Notes to Self - I

Just so much has changed since the last time blogged.

I'm a year older. My hairline seems to be receding. I find myself in a long distance relationship. I also have an admit from ISB. So, in about a year's time I'm going to be an MBA. Believe me when I say that I don't, at the slightest, mean to boast.

I don't even know how much I've detested doing an MBA. But shit happens. There are enough motivations outside of yourself that guide your decisions. They're more influential than you would imagine.

I've probably lost my edge in blogging. That's what not being regular at something does to you - you're a dude one day, and another fine day you realize that you're a dud.

I believe the only thing that can make this blog interesting is if I be completely honest about how I see the world. More than three years out of college, and people still tend to think I'm diplomatic when it comes to being bitchy. I don't blame them. I don't really bitch that much - at least not in public. I'm going to change that from now on. May be I'm only going to bitch publicly now.

Perhaps,I need to start bitching about myself first. I'm such a non-sense prick at times. I depend solely on my ability to talk people into things. Things I believe in at that moment, and may not believe in, a few minutes later. I would end up being such a shitty manager. But may be I will change. Or may be I'll just become a lawyer one day.

On the top of my mind these days are relationship hassles. I'm a bit of a prick when it comes to being in a relationship. I'm super insecure, super suspicious, and super paranoid.

I think every boyfriend goes through this dilemma. Nobody wants to sound patronizing - but you just can't stand some stuff. I'm slowly learning the art of being direct. In a long distance relationship - the bandwidth to learn from non-verbal gestures is extremely limited (as you'd imagine).

Are you super insecure about your significant other? Well, don't kid yourself into believing that it's a signature of your affection. It's not. In most cases, it displays your competitive arrogance. Most people like to think of their boyfriends/girlfriends, as their prized possessions - and you fear losing them to others - just like you fear losing your face in public.

I think I'm getting better at dealing with this. Apathy helps. Engage yourself in something. Like I'm engaging myself in writing this. Try to remind yourself that you strive to be a good person first, and then an achiever. Then concepts of happiness and contentment will start creeping in your mind. Finally, you will begin to reason with yourself. And you'll start thinking of something more sensible.

On the jukebox.

Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part IX

I’d never smoked earlier, but from trusted sources I’d heard that the mind felt at ease after a fag. This tryst with destiny was coming to an end, I said to myself. Soon Saswati would board the ladies coach on the metro, I’ll say a decent – “Bye” and it shall all be over. She’ll swear not to recognize me again – and every time I approach her to talk in the next four years of my dull B.Tech life, I’d have to remind her that we met on the first day of college, with the typical – “Remember Me” tone. All this ran through my head as I waited for Saswati to emerge from the frisking booth.

After a couple of seconds, she came out with a tinge of laughter on her face. I was so disappointed already with the separation that awaited us that I didn’t bother to ask why she had that smirk. I did realize later though that it was a matter of muted obligation to be curious about a person’s unwarranted change in expression. We took the stairs to reach the platform.

“By the way – where do you put up?” -  She asked. I almost feared this question. And I’ll have to freeze time here to tell you why.

For the next five minutes you’ll be a part of a social experiment. Imagine that somebody came to you and told you that they lived in a place called – “Patparganj”. What comes to your mind about the place?

Since this is monologue - let me guess on your behalf. You probably imagined a stinky lower middle class suburb with ill constructed houses stacked shabbily next to each other. The symmetry in their asymmetry stood out. The in-roads are narrow with sewers running on both sides. Most of the houses had an old Bajaj Chetak parked outside. Exactly one of the houses however had a brand new Maruti Alto parked right outside the gate; the best guess is that some recently married guy got it in his dowry. The plastic sheet on the car has been carefully preserved. And one person in the family always keeps sticking his nose out from the balcony to ensure that the car is unharmed. There’s a wire mesh floating all around the area. Most of the houses have a wire hooked on to the sole electricity pole standing in the lane. At the end of the lane, there stands a parched hand pump that lives to serve as the batsman’s end for the kids playing cricket.

Patparganj, in reality and unlike what the name may suggest, is the hub of all high end group housing societies of East Delhi. And I wouldn't be too far off if I said that it’s decently posh.

“I.P. Extension” – I said. It’s a close and much more respectable alibi that the similarly disgruntled Patparganj junta had resorted to.

“And where would that be?” – She asked.

Now why would a girl be interested in knowing that? – I said to myself.

“It’s the area on the left side of the east Delhi highway” - I answered hoping to put a full stop to her curiosity about my residence.

