THREE SHADES OF A PEG

I don't drink. Never have. As a kid, my parents always told me that drinking was bad. I grew up with that in my mind.

It was the first time my boss was taking us out for dinner. At least that's what he had told us what it was. I was expecting paneer and rice and curry and what not. We all sat at a corner of Taj, Bengaluru. There were comfortable seats, but really small tables. I didn't know how I was going to eat. But I knew I'd manage.

It started with drinks, and well, ended with them too. I said orange juice, and everyone stared at me. They ordered everything from wine to whiskey and scotch and beer and... blah blah blah. I didn't care about the names. I didn't know the difference. Still don't. All I cared was that I was going to see drunken men for the first time in my life.

Nothing happened for a long time. I was almost disappointed. But after three glasses of orange juice and two bowls of peanuts, I heard something. My senior was shouting at my big boss. He wanted his glass of wine. Boss didn't mind. He's a seasoned fellow, you see. My senior disappeared with a bottle and the glass. Next I saw him dancing near the swimming pool. All alone.

I still tease him for that night. Wish I had taken a pic. Anyway, I did that on the next occasion, just that the pics were vulgar.

My flatmates of those days were drunkards. Big time. I got to know only after my night shift was changed to morning. I would hear sounds. Weird noises. I would keep my door closed. One day when I opened it, I knew it was time to leave that house.

Five of my colleagues, two of whom were those who shared the flat with me, were high... and, well, on top and bottom of each other. I didn't bother to find out who was with whom. There were no couples for sure... they were five after all. I set an early alarm to click their pics in the morning. I still have them, saved somewhere on this system. I don't share them, so don't ask. They are just a strange memory.

Two days back, my best friend called me up at 2 in the night. He was down two cans of beer, a peg of vodka, tequila, whiskey and scotch... that's all I remember him telling me. But more than that, I remember him telling me stuff that I could have never imagined he would say. Not in my wildest dreams.

In the hour that followed, he punctured every artery and vein of my heart. He was sloshed, and I was shattered. He was stabbing me, stomping on my heart, cutting it into pieces that can never be stuck again. However filmy it might sound, but his words did sound like undiluted acid that night.

I didn't sleep after that. I couldn't. In his drunkenness, my friend, my best friend, had lost me. I called him in the morning when I thought he would be awake. With a fake cheerfulness in my voice, I bid him goodbye, without making him realise that it was the last time we were talking.

'Poorva, I love...'

He was, no doubt, a handsome man. Tall, good looking, well spoken with a heavy Brit accent, a nice broad smile. He was neither fat nor fit. He was quite particular about the way he looked. I think he shaved everyday because I never saw him with even a slight beard. I guess he used to get his eyebrows thread too. His hair was never out of place.

I never noticed him much till the time I noticed that he was noticing me a lot. Yes, he was way too much polite to me. He would make it a point to ask me everyday how I was. Depending on my mood, I would reply. But no matter how his mood was, his way of talking to me never became even slightly rude.

It was his birthday in a week's time. He made it a point to invite me every single day to his big day. He told me that I was special and he was looking forward to celebrating with me. A lot of his friends were going to be there. Everything sounded perfect, but my gut feeling said it was not.

For some reason, I could never think that he was special. I didn't go to his party. He rang me up at least 25-30 times, there must have been 40 messages in my phone, three of his friends came to my office to pick me up. But I didn't go. I didn't feel like going. I know I sound like a very hard-hearted person here, but I never do anything my heart says no to.

I thought he would be mad at me and won't talk to me for days. But my phone rang the next morning itself. It was him. His voice told me that he had been crying. A lot.

'I want to see you. Right now.'

'It's a Sunday. I am off, and have hardly got out of my bed. I don't think I can meet you.'

'I will come to your house. Give me your address. I must, must meet you.'

'Boys are not allowed here.'

'Ok. Come to the CCD near your office. If you don't meet me, I'll do something to myself. I want to say something to you. I have to. Please.'

'Tomorrow?'

'No. Right now. Please.'

I didn't want to be the cause for a grown-up man's suicide. Crime shows had taught me that police look for the last phone call made or received, the number of messages sent to one person, interrogate friends of the deceased etc etc. No boss. I didn't want to be grilled by the cops. And CCD sounded like a safe place. I crawled out of my bed, changed and left for CCD without having my breakfast. (Of course, who in the world would eat and go to Coffee Day?)

There he was. Smiling. Too glad to see me finally. His eyes were puffed. Too much alcohol and too many tears perhaps.

We went inside, my mind already set to order a Devil's Own and paneer tikka sandwich. But guess it wasn't my day.

'Poorva, can we go a bar please?'

'I don't drink. You know that. Tell me what it is. I have to rush.'

'Ok. Then can we at least stand outside? I need a smoke.'

He had started jumping on the sofa like a madman and everyone was staring at us. Embarrassed, I stepped out.

He took out a cigarette and two cans of beer.

'I got this for you.'

'You know I don't drink. And I don't like the smell of smoke. For God's sake, tell me whatever you want to. I want to go home. I am hungry.'

'Let's go to my home in that case. Girls are allowed there. I'll order anything you want to eat. Everything you want to eat. Just come with me to my home. Please.'

'No. I am leaving. Right now.'

