10 mind blowing facts about Hyderabad traffic

1. High beam is a must (and I too comply to this restriction). I sometimes feel that most drivers do not know that there is a low beam.
2. Not just cycles, motorcycles, auto rickshaws, and cars, even trucks take the wrong side. No exceptions, not even the airport expressway.
3. (Corollary to 2) It is perfectly OK for Huge trucks to make a U turn on the airport expressway
4. A bike, auto, or a truck will be parked meticulously, blocking half the road, at the every conceivable left turn.
5. Helmets are banned. A very few in the IT corridor flout the ban. My head, your headache!
6. When you honk a group of people walking on the road, nothing, just nothing, other than the honk will happen!
7. If your registration number is from another state, you can pay a one time road tax and regularize your number for life. If you commit a non fatal traffic offences with such a car, just showing the tax receipt breaks the heart of the traffic cop in such a way, that he lets you go!
8. Skipping this one, had to make a total of 10. No offence!
9. TRS stole Hyd from AP. To imprint themselves forever, the new registration number series start with TS, because you are in Telengana “State”. Not TG, or TL but TS! Rajasthan should have been RS, Maharashtra – MS, Haryana HS, Goa GS, Orissa OS, … Assam AS! See?
10. People, like phantoms, coming out of nowhere, randomly cross the roads. It is noteworthy that phantoms do not need to look at your car while crossing the road at their own pace. See number 6 which is also applicable. Zebra crossings are few, but will never be used.

PS: Every city’s traffic has a unique story. I had the privilege to drive in Calcutta for the first time ever during these Pujas. But despite the crowds, narrow streets, and the killer buses, I could see the difference.

Mango Candy

My prized mango tree adorns the fence on my backyard. When they broadened the road, they wanted to raze it, but I had fought them hard to save it. I fought everyone for all the years when it bore just flowers but no fruit. Not a single nail has ever gone through it. Though I did not plant it with a plan, now that it is big, it is all mine. And so are all the delicious mangoes which grow on it every year.

It is a matter of great responsibility to own a mango tree. More so if you vouch for all the juicy mangoes as well. Bastards of unknown origin are on the prowl, and they have an unusual preference for the hot afternoons. I have to sit beside my tree, in the sultry heat, to protect my right – my mangoes. This year has been a windfall – the tree is stooping down with  mangoes. I am so excited! They will ripen fully on the tree before the harvest. Organic mangoes are in vogue nowadays.

No, I am not planning to sell a single one. I shall distribute the fruits among my neighbours – as many as I know, as far as I can go. That will not exhaust even half of the mangoes. The rest will go into the making of the mango candy with my secret recipe. I will not sell that either. They will be distributed among my relations far and wide. All this so that everyone praises me, overlook my ills and odds.

—

The mango distribution ceremony is over and the candy phase has started. The tree is almost empty.

Something bad just happened. It is likely that the bitch which barks all night has licked my prized candy. Candies are drying on the backyard, in the sun. I have not spared it either and hurled whatever I could lay my hands on. I did not miss – it whined, and then limped away. Give her leftovers, from fishbones to chicken heads, and this is what you get in return – barking all night, and licking candy stealthily! Ungrateful bitch!

—

That foul smell had to be a carcass. And so it was: the same limping bitch, rotten, glossy and all bulged up. It looks like a murder committed with vengeance – its head has been crushed with a brick. The body was lying just outside my fence, in the shade of my tree. I have got it thrown into the canal. Good riddance nonetheless.

—

Somewhere in my big heart I am feeling empty. Only a lovely costly chubby pug can fill back my heart. This is also my chance to show off how to love a dog. I will give it costly packed food from the supermarket. Leftovers or, for that matter, cheap mango candy will not be apt for it.

 

Salvation

The largest religious congregation in recorded history starts today at the Maha Kumbh in Allahabad. As much as one tenth of the Indian population (yes!) will assemble there, to move a step closer to salvation, at the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati, in a stupendous spectacle that occurs once in 144 years.

Nude ashen ascetics will lead to the waters with rustic fervor. Saffron akharas of multiple sects will follow in procession. The rest of humanity will huddle behind them. At the right moment, those lucky to avoid a stampede will jump into the holy brown waters – vigorously washing off their sins – gargling, blowing, coughing, sneezing, spitting, rubbing …. Batches and batches will repeat this throughout the day – the holy water absorbing all the filth.

To serve the pilgrims, uncountable tents have been laid out by the Government on the holy banks. Drinking water is scarce, toilets barely flush, and none of the three Emergency hotlines work. Diseases run abound – it is a glory to die here after all. Only a huge epidemic will ever get reported in the media.

In this holiest place on earth, families can overcome sin even if they abandon their ageing, ill, disabled, and daughters. Everyone will go back with a lofty conscience and lots of good luck enough to cover their future transgressions.