“You mean – Patparganj, right.”

I opened my mouth just enough to say – “Yep”.

This girl knew the Delhi roads. Impressive.

Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part VIII

Both the cigarette and the path had come to an end. It was a rather silent last hundred meters. She must have realised how unmanly I felt walking besides a smoking hot girl – or should I say, a hot girl smoking and not smoking myself. Perhaps she understood the Indian prejudice of men expected to be doing all the wrong things. Or perhaps she didn’t care. I was hoping for the latter. I wanted to keep the chat going.

We were about ten steps away from the metro station. She started looking here and there for a dustbin to throw the tiny leftover cigarette butt. I didn’t want to stop her – but personally, I wouldn’t have rattled myself for throwing that much garbage on the road. In fact by doing that I would take pride in making the jobs of the municipal jamadaars worthwhile.  But no, this girl was persistent.  She couldn’t find a dustbin so she took copy out of her sling bag, tore away a page and wrapped the cigarette butt in it. To be thrown later in a dignified dustbin – I assumed. Either she respected her cigarette too much or she had an environmentalist bone in her body.  

“Can you believe it - these guys don’t have a garbage bin outside a metro station. Now how ridiculous is that?”

 “I know.” Well clearly, that was the best thing I could have said.

The fifteen minute walk to the metro station had stationed my thoughts completely away from my own life – my otherwise ignominious life. My brain, as if, was taking notes observing her every move. For those fifteen minutes, I’d forgotten who I was in making sure that I did not forget what she was like.

We stepped inside the metro station towards our respective frisking booths. Every time she fizzled out of my line of sight, I feared she might pounce on the opportunity to escape my company. I wouldn’t have minded that. Actually I would have, but compared to her being rude straight on my face and telling me that we’d rather not talk again – I’d have preferred that she left without letting me know. This was indeed the longest conversation I’d had with a girl in a long time. And I wanted to sleep with this thought tonight. Also, I thought this would be closest I would ever get to sleeping with a woman.

I have to time out here to describe what an agony the frisking booth is like. Did you really think it Delhi Police frisked people to search for pointy objects and weapons? Well, let me break your myth. That’s not even remotely their intention. It’s to make you aware of how unfit you were. As soon as you stand on that elevated step – they would, in all certainty, press hard against two spots on your body: first, the love handles and second, the butt. A man’s love handles are not be messed with. They are, quite ironically, the handle to his door of agony – if not given their due respect. I have to say though that the whole frisking business is undoubtedly a good security strategy. Even terrorists wouldn’t like to be man-handled in such a way. I wondered if the women’s frisking was any different.

The News That Wasn't : Ishant blames it on the hair; vows to donate them to Tirupati

In a candid moment, while speaking to the media, Ishant confessed that it was the long hair that crowded his vision while bowling the 48^th over against the Aussies in the match in Mohali. The fast bowler gave away 30 runs in the second last over which clinched the match away from the Indians. Till the 47^th nothing looked to be working for the Aussies. The celebrations in the Indian Camp, although quite mistaken, were on, with the skipper regrouping his team after every over, to decide the venue for the after party. Our sources tell us that the youngsters in the team had not fully concurred with skipper’s choice. Dhoni had looked tense thereafter.

When asked about the details, the bowler volunteered to imitate his run-up for the media and prove his point. “Usually I try to throw the ball very fast randomly on any part of the pitch. I never needed to see where I was bowling. By the laws of probability, I would always bowl some good balls. But in that over, MS, all of a sudden, asked me to pitch it in the right areas. That’s just not how it works with me. Now if you ask an experienced bowler to change his bowling strategy in like 10 minutes; Aisa thodi hota hai yaar. But still I tried.”

Ishant imitated himself rather skilfully to illustrate how as soon as he had to release the ball after the run up, spaghetti in coal sauce type hair would completely block his eyes, which he was so desperately dependent on ; now that he had to see where he was bowling.  When asked what he was going to take back from this match, Ishant said – “One, I’m going to sue our team hairdresser, who is ultimately and totally responsible for our loss today. Two, I’m going to Tirupati to donate my hair for the greater good of mankind and cricket.” When asked if bowling to James Faulkner will give him the hibiby-jibies in the coming matches, Ishant in his signature style rebutted that he didn’t really give a ‘faulk’ about him.  

The 7ft bowler, still seeming to be recovering from shock and paranoia, refused to comment any further. “We’re still having that party. I have to go.” – He is learnt to have said before leaving.