He was on his knees by then. Yes, on the road, on the knees.

'Please Poorva, please. Don't go.'

At that moment, crime shows did not matter. Devil's Own and paneer tikka did not matter. Call records, messages, friends... nothing mattered. This guy was insane. I was petrified. I turned and started running as fast as I could. My athletics coach would have been so proud of me had he seen me then.

The next day somebody told me that he had left his job. A week later, I got to know that he was taking counselling at NIMHANS. After a month or so, he called me up for the last time.

'I am leaving India for good and going back to my parents in Britain. But before I go, I want to tell you what I wanted to, the other day. I promise there won't be any drama this time. I'll meet you whenever and wherever you want me to.'

'Okay. You can see me at my office at 4 pm.'

An awkward silence before I realised that I was losing my patience.

'You wanted to say something, I guess.'

'Yes Poorva. Just that I don't know how to say that. I have never said this to a girl before.'

Oh ya. And pigs fly.

'Okay. I am not going to waste even one more minute of yours. I will finally say this to you.'

I tried not to shift. I felt so uncomfortable. Believe me, I didn't want to hear what I thought and you think I was about to hear.

'I am in love. Poorva, I love him. So much.'

Go ahead. Read the above line again. I did not make a mistake.

'Poorva, I have been in love with him ever since I saw him first. We were a pair. I invited you to my birthday party because I was about to make a surprise announcement of our engagement that day. I hadn't even told him about it. I was forcing you to come because somewhere in you I saw a friend. You never tried to take advantage of me like everyone else does. I wanted you to be a part of my big day.'

I sat there, stunned. This was the first of its kind.

'The cake was ready. The champagne was there. All my friends had gathered in the hall. I went searching for him. I heard some commotion in one of the bedrooms and knew he was there.'

Tears had started trickling down his cheeks. He was shaking. I held his hand.

'I opened the door of that bedroom. He was right there... with my aunt, in the bed. I screamed. He turned and looked at me. Then he simply said, 'I am bi. Sorry for not telling you before.' I was shattered, Poorva. I wanted to tell you. I knew you would understand.'

He is with his parents these days. He has had counselling in London and is finally enjoying life again, thanks to his mom and dad.

I wrote this blog to apologise to him...

Sorry for not trying to understand you when you needed me.

KASHMIR oh KASHMIR!

The other day I was searching for an Indian map on Google to put on my blog along with my last post. But what I saw made me feel bad. Very bad.

I am not trying to boast, but I was quite good at drawing maps in school. My geography teacher would send in a message beforehand, instructing me to draw a huge map on the blackboard before class begins. I could even draw it blindfolded. But when I saw the Indian map on Google that day, I knew I could not draw it. In fact, I would never want to draw it.

Try drawing that Indian map I was taught in school, and you will always, always start from that solid head we have... Jammu & Kashmir. But look at the Indian map now. The head is half gone... as if it met with an accident. It's got a big dent. It pains.

On the left is India as it was given to us on 15th August 1947. On the right is the BBC map of India with Kashmir half gone. This and many such maps are available on Google.

I don't have much of Kashmir connection, except for two friends, a holiday plan and bhumbro-bhumbro. So why did half the Kashmir gone make me feel bad? Why did I fight tears? Why did I look at my Kashmiri colleague the next day and said sorry in my head?

This colleague of mine had once told me about the house he grew up in. It was huge. Enough for it to be converted into a High School now. He had told me that he learnt to swim in the Dal Lake. His first crush was a red-cheeked girl. They hardly saw the sun during winters. They actually used kangri which sounded like a weird thing when I read about it in my GK book in class 5th.

He also told me that he had wasted a college year because of migration. After that, he didn't say anything.

The other day I downloaded Google Earth on his laptop, and he took me straight to Shalimar Bagh on it. He was so excited. He hasn't gone back in 20 years. Only Google Earth takes him to his Kashmir now.

I know he is going to blast me for letting out his secrets to the world. But perhaps it's every Kashmiri's secret today.

That brings me to the same question again... why did it make ME feel bad?

I have always been a perfectionist. When I saw India's map that day, I realised the drawing had been ruined. My India can never be perfect without the perfect Kashmir, and I do not want to make an imperfect drawing.

For me, it was just a drawing gone bad. But what about those whose whole life... the past, the present, the future...

I am sorry. I really am.

Oh poor GANDHI!

Gandhi divided India. He could have done something to ensure a smooth partition. The Kashmir problem is because of Gandhi.

'Why don't you do a special feature on Gandhi for tonight's prime time?'

'Aah! It would be full of controversies, Poorva.'

I fail to understand why people talk about Gandhi without knowing anything about him. Or why lately people have started calling him a controversial man, blaming him for all things bad that happened to our country during the 1940s' phase. I thought he was associated to freedom, to goodness, to peace. In fact, as a kid, he was my favourite after Buddha. He still is.

When people around me started calling him names, I was hurt. I wanted to know who is wrong... those people or my favourite old man.

There is something very interesting about knowledge: if you know the full and proper version, it's good. If you don't know anything, it's ok. But if you know only half of it, it's the worst. It's like eating a half-baked biscuit which would cause stomach ache later. Either eat a full-baked one or don't eat at all.

