Sunday, October 08, 2006

From Brunei, with love and an empty stomach

We reached the Bruneian city of Muara on a nice Saturday mid- morning, with stomachs rumbling like thunder. The last meal we had was at about six in the morning and an extremely light breakfast suffices not the famished glutton. We were received cordially by our counterparts who had invited us for cocktails followed by lunch. The cocktails consisted of excellent melon juice (a very mysterious melon at that) and lots of sweet peanuts flavored with what seemed and tasted like dried fish. Not that I particularly care for anything vaguely alcoholic; it seemed strange that liquor was banned in the country and people used their passports discreetly to jump over to neighbouring Malaysia for a peg or two!!

We entered the grand buffet hall with its tapestries and decorations which would have cost a fortune and seemed straight out of some fairy tale. The food was neatly laid out and seemed a feast for hungry eyes and famished stomachs. (The cocktail had served its purpose- as an appetizer, if not anything) It really is tricky being a vegetarian especially if one can’t identify with the food served or speak the local lingo. I served what I prudently considered was to my taste which included rice, something green which resembled greens and spinach to a great extent and a mysterious red sauce that appeared like a sinister tomato sauce. My carnivorous mates seemed much better off piling their plates high with chicken and fish and some rice to fill the non-existent empty spaces.

Seated there in the long table, I realized I wasn’t the only one not to relish my food. Call it what you want but the spinach (?) I had served was quite bland and tasteless whichever way one might imagine. I looked around to find quite a number of my friends looking with consternation at their prey and the other half toying at it with their cutlery in what seemed to be a test of might. (Clearly they hadn’t eaten a morsel) I went about my unfinished business in an executive manner to leave behind only the strange tasting tomato sauce in my plate. That bewildered look of consternation which one presumably gets after tasting raw flesh and hide had very quickly infected almost every familiar face. The best part about the lunch was the dessert (getting our just desserts, were we?) which consisted of sago flavored with coconut milk (sorry, I forget its native name) and tasted rather good.

On our way back we came to some unanimous conclusions that the red sauce was indeed raw prawn sauce, (and that I had mistaken it to be tomatoes) the chicken was raw, the greens were indeed grass from the jungle, (or possibly from the freshly mowed lawn) and that the company food was indeed much better and in fact one of the best.

The story doesn’t end here with many of us achieving much required gastronomical nirvana. A couple of days later some adventurous souls went about trying their hand at the local cuisine. Here’s their condensed account of how they achieved theirs. There is a native dish (also their national dish) that goes by the name of ‘ambuyaat’ that’s made of sago (again) and a dozen other gravies in smaller cups. Somebody with common sense realized that it would be better to place an order for one and maybe later go about binging for more. And so our explorers went about their way armed with chopsticks and an empty stomach. The first mouthful was heavenly with the taste of the gravy lingering for a long time. It was at the second or maybe the third mouthful that many of them realized that the sago globs stuck to their throats like leeches refusing impertinently to be swallowed down. It was also at the same instant when the magical taste of the gravy vanished and nirvana attained. They did what they had to, under the given circumstances; which was to finish off the ambuyaat for it had cost them a dearly sum of 20$. Considering the fact that one plate of idli vada cost 2$, which was incidentally the same as a glass of fresh juice, it was indeed a princely sum

Perhaps a little more explanation is required. Brunei has been built only on oil and some other local produce like rice and some tropical fruits. So, with oil come comfort and nice roads and even silent cushy cars that speed around at 190 odd kmph. But with oil also come a very high cost of living which we Indians and travellers are quite unaccustomed to; resorting to conversion and referring everything with the thirty odd Indian rupees that make up one Brunei dollar.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Reminiscing good old school

The day had nothing unusual for a standard twelve student to offer, the week before had just seen the conclusion of a series of model exams; modeled for breaking hands, torture the brain into submission and waste reams and reams of school stationery as any student’s shrewd educated guess would be

The English teacher, a very kind hearted soul by the name of Mrs. Meenakshi ambled into the classroom with an air of condescension, jaw grimly set and steely eyes that would have hacked through hordes of Persian invaders; if they ever were to make another attempt at this inappropriate moment. The steely eyes seemed to bore through me as if I was Mahmud Ghazni who had already committed the sin. I went back to do what I did best at school, dawdling on the back pages, humming ‘Riders on the Storm’ and alternately thinking about some odd bit of trivia; shrugging off that there just might be so many other Mahmud Ghazni’s and aides lurking in the other seats.