The Girl in Pink Shorts : Part I

If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would not have believed it; a girl wearing pink shorts praying in a temple.

Let me start by illustrating how I came to witness this aberration. My mother has always been a super religious person. So much so, that I can totally see her featuring in God’s 99+ percentilers list ordered by faith and devotion. And call it my ignorance or lack of faith that despite such figures to look up to in my own house, I could never adhere to submitting myself to the lord almighty. The one interesting thing that I learnt was that if you’re not an atheist – then you’re in a state of constant faith flux. You just cannot predict what you’re going to head into; which, in my opinion, may not necessarily be bad thing.

The last couple of months haven’t been the best ones. And in hard times, one necessarily finds oneself vulnerable to new ideas, even faiths. The act of giving religion a chance came as a consequence. In a way, maybe I wanted religion to give me a chance. But whatever.

So it was the fourth of seven Saturday nights, I had pledged to go the temple to. It’s an ancient and renowned Hanuman temple, right in the heart of Delhi’s colonial imprint - Connaught Place. It’s the kind of temples that makes you feel that for some families visiting a temple is their chance of getting some time together; like the kind of time a family spends on the dinner table, or watching TV together. It’s bonding time for them. A picnic spot so to say.

A place of worship is the most representative sample of a country’s population which is going through one dilemma or another. It cuts through the social status and wealth. I see the vehicles parked outside; you name it and it’s there. Cars range from Tata Nanos to Audi S3s, two wheelers range from 1980 Bajaj Chetak Scooters to brand new Avengers. I saw the parking spread and realised that rich people have problems too. Call me a sadist but I always find it moderately gratifying to know that.

I stood in the queue outside the temple, thinking what am doing in this place, and simultaneously trying to make the best of the visit, by reinvigorating faith, if any, inside me. And despite best efforts God did not fancy my imagination. People did.

A couple of people ahead of me in the queue was a family of four; dad, mom, brother and sister. The parents were a subtle caricature of middle class parents; siblings looked to be in their teens, the girl being elder. Everything about that family was extremely normal except one (as you’d have guessed); the girl wore pink shorts; the kind of shorts that were certainly not more than three fourths of a foot below the waist. By the power of instinct vested in guys towards spotting such anomalies, it caught my attention.

Not particularly the kind of wardrobe that would suit a temple – I thought to myself. By some telepathic sense, I could hear my mental thoughts resonating among a few others. Prejudice makes one think not so well of a girl who misappropriates her wardrobe selection.  

To Be Cont..

Political and Administrative Apathy

On a Sunday Morning , a couple of months back , I wrote to the local MLA, copying the MP regarding laws being broken right behind my house. The only response I received was that of the MLA copying the Police Commissioner of Delhi and the Municipal Commissioner and asking them to take some action. There hasn't been any development thereafter. 

I'd believed, we always had ourselves to blame for being bad citizens; why? First, for being irresponsible about anything that doesn't affect us directly and not informing authorities of violations. Second, for choosing such lazy politicians to represent us. Turns out we only need to blamed for the latter. Because even if you did complain, they can, at best, mask ignorance. 

I'm posting this online, just so that this can be cited if the situation gets worse in the future. At least the politicos can excuse themselves from the 'lack of knowledge' banter.

Perhaps I should write them another mail, apologizing to have even bothered.

Let me remind them : Elections 2014. Ring a bell?

The letter I wrote, enclosed below.

---

To, 

Mr. Naseeb Singh 

Member of Legislative Assembly, 

Vishwas Nagar Constituency, 

Delhi. 

Copy to : 

Mr Sandeep Dikshit 

MP , East Delhi.

Subject: Bringing to your attention the demise and depreciation of public space and infrastructure due illegal encroachments in Vardhman Plaza Market (I.P. Extension).

Dated: 8th June 2013

Respected Sir, 

I am a resident of Paradise Apartments, Plot No. 40, I.P. Extension, which forms a part of your constituency. Adjoining my apartment, is a multistory shopping complex, commonly known as Vardhman Plaza, which happens to be one of the larger public market places in the I.P. Extension area.

In the last one year, there's been severe deterioration to not only the ambiance but also the public infrastructure in and around this market place. This has happened majorly due to the illegal encroachments that have unearthed in recent years, but also, partly, due to the irresponsible behavior of shop keepers towards the maintenance of this market place. As a consequence, the place in itself has become extremely shabby, ill-maintained and unhygienic. 