My fondness for Gandhi grew when I was in nursery. I don't have a reason why. But when I grew up and got to know from people that the same Gandhi was a bad man, I was disturbed. This time I wanted to know why. Why do they say he was wrong?

I did some serious research that cleared my mind. Please read the next few lines only if you can read with a clear mind. Leave it if you can't. There is a lot of reading and only for those who can look at things practically instead of blindly following some rumour-mongers.

• Rumour number 1: Gandhi divided India

Gandhi never wanted to divide India. In fact, he was the only man standing when everyone else was hellbent on doing so. Gandhi had once famously said, 'Before partitioning India, my body will have to be cut into two pieces.'

The idea of a separate state of Pakistan was coined way back in 1933 by a man called Rahmat Ali (yes, it wasn't even Jinnah's idea). This guy wanted a separate state for India's Muslims so that they could be independent. The name Pakistan came from the five northern parts of India that he had in mind would constitute Pakistan: Punjab, Afghan province, Kashmir, Sind, BaluchisTAN. It was hence initially called Pakstan, and i was added later.

Rahmat Ali wanted Jinnah to take over this movement of a separate state of Pakistan, but Jinnah called it an 'impossible dream'. Later in 1937, Jinnah's Muslim League started having issues with Congress, and that's when he began working towards making this impossible dream possible.

• Rumour number 2: Gandhi should have divided India in such a way that Muslims should have gone to Pakistan and Hindus should have remained in India

Now this is something most people are not aware of and they don't bother to check the facts too: Sir Cyril Radcliffe, who was generally acknowledged as the most brilliant barrister in England, was given the task of dividing India and West & East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). And why did they choose him? Because Radcliffe didn't know anything about India, and that's why there was no chance of him getting influenced. The orders given to him were, 'divide the two nations based on the Muslim and non-Muslim populations, but keep other factors in mind as well.' He did exactly the same.

Now I don't understand how does Gandhi come in here. The man who did not want a divided India is being blamed these days for not dividing it properly. Seriously, irony couldn't have a better place.

• Rumour number 3: Kashmir problem is because of Gandhi

Two of my closest friends are Kashmiri Pandits, and that's why I particularly wanted to find the truth behind this rumour.

There is a little city called Gurdaspur in Punjab. While Radcliffe was on his mission Partition India on the map, he decided to follow the natural boundary line of the Ravi River. With this, he left Gurdaspur and the Muslim villages around it inside India. 

Had Radcliffe awarded Gurdaspur to Pakistan, Kashmir would have easily gone to them as well. Without this city, India would have had no practicable land access to Kashmir, and its Hindu Maharaja Hari Singh wouldn't have a choice except to link Kashmir's destiny to Pakistan.

So how did Gandhi come into the picture here?

There might be many other such rumours, but these three are the most common which I have heard so far.

Before I wrap, I need to talk about Gandhi's personal life as well. Nowadays, a lot of people say that he was a womaniser and that he slept naked with a few women or something like that. First of all, there is no proof of what happened inside his bedroom. Secondly, I don't give a damn if he slept with ten, one or none. 

All I care about is that he gave this country, this world a wonderful message of peace. He showed us the non-violent path. I am not against those who gave up their lives by resorting to violent means for our freedom, but why should I be against someone who did the vice versa?

Leave Hinduism or Islam, CRICKET is the biggest RELIGION in India

'I hope I marry a man who is not so crazy about cricket,' I thought out aloud seeing my whole office stuck to the India v/s Australia T20.

'Now that's a tough demand, Poorva. Such a man would be really hard to find,' one of my colleagues told me what I already knew.

No dying people, no political scams, no tragedies mattered today... because the biggest tragedy and the most important news was India's pathetic performance.

In my channel's newsroom, all the headlines were written in advance. The packages were ready. The shows were all set to go on air ten minutes before time! The reason was neither a sudden salary hike, nor the big boss' presence. Everyone wanted to get done with their work in order to catch the remaining balls.

Those fathers who could not make it to their daughter's birthday party on time, were home early. Those shopkeepers who don't shut shops well past 11 pm, had already downed shutters. Those students who finish their homework by 2 am, were free at 7:30 pm. The roads were empty, parking was full. Only one channel was on in every home.

As I absorbed that feeling standing in that unusually silent lane which leads to my home, I realised that no Hinduism, no Islam, no Christianity, no Sikhism binds India like cricket does. No festive season is as much awaited as the next series and no festival is as big as an India match. No result is as fruitful as a win. No failure is as bad as a loss.

Cricket is the biggest religion in India with eleven gods who keep changing. But mind you, these gods have a tough job in retaining their godliness in front of their devotees. Drop a catch or miss a ball, and their temple will start shaking. Lose a match, and prayers will stop. Defeat in a tournament means they are not gods anymore. Even the real God doesn't have such a tough challenge in front of him!

But even after the challenging nature of the job, everyone wants to become this cricket god. It's like what they once used to say about government jobs... your life is set if you become a cricketer. One match will give you a good bride, one tournament will be enough to open a restaurant, if you are good looking as well, advertisement offers will knock your door everyday. A cricket academy or a career in commentary is obvious. You see, this job comes with the best retirement plan too.