The answers of the previous week’s model exams were being given back after evaluation for keeps, to be left behind in desks or bags or carried back home dutifully to be shown to parents eager to ascertain of any last split second miracle in their cub’s progress before the much awaited Boards. I continued with what I was doing till I realized that there was a deep hush that followed after I was summoned. The deep hush was due to the sudden change in the disposition of the tutor. The steely eyes steeled even more to rip through the unfortunate solitary Mahmud Ghazni who was standing in front of her. Unaware of my latest folly I went up to see the front page of my answer sheet swathed in red. I was quite sure that I’d used a blue pen and not a crimson red one. I was also quite sure that only I had written my paper and was fully conscious at that point of time. I leaned forward a bit to notice that the handwriting in red was of the tutor and not mine. Before realization chose to hit my brain, a voice ripped through the savage silence in the classroom ‘Is this what you write one week before the Boards?’ My already confused mind never had the chance to think beyond ‘what?’ The question still hung about like the uneasy calm before the proverbial storm.

The proverbial storm lasted for what seemed like an eternity, but when it ended (saved by the siren whose sound still rings through mine ears) I found out that the cause for this catastrophe was a recipe which I had written in the exam, being the inventive genius of a cook that I was, inspired by Sanjeev Kapoor’s ‘Khana Khazana’. A wry smile crossed my face as I went back to my seat with the answer sheet clutched like a trophy after a hunt. The storm abated as Ma’m left the class in a huff. The paper went about the class as if the last Dodo just sprang up from its grave and ended up with the usual reviews and criticisms of friends.

Five years after this incident I managed to track down Ma’m’s number to get in touch with her. She was the first to remember the recipe to the last detail and had a grand laugh about the whole incident, which she claims she’ll never forget for the rest of her life. Here’s hoping that it stays that way.


The infamous recipe for ‘A Witches’ Soup for the Soul’
This recipe has been painstakingly re-constructed after a lot of fruitless search for that masterpiece of an answer paper that was stored carefully for more than three years and finally found its way out of the house.

Ingredients
Dirty muddy water- 01 ltr
Rotten eggs – 04
Dirty muddy socks – 02 pairs
Rotten Tomatoes- 01 dozen finely chopped
Onions – 04 finely chopped
Dead cockroaches- as many as you can catch
Rats’ tails- 04 finely roasted
Lizard’s tails – 03 of fully grown adult
Cobwebs – handful
Dead spiders - 04
Dirty finger nails- two handful
Beans –half kg finely chopped
Carrots – half kg finely chopped
Salt, pepper- to taste
Garam masala- also to taste
Broomstick – 01 to stir
Cauldron – 01 only

Method
Please boil dirty muddy water and add onions, tomatoes, beans, carrots, cockroaches, spiders, rats’ tails, fingernails and spiders. Break the eggs and beat it to a smooth consistency and add to the concoction. Add salt, pepper and garam masala to taste, stir with broomstick to add flavour. Add the socks and cobwebs as garnish. Remove when completely cooked.

Nota Bene
I know after seven years it is not possible to remember the catastrophic recipe in great detail. However this is broadly what the soup had save a few minor missing ingredients.

Meenakshi Ma’m if you ever get to see this recipe (not again!) please tell me if I’ve omitted anything as you remember notorious affairs (and this one at that) more vividly than me.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

A Travelogue in parts.One(,) two many

The road to Port Blair is nonexistent from the mainland for reasons obvious. I being truly and only as I could be took the nefarious sea route fraught with peril, thunderstorms, and cyclones (The only missing ingredients being pirates and sirens and a Homer to catalogue the events and spin a great epic about it) instead of the convenient air route which is quite busy from both Calcutta and Chennai (its merely an hour and forty five minutes or so). We halted at Chatham (what can be best described as a suburb in Port Blair) for quite sometime. For a forced early riser(like me), it was a bit unnerving to see the sun shining bright and beating the daylights out of me at five thirty (which’s early by any standards) in the morning (and setting at 1730ish even before you could say ‘Good Evening’).