 

I want to bring to your attention the encroachments made by a few taxi service providers, which keep their entire fleet of vehicles (and their drivers) permanently parked in the space available to general public visiting the market for maneuvering or parking. This can be construed as a private business being run on public premises, which is of course illegal. Most of the these vehicles are washed everyday with water pipes in the very public space they are parked in, and all the water is spilled directly on the road, as if it were a sewer. It is the same road that is used by residents to maneuver from one side of the market to the other. Not to mention the severe wastage of water.

There are also small shacks that have mushroomed as tea stalls in the public space of the market to cater to these taxi stands. I've attached some pictures as evidence to validate my claims. The drivers of these taxi stands are constant bystanders. Any resident, male or female, stands at risk of their lewd remarks.

Apart from the illegal encroachments, the market is itself in a very poor state of maintenance. There is a big garbage collection room right in the middle of market, the surroundings of which are extremely filthy and unclean. Many shop keepers dump their garbage around this place in the open. And this is again, right in the middle of the same road which people use to move from one side of the market to the other. Any person walking on that road is at a health risk due to the unhygienic surroundings.

As a result, the market in itself has become an extremely inhospitable and dirty place. If conditions like this persist, we're not far from the day when the same situation balloons into a security issue. Please find attached with this email photographic evidence to the aforementioned claims.

I strongly urge you to visit to area and assess the situation yourself, and accordingly ask the accountable authority to look into this matter.

Also, I would appreciate if your office can send me a confirmation to have received this email. I'm using the email address very kindly communicated to me by Mr. Abhilek Bhardwaj, when I called up your office.

Best Regards, 

Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part VII

Rest of the hundred meters to the metro station went about in silence. Perhaps she'd realized that I was uncomfortable seeing her smoke. Quite honestly, I wasn't uncomfortable seeing her smoke. I was uncomfortable seeing so many people staring at us, who perhaps saw a girl smoking as a criminal offence. You can't expect any better from a Najafgarh village, I said to myself. I could have acted all saintly and apprised her of my reservations but stayed shut for two reasons. 

First, she was probably self aware. And if she didn't give a damn about it herself, I wasn't going to play Mr. daddy - even if I fitted the persona. 

Second is a rather painful memory from school days. This memory was of an era in which I last remember thinking of myself as slightly cool. This was also the era of accomplishing puberty. It was also the era of discovering the importance of porn in one's life. The era of having serious (c)rushes.The era of sixties in maths and eighties in English. The era of hiding report cards; the era before the tryst to become an engineer even began. 

It was a friend's birthday party. And since I was perceived slightly cool then, I was invited to all the cool birthday parties. So were all the cool girls. The plan was to reach the venue directly from school, change into something more birthday like, and get on with the proceedings. There was a particularly hot girl in the group, who changed into something that took her hotness to infinite levels. It was black top with a net that tucked the bosom together. And my god wasn't she looking amazing. So much so, that if she had the carnal desires just for me in this world, and if at the same time, we were also locked up in a room indefinitely, I would faint out of sheer breathlessness. You would look at her and imagine a sex goddess kicking your balls to ignite the furnace of testosterone production. And then think of all male reproductive organs salivating together as a consequence. 

What she wore wasn't particularly revealing at the outset. But if one was hard working and had the right (wrong) intent, one could get the view. I had it a couple of times myself. Most of us guys had had. But then when the sight had lost its novelty, my intrepid brain sought a plan to make her an accomplice. I knew she was way out of my league, but if you got closer to the queen bee, you're definitely more acquainted with bee hive. 

With a saint like demeanor I approached her. When I thought I had the space, I whispered to her in a hush voice : ' I think your dress is a little too revealing. You should change you know.'  She looked at me in disbelief. And then she looked at her breasts. I looked at her breasts too and then she looked at me again, this time a little enraged. She obviously hadn't taken it in the right spirit, but didn't say anything then. I realised a girl who'd just about entered her teens, felt as accomplished of her breasts, as a guy felt of being able to masturbate. Perhaps she'd bought the dress a while back, when there was hardly any seismic activity on her body. I didn't have the guts to make eye contact with her again. The next day when I went to school, the word was out : 'He's such a pervert, he was looking at my boobs all the time.' 

So much for getting all pally with the queen bee. Never give a hot girl an honest advice, I thought to myself.

As much as wanted to tell Saswati that she shouldn't smoke so blatantly in public, I restrained myself. I couldn't risk her not taking it in the right spirit. Because if she didn't , I didn't know whom I would talk to tomorrow.