A close friend of mine who was an awesome athlete gave up the field. His father had told him... doctor, engineer or cricketer. No other sport is welcome in the Indian household. After all, what do hockey, football or athletics give you in this country? One or two medals perhaps. They are of no value. Nobody needs them. Nobody cares a damn about them. A thousand athletes can't equal one cricketer. Nobody will watch their race on the free-to-air DD Sports, but everyone will happily pay Rs 45 to catch the match on ESPN-Star Sports.

That friend is an engineer today. He is earning well, much more than he would have ever earned as an athlete. But I know he is not true to his job. His heart is on the tracks. It always was. But this cricket-crazy country didn't give him a choice.

And well, he is not the only one without an option.

Doctor V/S Doctor

It’s been more than four years to this incident. I had just shifted to Bangalore and was experiencing a lot of pain in my legs. Nothing was helping so I finally decided to visit the doctor. He sat in a big room in one of Bangalore's most prestigious hospitals. The setting looked 5-starish. I had a feeling the doc was going to be awesome too.

He patiently asked everything and jotted it down. At the end, he gave me a long list of tests I needed to get done. God! Was I so ill? He even gave me an offer to visit his friend's clinic for a good discount on those tests instead of getting them done at the hospital. He told me that the total after the discount would be somewhere around Rs 10,000.

Seriously, the leg pain was nowhere in front of the pocket pain that day. I had heard that doctors charge a bomb, but this looked like nuclear that day. I had never visited a doc without my mom before and this time the money was from my first salary. So obviously it hurt even more.

A friend advised me to take another opinion before going for the tests. But I was in no mood to pay more fee to one more doctor. She persisted, and I had to relent.

This doctor did not sit in a posh room. It was hygienic and more doctorish than 5-starish. He did not recommend any tests. He did not scare the hell out of my wallet. He just told me I need to drink more milk and eat bananas for extra calcium. I was fine in a week.

Had I not taken the second opinion, doctors would have remained money-eating mongrels in my mind throughout my life. That one experience taught me that it's very easy to form a bad opinion. But one man's wrongdoing cannot be implied to his whole community... be it professional or religious. 

I realised that not every doctor is a looter. Not every businessman is a cheat. Not every maid is a thief. Not every restaurant serves stale food. Not every girl has weird mood. Not every saint is a sinner. Not every prisoner is a killer. Not every Muslim is a terrorist. Not every Hindu is NOT a terrorist.

If you ever find a rotten apple, keep it aside and look for the healthy ones. Chances are you'll find some, only if you are not stuck in a government department where all the apples have become rotten after years of exposure to bad air.

Our country has gone to GODS!

I don't think Ganesha would be too happy with all of us... for polluting the rivers in his name. Year after year, putting POP down the lakes. Saying Ganpati Bappa Morya, and adding chemicals to the water-bodies.  He never asked for it. No God ever asked for it.

Today I was walking down a road which has a huge Ganesha temple at the corner. The biggest rangoli I have ever seen, the most beautiful idol, that agarbatti smell, the garlands... and the devotees immersed in a BRAWL! One of them holding the other’s neck, shoving him to the temple wall, calling him names...

Many a times I wonder if we actually fear God. We keep our phones on silent during a meeting with our boss, but attend calls in a temple. We build temple to encroach a land and then keep expanding it, because we know no authority would dare touch it.

We remember Him in trouble and forget Him as soon as we are out of it. We pray hard during exams and an hour before the result, but we would rather watch a movie during our holidays. When we are left with nothing, we leave it to Him.

We pollute His land on Holi, His air on Diwali and His water on Chaturthi, and we USE Him in doing all this.

You say it’s all written in the puranas. But can you tell me even one line from the same puranas which makes you do all that you actually end up doing on these festivals? They say Parvati created Ganesha from sandalwood paste. But did Parvati also ask you to create him every year from Plaster of Paris, paint him with some chemicals and immerse him in water? Ram returned to Ayodhya after 14 years of vanavas. But did Ram ask you to blow up thousands on useless firecrackers for his feat? When Prahlad sat on the pyre and Holika burnt instead, did he also ask you to burn trees each year and give the Earth a colourful chemical bath the next day?

God has become a commodity these days. Man uses it to take holidays, to enjoy, to blame, to kill, to hate. Seriously, God looks like the most pitiable personality I have come across.

But God, please don’t worry. Not everybody is that bad. Not everybody is trying to ruin your creation. In fact, some of those great souls have taught me the good lesson too.

My Ganesha is only clay. I double-checked. No colours added. And by God, it looks so beautiful! Even Parvati would be proud of it!!

I haven’t burnt any crackers for ten years now, ever since I took that oath in class 9^th. Yes, I stuck to it. Last year, I bought two sarees for my maid’s daughters for the same amount that an average Delhite burns on a Diwali night. She was so happy. Told me the elder one wore it at her graduation.

I don’t play Holi even if they keep asking me. They tried to drag me into the mess this year, but I am strong, you know.

God, I am on your side. Not only because I fear you, but also because I love you and respect you a lot. I know you painstakingly created the world where I live. I know how much it hurts when someone puts a minor scratch on my car. And look at you... they are putting major scratches on your model every day, every minute, every second! From my side, I can assure you I won’t add to your miseries. Promise. I don’t know about others though.