The city is a trader’s paradise with most of the commodities exported from the mainland. Fisheries, handicrafts, coconuts (sized like pumpkins) and some minor art crafts are the industries native to the island. The city is a cosmopolitan with majority of Tambis (1), Bongs (2) with a couple of Mallus (3), Gultis (4) and Biharis (5) thrown in to add more flavour to the main town centre and its quaint shops selling cheap imported electronic goods, flowers for the offering and a dozen restaurants that specialize in serving brightly hued fish, salty squids and other delectable denizens of the deep in their flesh or well cooked. Our business agenda included roaming about the city in the late evenings running or walking for hours at a stretch; devouring as many Pani Puris (6) to the heart’s content and giant narial paanis (elaneer) (7), also to the heart’s content. There are a lot of islands that dot Andaman and Nicobar which are well connected by ferries with their splendid beaches that make it a peaceful getaway. One of the nearest beaches is that of Corbyn’s Cove, a nice little place tucked away in remoteness. It offers what a beach has to; endless waves, some silence for the patient soul, a refreshing shower after a nice long swim under the sun and one of the amazing black teas ever tasted at a disguised tuck shop. There’s the usual dal muri (8), ice cream and a strange aquaria restaurant with an equally strange aquarian name.

The imposing structure of ‘The Cellular Jail’ (9) forms the centre of the city. It’s a pity that only three of the original seven arms have stood the ravages of time. A haunted air about the well preserved ramparts, a deep sickening feeling in the pit of the stomach and nausea take over as history and time unfold their story in bits and pieces. The Japanese during the WWII persevered with, what the British had begun. The jail’s history is also well documented and preserved for posterity, to be looked up as meaningless statistics for a figure hungry statistician. There’s the next door Ross Island that houses deer like domestic fowl and sheep and the barracks of the erstwhile British Army. A must go are the Havelock Island and Jolly Buoy with its supposedly pretty beaches (supposedly because I haven’t been there personally) and scuba diving at supposedly reasonable rates. Up north is the ‘Barren Island’, the only place in the whole of India to spew forth lava, ash and such other raging hot things that can be expected from an active volcano

Some more facts –for the uninitiated
The A&N first came up on the Radar screen in the Ramayana when Hanuman and Rama chose to sidestep it on their way to Lanka. Translated from Sanskrit, the name Andaman roughly translates to abode of beauty and peace. The second notable instant when the island lime lighted was when the Dutch East India Company chose to land here (sometime during early 1600s. They had to beat a very hasty retreat because of the mosquitoes and malaria. Even now malaria is rampant in the deep jungles and other interior islands. Many places still go by the names of Wasp Bay, Spiteful Bay near the Kamorta islands(where people still close doors after sunset as a feeble attempt to ward off finger sized mosquitoes and wasps).

(9) The Cellular Jail - The work on the Cellular Jail started in 1896 and finished in 1905/04 as the first three storied penitentiary that could house almost 700 native prisoners. Veer Savarkar, Shaheed Bhagat Singh and many other notable freedom fighters have been a part of this notorious jail or have succumbed to the ruthless acts of the infamous jailor David Barry. Barry died a sorry death onboard a steamer bound for Calcutta en route to his dear and beloved England where he could never belong to. A&N were for a brief time under the Japanese during the Great War (approx 1943-46).History has it that the Netaji was conned about the appalling and squalid situation of the prisoners and governance in the islands. Japanese bunkers still exist today as a memoir of the past and finds utility as public dustbins to a greater majority.

…..of some help

(1) Tambi- slang for Tamilian ( Native: Tamil Nadu- a very old, once civilized region; inventors of idli, dosa now facing peril due to many incumbent politicians clothed in shades of white)

(2) Mallu – slang for Malayalee ( Native: Kerala- where literacy is the highest in India that makes people overqualified for a job of any kind; where each family has to have its representation in Dubai and Mumbai; home for as many coconut trees as politicians in the whole of India.)

(3) Gulti – slang for Andhraite( Native: Andhra Pradesh- place of long names and longer surnames which can trace the family tree till Chiranjeevi(worldu famousu superstaru from Andhra) and Asoka ( not a worldu famousu superstaru) ; place of fiery pickles and edible material(!) inspired by Barren Island.

(4) Bongs – slang for Bengali (Native: Bengal (West/East) – place where fish has been a flourishing religion since time immemorial; of rosogollas and people with tongues that never cease to wag about the rosogollas, mishti doi.

(5) Bihari – slang for Bihari (Native: Bihar- !&%# ?)

