ticket was an uphill task. Dad’s regular travel agent had said no, the Pujas were either just over or were round the corner so tickets to Calcutta were as un-gettable as tickets to the moon, I was falling short of attendance in College (there were two teachers whose classes I just couldn’t bring myself to attend therefore bunked their lectures religiously), so ideally couldn’t afford a week-long vacation...but what the hell! Grandparents are special, and this was their special day, so come what may, even if I had to walk it I was going! I was that determined.
Like manna from heaven, a classmate told me about this travel agent in Kamla Nagar who could get you tickets to anywhere anyday. So off we trooped, she leading the way, I following her with my fingers tightly crossed, and with us, my friends -— Andy, Sakthy (you might remember her, she taught “What If”), and Sachin. One look at his shady office and my heart sank further, but wonder of wonders, he promised me a ticket, for the very day I wanted to leave for Calcutta. Next morning, we (yes, all of us loved bunking) went and picked up the to and fro tickets.
The party was immensely enjoyable. There were about 75 invitees but that wasn’t my real reason for wanting to attend it. Nor was it just because we were celebrating fifty years of togetherness. It was because I had to salute my grandparents’ indomitable spirit and romance, I had to celebrate their incredible love story. My grandparents had fallen in love with each other when they were students in the same school. Once news of their romance leaked out, they faced tremendous opposition because of social and economic differences between the two families. So they eloped (we are talking pre-Independence days here) from their village in Bangladesh to Calcutta, got married, my grandfather broke his right arm in the process so his “signature” on the marriage certificate is his thumbprint. With tremendous kick-ass attitude they returned to the village, caused a huge scandal in the whole district of Chittagong, continued facing terrible setbacks including the Partition, yet all turned out for the better. They came to Calcutta, settled down, my grandmother went on to do her Master’s, and my grandfather joined the civil services. Bit by bit, they made a family and built a home.
I’m pleased that I wrote this today. In a world where relationships are fragile, where people are cynical and judgmental, where neither of the partners has either the time or the patience to make a relationship work, where in spite of tremendous chemistry between two people commitment is still a phobia...here is the most priceless love story I have ever come across.
To my grandparents’ delicious madness! (Hoping that some of it has rubbed on to their first grandchild as well.)
Thursday, May 04, 2006
The Thursday That Was
Last evening I saw Ice Age II. Since a lot has already been said and discussed about it in blogosphere, I will refrain myself to a few sentences only. Suffice it to say that I loved it even more than the first part. Simply because it was grander and larger than life than before. I specially love Ellie, the mammoth who thinks she is a possum. A huge salute to the vision, the concept, the script-writing, editing, execution...basically everything that went into making this film. Seriously, people who make animation movies are gods.
I remember reading this comment that had been made by Walt Disney at the height of his professional success, something to the effect, “Let’s not forget that it was all started by a mouse.” What a brilliant sentence to convey the fact that sometimes life’s most glorious successes come from the simplest of ideas. He then went on to discuss how he and his wife had had huge discussions about what the mouse should be called. He was in favor of some uninspiring name like Mortimer, whereas his wife’s preference was the name Mickey. Today we know who won that argument, and thankfully so.
Yesterday was memorable for another reason. I came back home to find a mysterious package waiting for me. Turned out to be three films...all part of a series that I had happened to mention to a friend, and that too very casually over an sms, as something that I have not seen yet but would like to in the future. So he just went ahead and got me those.
To him....Thank you so much! If you treat everyone in your life in this same fashion, then the world is indeed a better place because of you.
I remember reading this comment that had been made by Walt Disney at the height of his professional success, something to the effect, “Let’s not forget that it was all started by a mouse.” What a brilliant sentence to convey the fact that sometimes life’s most glorious successes come from the simplest of ideas. He then went on to discuss how he and his wife had had huge discussions about what the mouse should be called. He was in favor of some uninspiring name like Mortimer, whereas his wife’s preference was the name Mickey. Today we know who won that argument, and thankfully so.
Yesterday was memorable for another reason. I came back home to find a mysterious package waiting for me. Turned out to be three films...all part of a series that I had happened to mention to a friend, and that too very casually over an sms, as something that I have not seen yet but would like to in the future. So he just went ahead and got me those.
To him....Thank you so much! If you treat everyone in your life in this same fashion, then the world is indeed a better place because of you.
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