The SMALL BULLIES of Bangalore

It's not a big tanker. It's not a rickety local bus. It's not even a posh SUV. It's either a bicycle, an auto or a woman! If you have had the awesome experience of driving in Bangalore, then you know what I am talking about.

The most painful people on this city's roads don't sit inside huge vehicles. They are on two feet or on two/three wheels. They are those who cannot hear a honk, they can't even hear three, four, five, ten honks. They don't care about the world around them. They know if some big four wheeler *&%^$ dares to touch them, he would be blamed. After all, it's always the fault of the big guy. The small ones can't be bullies. That's the thumb rule.

Take for example the auto driver. He rules the city. He doesn't use one lane, he uses two... half of both. On top of that, his speed won't cross 30 kmph. So both you and your friend on the other lane are stuck. Buy a Mercedes here but you will be forced to slug at 20 kmph behind this auto. And for goodness sake, don't take that 6-gear car a company introduced sometime back. You will never even get to the 5th gear here.

I forgot to mention that you won't find parking space outside your office because that auto driver would have already used it. He is sleeping inside. Don't disturb.

I don't know why some Bangaloreans are demanding a separate cycle lane in the city. Sir, all the lanes belong to the cyclists only. I am not talking about those activist-types who wear cycle helmets, knee pads and all that fashionable safety gear to go to office on their mountain bikes. I am talking about that black bicycle that my laundry man used when I was a kid. Yes, that black cycle is still being used here... that too, on the main roads!

Our Mr Cyclist rides during rush hours. In the middle of the roads. I am so glad he doesn't have the size of using two lanes at a time like his auto driver friend. But well, he fills in the void by his sweet pace of 5 km per hour.

And parking? Aah! That's no problem at all. Find a two-wheeler parking and abandon your cycle between two bikes. It's poking out, huh? That's not his headache! His cycle does not get scratches.

Have you seen a cow on the road? And have you seen an aunty ji on the road? What's the difference between them? I would say none. Both of them walk as if they have earphones on and are listening to loud music. They don't hear traffic noise. They are not designed to hear traffic noise. You are honking, screaming... dear, you are actually wasting your energy. Sit back, relax, take a deep breath, try not to get angry. Let aunty ji enter a shop and then drive out in peace.

Just because you have a big vehicle does not mean you are big. Here in Bangalore, small is bigger than the big. 

What the HELL!

When they first brought me here, I was excited. I liked my new cage, my new home. I would get biryani almost every alternate day. The kids would come and play with me. Their mom would clean up my cage. Their granny, that fat woman who shouts at everyone, never shouted at me. They were happy. I was happy.

I am the parrot that spends its days and nights in a cage that Poorva's landlords have kept. 

One day they took me to the terrace in my cage to play with, but after five minutes, they lost interest and got busy with themselves. It was then that I met someone.

A pigeon was perched somewhere over there on the top. I could see she was about to lay eggs. She looked hungry. She had to build a nest as well as search for food. I felt good. I had a better home, I did not have to hunt for food, the winter was not going to kill me. 

My owners were nice initially but I had no clue that they would forget me so soon. That they would throw food and water in my cage like a daily routine, without even looking at me once. They would stop cleaning my cage, playing with me. My new cage became old in just two weeks. The excitement died down. Biryani was no longer tasty.

After about one-and-a-half or two months, my owners showed some sympathy and took me to the terrace again. I had almost forgotten about the pigeon, but recognised her as soon as I saw her. Her egg had hatched.

That day too, she was hungry. She had to arrange for food not just for herself, but the baby pigeon too. She would keep flying short distances to find some food for the little one but in vain. She did not have the option of going to a faraway place because she feared for the baby.

After concentrating at her for sometime I realised that she still looked the same she did when I saw her last. But I looked sad even though I ate better food and had no tension. So what was lacking?

My mother had once told me the story of heaven and hell. In hell, they give you everything you can wish for... good food, clothes, lavish life and to top it all, there's no work! In heaven, they give you all that, but only after you work. I had laughed at that story then. I thought if this is the case, I better go to hell. Only after God fulfilled my wish, I realised why hell is called hell.

The TOM, DICK, HARRY College of Mass Communication

I hate it, simply hate it. How can government give everyone a license to open a college with pathetic standards of Mass Communication? And the result... these colleges produce 'journalists' of such poor standard that we want to hang our head in shame.

Mass Comm was once considered a prestigious course which only a select few could crack after three-four grilling rounds. In my college itself, they selected only 28 out of the 2,500 who took the test that year. My parents would proudly claim that I am studying Mass Communication. But now it has become the course-next-door.

Everyone is offering this 'in-fashion' course. But mind you, fashion only lasts a few seasons. If you buy all the dresses of a particular fashion, you will have to change your full wardrobe to remain in fashion after sometime. Unfortunately, you cannot change your career after studying a professional course for three years.

You will end up rejected in media jobs or become teachers to produce more pathetic batches of Mass Comm students.

Their motto: Bye-bye journalism!

Please realise that India does not need so many journalists. The channels are full. The papers are full. The magazines are full. And they all want the best. You are not the best because you went to the Tom, Dick, Harry College of Mass Communication and did nothing there apart from getting a degree.