(6) Pani Puri, (7) Elaneer – a.k.a Golgappa, Puchka and Narial Paani, Tender Coconut Water (really great edible stuff to eat and end up with ‘Delhi Belly’ (not to be confused with ‘Delhi Belle’) and drink(certainly not a proven pesticide that dissolves teeth in ten days and/or gives one embarrassing burps or belchs after dissolving teeth in ten days); one of my favourite pastimes)

(8) Dal Muri – a really Bengali stuff to eat. Made with petrol (or castor oil or castrol super TT), puffed rice (pori), onions, groundnuts; ingenious Bengali invention to keep insects, people and bad fish breath away.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

A BIG CHUNK OF LIFE

DISCLAIMER: I’m still writing this article after the bloody windows crashed 7 times from last night. This made me start this piece and settle scores with a cry of “SCREW BILL GATES” (that’s on the tip of the tongue of every Linux user) as I type every word.


“SCREW BILL BLOODY F****** GATES”

The first impression you might get of Jamnagar is a small chaotic city (that’s much closer to Pakistan than many other cities in India) of salt pans and the worlds largest oil refinery (Reliance) with it’s out of the world constructions and roads. As the 10th largest city in Gujarat (and one of the richest) it boasts of maybe two hotels and one multiplex that are free from pan stains that adorn the walls of the many buildings giving them a not so pleasing psychedelic artsy décor.

There are three distinct dots (along with the roads that crisscross among the potholes) that leave an indelible mark in the salty, arid landscape. A dusty gust hits you at 80 kmph along with a waft of ‘sweet smelling’ salt when a truck driver crosses you by. These truck drivers with their F1 licenses could make the likes of ‘Schumi’ & his brightly attired cool dudes look like toddlers crying for lollipops. The motorists and the ‘chuggdi drivers’ with their own interpretations of traffic rules, laws and not to forget the ‘disc(o)’ brakes; the third being the camel carts that often thunder about the roads at lightning speeds of less than 10 kmph.

Somebody once told me that the best food in any city is in its gullies and by lanes; that along with the ‘Gujju’ appetite and him being a connoisseur of food makes eating out great. You have ‘Malabar hotel’ serving authentic mallu parathas, appam, and ishtu. There is a dosa joint (by the name of bajrang) serving you with a platter of a dozen different dosas to suit the taste buds and the not so deep pockets. Just across this guy is ‘New Amul Dhaba’ where you get amazing rotis reminiscent of ‘Moms kitchen’ with paneer tikka that just about melts in the mouth. Speaking of parathas you just cant miss them at ‘Ashish’ right from the smoldering fire. For the omnivores there is ‘Tava Taqdeer’ that apparently serves good chicken and whatever that moves.(Believe me, if you are a stickler to ambience, dim lights, candles and even clean table cloths et al, its better to pack your bird and finish the poor guy off at home)

Tucked away in into the remote corner of gujjuland, you just about can’t miss the ‘gujju thaali’ that comes terribly easy on the pockets for the quality and the endless quantity served. Traditionally prepared by the women of the house it is a delectable combination that sets the taste buds dancing to its subtle tastes. (Places: brahmaniya dining hall, Purvi’s hotel and if you are anywhere near junagadh don’t ever think of missing Gita lodge.)Add to all this a ‘paani puri thela’ in every street (the best being the guy who loiters opposite Lalwani pan, a landmark even a donkey can’t miss) and fresh fruit juice from ‘Deepak juice’ to wash it all down.(the best being a potent concoction of chikoo and chocolate) To mock at all this great street food you have Yummy’s , a new joint where the bloody chinky gujju cook’s idea of a burger and the sandwich is the same thing which he shoves into a pav and a crooked triangle of bread garnished with one raw tomato, two bitter cucumber slices and some shredded cheese. What Has God Rot? The evenings sure are nice and pleasant with a breeze and so much to choose from.

There’s Mt. Abu which is quite a drivable distance on a bike (400kms give or take a few more) with its Dilwara temples hand curved out of marble costing the national budget a few centuries back. That we completed the trip in three days flat with a feast of Rajasthan food at Jodhpur Bhojanalay made the trip all the more enjoyable. The trip to Gir on Dec 18 with a blazing log fire, maggi, booze, chicken and paneer running freely amok, a tent rigged up with eight bikes (courtesy Nanda) and evergreen incidents from the past six years unfolding deep into the night etched the trip in our minds. The trip to Dwarka is well documented by Alekh in icewinsxvi@blogger.com

Ten kms south of the city towards Rajkot lies a Bird Sanctuary with a weird name I forget. The season to find birds and not bird droppings about the place is from December to February. I am not one of those patient chaps who lie down overnight in a mosquito infested swamp waiting for an egret to land or for a duck to start cackling about its last gourmet meal, but this place even in mid March was teeming with Flamingoes, Cranes, Egrets, Ducks, Lapwings and many other UFO’s cluttering, in search of food or whatever it is they search for. No amount of snaps, videos from a digicam or eloquently worded essays (like this!?) can justify the sight and sounds of a hundred squadrons flapping their wings, rising high with the sun and soaring higher than the eye can see in precisely orchestrated V’s of perfection. I’m leaving Jamnagar for good in less than a month but if it is one thing that I might remember some years down the line it is of the beautiful birds on a nice laidback Sunday morning.



Chuggdi: is a contraption that is a modified Royal Enfield Bullet with three wheels and a carriage that carries people, hens, eggs and just a bout anything under the bright sun. At thirty kmph you can hear every screw screaming for mercy along with the engine, at a hundred kmph this would be a weapon of catastrophe.

Disc(o) brakes: Instead of the usual screech of the tires crunching the gravel there is a fad among the pan spewing gujju youth to make the brakes dance to the music of Dhoom. As a matter of fact am yet to find a single bike that doesn’t have this thing playing every thirty seconds or so.

Dhoom: Popular Hindi movie with a lot of bike stunts and skimpily clad ladies trying to dance in the rain & not get wet, which they inevitably do.

We: refers to 10-13 crazed guys in eight bikes and a scrap of 1988 model Maruti 800.

Friday, March 24, 2006

HEEP(ED) @ BANGALORE

BAND: URIAH HEEP
DATE: 08 MAR 06
VENUE: PALACE GROUNDS,
BANGALORE

MEMBERS:
VOCALS- BERNIE SHAW
LEADS- MICK BOX
BASS- TREVOR BOLDER
KEYBOARDS- PHIL LANZON
DRUMS- LEE KERSLAKE



I confess I wasn’t even in my diapers when Uriah Heep started off. Neither am I a ‘Heepster’ by choice. The very thought of a band named after a morbid Dickensian novel of the Victorian times seemed exciting. [I bought ‘The very best of Heep’ some months back. I still am under the impression that the CD showcases a totally different band than the LP’s & cassettes.]

It was after much trepidation that I chose to attend the concert at Bangalore. The show however kick started bang on time ( I was late by a good deal, a grand revelation that even rock shows could start on time hit me like a supercharged thunderbolt) with fast numbers like ’ Sunrise’, ‘Free Me’, ‘Gypsy’. I remember the last two songs particularly for the drummer was arthritically out of sync, rhythm. The bandwagon rolled on with numbers like ‘Rain’, ’Sweet Lorraine’& ended earlier than expected with the keyboards reminding of Jon Lord(very DEEPLY PURPLISH indeed). Two hours packed closer than sardines don’t do any justice to these ‘Also Grampas of Brit Rock’ (the original ones being the ubiquitous ‘Rolling Stones’) who have been playing over the past three decades or so; just goes on to tell you how the audience had to beg and plead for ‘Easy Livin’-one of their more popular songs.

The thing about Bangalore was that the ppl were too well behaved. Maybe it was because the majority was elderly couples who have been faithful to their band over the years or coz of the new rule that banned everything except Pepsi & its toxic rivals. I left the show with the great sounds of Mick Box & Trevor Bolder ringing in my ear with faint echoes of ‘Thank you very very much indeed’ which was the signature of Bernie Shaw.


Like most rock bands the foundation of Heep is solely on the skills of the lead guitarist and the bassist. The lyrics take a comfortably cushioned back seat to accommodate the two talents, regardless of the fact that the other three members have been changed more frequently than my diapers. The very idea of leather, long hair, booze, drugs, tattoos and lyrics with ‘Ooooh’s’ and more ‘Aaaaah’s’ filling empty spaces and used more freely than punctuation marks sound quite revolting. The local dog pound and the church choir seem to have played a major role in the transformation of a rock band to a pseudo rock metal gospel crooning one.