You don't know camera, editing, scripting, PCR, production, and you all want to become anchors or reporters. You stand in front of the mirror saying Good Morning with a smile and you imagine yourself on TV. Your parents encourage you without understanding that you are not meant for the business. You can't say a line without fumbling but you want to be Arnab Goswami or Barkha Dutt. You don't have good command over language, you write wrong spellings, you can't frame sentences, you can't pronounce simple words, still you have your own show in mind.

I am not saying that you must do Mass Comm to be a mediaperson. We have doctors and engineers doing quite well in this field too. But they are here for their passion, and not only for profession, and that's what is the key to every mediaperson's success.

Journalism is neither an art nor craft. It's not a job, it's not money. It's life, it's dedication... it's like what my boss says, 'Journalists are a separate breed of people, as if God made human beings and then God made journalists.'

If you don't have that in you, then perhaps God made you for something human. Don't mind, but please don't pollute this passion.

My teacher who could NOT be a hero

Everyone loves to show off. In front of your boss, you want to be seen as the most hardworking employee, the best student in front of your teacher, the obedient son of your parents, the most handsome boyfriend etc etc. I had a teacher who wanted to be a hero in front of all the students and other teachers.

It was the summer of 2004. Even at 8:15 am of an April morning, the heat was unbearable in Delhi. I was on duty during School Assembly, which precisely meant I had the mandate to check anyone's uniform and send that person to defaulter's line if he/she wasn't dressed properly.

After checking the seniors, I would usually roam near the primary and pre-primary classes. It gave an inner peace that a lot of people may not understand, given my reputation as Hitler in school.

Suddenly I heard a thud. I turned to see that a petite girl of class I-B had fallen on the ground, unconscious. Her little classmates rushed to see what happened, scared. None of them had the 'courage to touch her'. Her class teacher was standing in the shade somewhere, head covered with a dupatta and big ugly sunglasses hiding her eyes.

I ran towards the girl, and other kids scattered, murmuring, 'Hitler didi, Hitler didi.'

I lifted her in my arms (yes, feeling like a hero already), and started running towards the medical room, which seemed like a mile away. Let me admit that the girl actually felt heavy, but I was not supposed to show that she was. Heroes don't display such emotions.

To reach the school building, I had to cross lines of many other classes. With each step, the gazes towards me increased. Nobody was interested in prayers. There were ohhs and OMGs all around, giving me the encouragement to run faster. For a moment I even thought I was going to fly like Superman. But just as I was about to take off, one of my teachers came in front of me. Enough of me, it was his chance to be a hero now.

'Poorva bete, give me the kid bete.'

Yes, he had this habit of saying 'bete' 2-3 times in one sentence.

'Sir, it's fine. I will manage.'

'No bete. The kid must be heavy. I will take her to the medical room.'

'No Sir. She is quite light. I will take her. Please don't bother.'

I realised I was losing my mission.

'No bete, give me the kid now.' 

He almost snatched the girl from my hands and started running. I think I know why he took a longer route and crossed senior students and teachers. Our Super Sir was to be hailed a hero in classes and staff room that day.

I kept running behind him, thinking he might need help. And he did.

After some time, he stopped and turned.

'Poorva bete, you still there bete?'

'Yes Sir.'

'Bete, please go and ask Rajesh Sir to get me a shirt and a pair of trousers from my home. This girl has puked on me.'

WTF @#$%^&*!

Please check on me tomorrow, because the secret I am going to let out now can have me murdered.

I have this huge, bulky fella as my friend. I cannot reveal his name for reasons you will know once you finish reading. So I will only use pronouns while talking about him in this post.

Now this friend of mine is such a giant that finding clothes (including undergarments) and shoes for him is a mammoth task... literally! His shoe size is somewhere near 15, his waist must be 42, height 5'9 and his weight keeps dangling from 125.5 kgs to 125.7 kgs.

His dark complexion adds to his handsomeness. And to top it all, he has long hair, because he thinks he is a rockstar! His potbelly is the only thing on him that looks bigger than him. Not a very nice profile for shaadi.com, I must say!

He had been wanting to go shopping for a long time, but there was no company. To tell you the truth, he had exhausted all his friends. Once you go clothes, a.k.a tent hunting with him, you will vow never to, again. As fate would have it, I was caught in the net this time.

So we went to Forum Mall in Koramangala, Bangalore last Sunday. He picked up some XXXL t-shirts at Shopper's Stop and two free-size trousers. Yes, the colours were really dirty, but he had no option. I guess that's the price you pay for being on the heaviest side of the scale.

He finally stuffed himself into the trial room somehow, asking me to stand outside so that I can approve his choice. I don't think there was much to approve though. It was as if we were doing size shopping instead of clothes shopping.

Whatever, there I was... standing with other women who were waiting for their husbands or boyfriends to appear from the trial room, looking like blaahs and feeling like Hrithik and Shahrukh. I wanted to hold a placard claiming that I am not related to the elephant who will squeeze out of that room in sometime.

I heard some commotion, and realised my dear friend was in the process of opening the door and coming out. There he was, beaming, happy with the clothes.

'Hey da, so what do you say to this? How do I look, huh?'

I stood there, dumbfounded. Then I heard screams of women, followed by their kids, and then the men. They started running after that, cursing and still screaming.

I closed my eyes. I did not want to see what I almost saw, and what all those other shoppers had seen. I was blocking a full-length mirror, so I stepped aside to let my friend see what had left everyone horrified. He stared at himself, red with embarrassment.