Friday, March 10, 2006

MICROPHONE ABUSER

History has its overflowing bounty of great speakers who could get a standing ovation for just lip-synching their own speeches or bubble a gum in front of a crowd. Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Theodore Roosevelt, JFK, Richard Feynman had the world by its two big ears making it listen to their thought provoking speeches. More recently Paris Hilton has the ears with her candid views& interviews on mundane things that don’t make an inch of difference in a poodle’s life.

There is a new breed of speakers or quackers who grab the mike & mercilessly go on for the next hour or so. Some wise guy who didn’t have a wristwatch once said ’Time & tide wait for none’; I am not sure of tides, but time sure comes to a standstill when (Im christening this guy as) ‘Pakao’ starts abusing …the mike.

The meetings chaired by Pakao are eagerly awaited by us suckers, armed with invisible ear plugs & waiting like the desperate suicide attempter on the train tracks for the light at the end of the tunnel. Heels dug in, one hand in a vice like grip choking the pitiful mike, all ready to orchestrate another soul stirring, tear jerking performance; he just seems to have missed his ride in the BEST bus to being a rock-star. The Scots with their lilting ’Sh’s’, the Aussies with their sweet ‘Oi’s’, the Irish with their rolling ‘Rrrr’s’ give the queen’s lingo it’s colour but the growling ‘Rrrr’s’ of this ghatlander (as in BOARRRD, HARRRD COPY,PASS THE SUGARRRR, HURRRY UP WITH THE REPORRRRT) crashes through tender eardrums slamming them down on a collision course with the palpitating heart. To get a clearer perspective, imagine that I am Tom when Jerry chooses to bonk down a bell over my/Tom’s head & gongs it harder than u can imagine.

Every other day this walking disaster makes us all the more eager to learn by rote’ the Apocalypse’, ’Genesis’, ’Noah’s (ULCC**) Ark, et al. The latest in a long list of never ending catastrophes was when he chose to crash the brand new SMART SWIPE CARD I.D database which didn’t have any back-up, with all of us glued to our positions staring transfixed at ill-defined infinity or whatever lay beyond it.

POST SCRIPT: THE NEXT MAIL WILL BE POSTED AS AND WHEN I LIVE TO SURVIVE THE NEXT CATASTROPHE WHICH IS JUST LURKING AROUND THE CORNER WAITING TO POUNCE.

** ULCC- as in ULTRA LARGE CRUDE CARRIER;Noah's Ark must have been really mammoth(and all other adjectives for big included)

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

scenes from a seminar/crumbs of wisdom(as u like it)

SCENES FROM SEMINAR/CRUMBS OF WISDOM (as u like it)

CLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN EDITED & COMPILED BY ME & MY GOOD FRIEND MANISH KHANNA WHO LOVES HIS HAND SIGNAL AS MUCH AS HIS BIKE.


Seminars are a very novel means of swapping info and transforming some lower souls till they start resembling Buddha with a shiny bright halo at the end of the day. A truly disorganised seminar leaves its stamp of class with stale coffee, insipid tea, snacks that are look-alikes of UFO (Unidentified Fried Objects) and not to forget mementoes that resemble empty cola bottles from the nearby café. No seminar is incomplete without its colourful scenes and a predominantly stoned look in the audience. Here are some thoughts that over sped through two exceptionally brilliant minds on their highway to nirvana and enlightenment.


0800 What do u realise sitting here?

0805 What a waste of time?

0810 Are we really fools in sheep’s clothing?

0820 People have too much time.

0900 Nature’s law still holds true; the fittest survive till the end of the day.

0920 Theory of evolution; how a sleeping man evolves?

0930 Every 10 minutes u need to shift Ur ass – to realise that u have an ass and are not one.

0945 We are born to be screwed

1000 The attention span of the average guy is inversely proportional to the time spent listening.

1015 All people nodding their heads are either sleeping or haven’t understood anything.

1030 Pissing is contagious, so is yawning.

1045 Feel good factor-look around u, its not just u that’s sleeping.

1100 Pity the moderator.

1145 I smile bcos I don’t know what’s going on around me.

1245 The questions almost always fly over ur head, but the answers always boomerang with a knock out punch in the face.

1315 We are the worst hit of all; both time and space ain’t with us.

1330 Better get used to all this……much more heading Ur way.


Lunch...................................................................................... at last

1445 Garfield should have been here. On second thoughts……… why not Calvin?

1500 Lectures have the best ambience for sleeping.

1530 The warning bell is not to inform the last 10 minutes to the speaker, but to wake up the audience & tell ‘em to gear up for the next one.

1545 Who says time flies by, even the sloth is faster than father time …….. & the speaker.

1600 The number of doubts asked is inversely proportional to the time left for tea & lunch.

1630 Shit!! The bloody hall is nearly filled…… with empty chairs save for us idiots filling the backbenches. Who is this nut speaking to?



FRRRRRRR............................................EEEEEEEEDOMMMMM

india's largest selling newspaper is a TOI-let paper


A Letter of Condolence to The Editor

The TOI as is fondly revered amongst its nationwide readers is generally looked up for a variety of informative and entertaining articles. But off late the trend seems to be taking a turn for the worst. The only thing that the common man and the readers look forward to, spending three rupees a day is the common man himself and the centre page saving grace and sacred space. One cursory glance at the events that made the headlines over the fortnight is all it takes for anybody and nobody to understand why the editor doesn’t even believe in dropping names of the editorial staff in all the 20 sheets of cluttered newsprint.

The headlines were about the cost of furnishing and tiling a thirteen floor high rise in Surat, the tiling of a twelve floor high rise in Surat, a duplex in Surat, the new roads planned in Surat, a census of Surat’s diamond merchants, their likes & dislikes of the artificially sweet gujarati cuisine and not to forget their aesthetic dressing sense in different shades of white. Surat, more Surat, even more of Surat. Now, how should one grade an article on Surat’s diamond industry that doesn’t mention the ‘angadias’ anywhere in the whole of the half page? Downright bad journalism or simply bad editing.

Having been fed with piping hot coffee and ‘The Hindu’ or ’The Indian Express’ over the years, it should have sounded as a welcome change to the colourful TOI. But on closer introspection the color is all but a glaring collage without any artist to give finishing touches to make the shades pleasing and convey some meaning. Every page of news faces tough competition from the coveted classifieds. The journalist is reduced to a farce with news outsourced or pirated right from the internet or an unknown alien daily that wrote about Britney Spears’ colour of underpants. Not just classifieds, self-proclamations about digging out truth from the omnipresent confusion, opinion polls, views and counter-views fill the centre-page. With articles arranged so higgledy-piggledy how is it possible for the editor to pen his editorial, that too in the centre-page? Having seen such a trashy centre-page, it was but a pleasing thought that fleeted across the numbed mind when confronted by an apparition of an editorial; that was introduced without much fanfare or a gala page 3 party. Now that’s one area these guys are totally professional in. The truly exciting and novel sight that’s bringing about a cultural revolution in the social circles in terms of booze, fag, sense & nonsense; in varying stages of undress –P3P & its glitters. Another question pops up like a cotton seed: How tough is the competition given to ‘Filmfare’ & ‘Gladrags’?

The second last straw that broke my tender back and made me pick up my rusty pen was the headline of Rambo, the heroic dog of Raveena Tandon- a lady known for her off-screen romances( and not to forget her on-screen hip-breaking histrionics for the gastronomically troubled) lost in the cruel streets of Bombay, kidnapped & held for ransom. Some tender hearts fluttered, ECG’s dipped, floodgates opened that Bollywood and its gallons of glycerine couldn’t, tugging heartstrings and causing such emotional turmoil equalled only by hours of agony spent in watching the ‘K’ sops. Many offerings were made for the health of the poor dog. When the dog returned, by a very eager pet-shop owner, it made to the top-slot again with many more untugged heartstrings, tugged, tears of joy pouring by the buckets and many more pujaris happy to oblige the hordes, thanx to the brilliant coverage and investigative heights scaled only by the TOI. Three cheers to the only black Pomeranian that made it to the headlines of the TOI.

The piece-de-resistance was when SRK was the guest editor of the Mumbai edition for no rhyme or reason fathomed. No new movie was being released, so maybe he just wanted a feel of the neglected shoes of the editor. But that it made it to the headlines of the Ahmedabad edition along with a full page interview made very sad reading and all the more contradictory with two badly misrepresented elephants trampling lotuses in their five by two centimetres of reserved Sunday space, bearing the burden of a very heavy armour preaching ‘Let Truth Prevail’.