'What the f*** is that?'

'It's not what, it's you the f*** is that. Where are your trousers? And why don't you wear anything under that?' I shouted at him, angry at the fact that I was accompanying this beast.

His modesty was on public display. It took him full 2 minutes to turn and rush back to the trial room. That fool did not even have the common sense to cover his big bums with this hands while he stuffed himself inside.

And well, he had the courage to tell me later that he would buy all the clothes he tried. I mean, how could anyone have the guts to stand at that place for even a second more and pay at the cash counter? Leave the showroom, I didn't even want to visit that mall again in my life.

'Well, you see, that room was very small. Yes there were mirrors all around, but I could hardly see anything. My stomach blocked the view and I didn't realise I had forgotten the pants.' He gave an explanation I didn't want to hear. And even after all that drama, he had the nerve to say,

'I didn't find any underwear of my size. Everything has become so tight. Errr... will you come shopping for that with me?'

You are what you EAT

Two lovers went to the seashore and slit each other's throat. Wife with four husbands. Parents kill daughter for crying at nights. Nothing might look common in these three cases, but there is something which binds them together. Ask anyone in our newsroom, and pat would come the reply: THIS HAPPENS ONLY IN ANDHRA!

The maximum number of jilted lovers, their acid attacks, weirdest and goriest ways of killing people, raktha charitra (bloodshed), failed marriages... one state in the country cannot have all this for no reason. Drink their hot rasam or eat their chilly chutney, and you will know why the Telugu blood is always boiling.

Now have some lassi, sarson da saag & makke di roti. I know you know what I am talking about: The smiling Sikhs, who will hug you even if you are a stranger.

Like Newton said, 'To every action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction', and our reaction to everything is definitely the action our food does to us inside. Look around you or look at you, anyone eating a lot of spices on a daily basis would not be on the calmer side of the scale, and vice versa.

Those Indians thinking I am being regionalistic, travel a bit east and compare the Chinese and the Japanese. They all look the same, but there is a sea, or better say, spice of difference between them.

They eat bland food in Japan, almost all boiled. And the effect: a Japanese travelling in a Merc will stop on the road and signal you, the pedestrian, to cross instead. Better not talk about the Chinese who would have definitely eaten a hot and spicy lunch.

Pappu CAN dance saala!

One of my worst fears has been dancing in public. I just can’t do it. Even if I practise steps at home when nobody’s watching, I don’t know what happens to me in front of others in a party.

I feel like the biggest loser. I look out for company in people who are standing at a corner like me. I grab a chair in the darkest corner possible and pretend to be a very interested spectator. I ensure I have a big smile on my face so that nobody thinks I am not dancing due to bad mood. In simple terms, I am scared... party dancing looks like my worst nightmare coming true.

Many people have tried teaching me how to dance. Some ask me to fix a bulb, some say imagine you are in your school’s PT class, some just tell: one two, one two. But nothing seems to have helped. At home I did try doing that bulb fixing thingy; in fact, I must admit that it looks very much like dancing. But then, how come I fix the bulb so stiffly while others have a natural grace?

I even watched ‘Main Hoon Na’ several times, especially the part where everyone is trying to teach Shahrukh Khan how to dance before their prom night. But the steps he is taught never figure anywhere in the final dance. I also got some inspiration from 'Left leg aage aage, right leg peeche peeche' from Rab ne Bana di Jodi, still no luck. My left leg and right leg get so confused with my left hand and right hand that I end up in a mess.

A lot of times I feel bad for those who try to teach me how to dance during parties. These are people who love me and want me to enjoy, but I have never been able to live up to their expectations. I know they also give up after a while. And I also know that somewhere deep down in their hearts, they murmur, 'dumbo, can't even dance.'

So I sat down one fine day and gave it a serious thought. Am I going to run from parties for the rest of my life? Will dance floors always remain my biggest fear? I came up with two solutions: one, continue this party-skipping spree; two, get over your fear. The first one was getting old, so I decided to give the second solution a chance, and joined hip-hop classes.
 

The following words are solely for those who have been able to relate to what I have said so far: Google the nearest dance class and join right now. I promise you are going to love it. The first time you will shake a leg with other people like you... people who too don’t know how to dance, you will automatically get that sense of achievement. Your body will start moving, you will start understanding the beats, your hands and legs will stop getting confused, and the most important thing: your confidence level will get a much-required boost!

There is no bigger satisfaction than winning over your fear. So if dance is your fear, I suggest you start grooving to the tunes right now!

Hello... this is ladies coach!

Let me admit it finally. Whenever I am with my mom or dad, I try to be over-smart. After all, I am a big girl now, and I can try showing off by being a bit boisterous as well. What's the harm in that? The harm... is it? Well, I realised it in a very embarrassing situation.

I was travelling with my mother from Connaught Place to Mayur Vihar in Delhi Metro. Ever since one of the coaches has been spared exclusively for women, I have proudly hopped into it. Who wants to stand amidst those sweaty men ready to grab an opportunity to grab you?

So well, we couldn't find a seat even in the ladies' coach and mum & me had to travel standing. It's fine with me, but after the day-long shopping, my mother was definitely tired. I was looking around to spot some nice kinda girl who would spare her seat for my mum. We anyway had 'only' 8 stations to travel.

Aha! I finally found someone interesting. A HE was sitting in the ladies' coach! It was not just an opportunity to grab a seat for mum, but I had also got a chance to show her my over-smartness. And yes, obviously, to fight for the right of all the women sitting in that coach. Like a hero, I cleared my throat, stood straight, raised my eyebrows... all set for the seat-battle. I was sure other women would soon join me in my fight to kick out this man from our coach.

Me: Bhaiyya, yeh ladies coach hai. (Hey brother, this is ladies coach.)

He: Haan toh? (So what?)

Me: Bhaiyya, ladies coach, ladies coach. Sirf ladkiyon ke liye hota hai. (Bro, ladies coach, ladies coach. It's only for women.)

He: Haan toh hum ladies hee toh hain. (Yes, so what's the issue? I am a woman only.)

Oops! big mistake!! What had I done! He was a she. All the women in the coach were staring at us... the same women who were to support me in kicking this 'her-like-him' out. I didn't know what to do. Where to look. With my face red, I started looking here and there. And everywhere, I found the same expression... eyes and lips trying to suffocate a smile. Every woman in that coach wanted to burst out laughing at me.

How could I have missed it? That 'she-cum-he' had an almost flat chest, wore a dirty black shirt, faded jeans and chappals. Without doubt, she looked like a he.

My stop was still 4 stations away. For a moment, I thought about getting down at the next one itself and looked at my mother. She had gone red. With experience I knew she could open her mouth only for laughter then. Her eyes were welling with tears in her attempt to stifle it. Had she continued looking at my horrified face, she would have rolled over in the coach itself. So I thought the better of it and looked away. There were just 3 more torturous stations left before mine came.

'Coz your a** is on fire!

I know 99% of you will say, 'me too' after reading this: The whole year, if I had studied half as much I used to during exam time, I would have definitely topped my class. I don't know how I got the energy to read and mug up so much during those last days and last minutes.

In fact, the last 15 minutes our editors devote to producing a show, the last 10 minutes I get ready for work, the night before the last day of submitting that assignment... we are simply at our best during our last. And why? In simple words... BECAUSE OUR A** IS ON FIRE!!

I don't know about the Westerners, but we Indians cannot perform without being under pressure. That tension at the back of our heads, those sweat beads at the front, the thumping-as-thunder heart and the huge sigh of relief after it's all over. Don't you think the excitement is too much to be missed? I mean, why do it in time and miss those last minutes you will remember forever?

Just imagine if everything in your life was done in time. Waking up, going to bed, lunch, dinner, exercise, potty, movie... life would become such a big bore without all that rushing around. Yes, it does sound like an ideal condition, but even in science, ideal conditions are only hypothetical. The real picture is the real challenge.

So the next time someone asks you to be in time, just tell them they should chillax and enjoy the last-minute rush!

The JOKE called Driving License!

Even if you cover my car with 'L' on all sides, it won't suffice for the danger on the roads in the form of me.

Even if you leave him in the Kashmir Valley in his Maruti 800, he would zoom past you at 80 kmph, without a scratch on his car, ever.

But the irony is... I carry a permanent driving license, and he has an 'L' in his pocket. Because, well we live in India!

Why do you need a driving license in the first place? In my case, I needed a photo ID proof, that's all. And what did I do for that? Dug out one contact in the RTO of my area, didn't stand in any queue, failed EVEN in the written test, and got my driving license the next day. That too, when I didn't know where is the clutch, break and accelerator. Had I not known the 'RTO uncle', I could have still managed the same feat, by paying Rs 2000 to any middleman.

And what did he, the master driver do to earn only a learner's license? There was a theft at his house and the foolish thief made away with the license. Getting a duplicate one was a bigger pain than applying for a new one. So he did the latter, only to be handed a learner's license. He will have to go and prove his driving skills the next month for a permanent one.

Mr Baby!

I don't understand how can people give their kids hideous names like BABY! I mean, dad & mom, please understand that your 'Baby' is going to be a big man one day. He will be a boss. He will be a father. And he will be a grandpa too. Imagine him still being 'Baby' at 78! Why on earth would you call him Baby?

Yes, he would always be your baby, but he will have babies too. And his babies would curse you for naming their dad Baby. They would curse you everytime their class teacher will ask them their father's name. Not just that, their driving license, their PAN card, their passport... all of them will curse you too!

Last week, I had gone to get my car repaired at the service station. The head technician who was looking after it was called Mr Baby Ranganathaswamy. When I imagined myself calling him by his first name as I usually do, I realised it would sound so cheesy. It would be as if I was flirting with him! 'Baby, is the engine oil full?' or 'Baby, can you ensure the car gets a good wash?'

And to top it all, he was not even good looking. Tall, dark (almost black, I would say), and definitely not handsome! He had stadium on his head. If you don't know what that means, well, it's a person who is bald from the centre with patches of hair on the edge.

Anyway, the scene looked cheesier when I heard his manager calling him Baby. I mean, to some extent, a girl calling a man Baby is fine. Imagine two grown-up, ugly fellas in a conversation, and one of them using the term 'Baby' for the other every now and then! Yaaaeeeeeeeeee!!!!! Even an unsuspecting person would doubt their orientation.