Enough crap! To help your quest for salvation, you can smoke pot in the open. What a place!

[1][2][3][4]

Solemn Deals, Scripted Lives, & other stories

Considering reported rapes as a ratio of population will actually portray India as quite safe. The feeling fails the reality test, however, because only a tiny minority is actually reported. Rapes in wedlock fail the definition itself and those within families sometimes remain unknown even within the family. Even others will be hushed up to protect the victim’s chances of marriage, and family ‘honor’. More than three quarters of Indians are Hindus like me, and some of our customs indirectly sustain this horror. Dowry is the most prolific of them.

Dowry is not just greed – it is the most glamorous celebration of misogyny. Some kill to earn it, and the rest kill to avoid it. Though the custom was made illegal  more than half a century back, it is proudly practiced by Hindus in most parts of India.

I recall a meeting in the past with some (male) friends where we ended up discussing marriage. When someone claimed that Eastern and North Eastern India has lower instances of dowry, in came a remark: “Saale kanjoos“.  Don’t be amused – these are also the same regions which show some of the highest sex ratio, and lowest rates of rape (… and least religious fanaticism too).

Another instance I’d once overheard women discuss (chuckle) : A woman was explaining how her marriage was special. Her in-laws were nice enough to convert all the dowry into jewellery and present back to her within a week. The bragging of dowry was required during marriage. Or else the clan would have doubted the worthiness of the groom; or if she was already pregnant!

—

Matrimonials give an idea of how a vast majority of marriages take place. There is a prevailing rate for every type of groom – from a petty Government servant to Ivy League graduates. Grooms will vaunt their education or work in the caste classifieds, and brides their money. The strength of the new bonding will be solemnized by matching all the magical parameters of gotra, gan, rashi, numerology and most importantly potential for a  unidirectional transfer of wealth. And somehow the magic will start, after the deal takes place. A generation back it was compulsory too, but not as obnoxious as it is now. People throw down even their last retirals hoping to tame this bottomless greed. The extortion often continues even after marriage, sometimes till the hostage is alive.

For a man who has earned this easy money, it is a no brainer to loathe a liability when he can choose the sex of his own child, so cheaply, in the private of a clinic.  Though, I will be surprised if a ‘hormonally active’ female (which do not  include Saasu-maa-s) will ever support killing of a foetus, just for greed.

“With all due respect, sir, if you still like that dreamy deal your parents and relatives struck for you, you should have allowed them to sleep with your bride first!”

Arranged marriages leave more holes for dowry; though not all arranged marriages will involve it. Choosing a partner leaves very little option for the family to perpetrate this greed. Why can’t we convince our parents that it is neither their marriage, nor their lives, nor their times ? Why not just marry the girl I love ? Live in a new home ? Where does mideaval voodoo come into picture at all ?

Candle lights have protested a ghastly rape. But how many of those male flames will choose to burn down the dowry deal struck by their parents ?

—

Religion (unfortunatey) is one of the first piece of learning which gets imprinted in the mind. The roots of this custom lie in the deep male chauvinism seething in some of Hinduism’s holiest texts. Puranas and Epics slaughter the character of the Vedas and the Upanishads. Women, even godesses curl up around the feet of their husbands; polygamy, and rapes run abound. Honor is protected and liability disposed.  The religion has become a confused mess – women are objects of desire and worshipped as mythical magicians at the same time. And there are still some who will ‘explain’ all that for you. A half literate society fed with these from childhood, and rehearsing these everyday can hardly be expected to think straight. Dowry is not even perceived as a problem. So is rape seen as a disgrace and not as a crime. And the birth of a girl child casts a gloom.

When it comes to greed, inspiration cuts across communities. Others have been learning fom us.

Government control of ultrasound machines will never improve sex ratio. People will kill a newborn by packing salt into her mouth, or simply dumping the live baby in a garbage bin for dogs to eat. They do these already. Or they will burn brides.

It is high time we, those raised as Hindus, introspect. Conscience must supercede outlandish beliefs. Let us fix ourselves first and not point at what others, say, Muslims do. Look in the mirror dude. And look yourself in the eye!

Why do girls like barfi?

Because it is sweet, you fool.

Albeit this fondness is subjective, overdose will invariably make anyone nauseated.

At first sight the fresh lead female reminded me of that great British football club based in Old Trafford – may be because of the brilliant red dresses she will wear later. She is obsessed with the sweetness of this Barfi lad. Ya ya, umang, tarang, jeena sikhaya, life is beautiful, that itching sensation, we know all that. Daughter to the new-age two-husbanded Draupadi, she dares to equal her mom. Her chance gone, thanks to her mom, she remains the eternal haddi to the kabab of a happy couple. She lied about not having any photograph of her crush, which even inspires the very first scene of the movie. But later she reveals a whole album of folded photographs. You should know how I hate liars, or for that matter inconsistent scripts. No amount of penance, not even managing a children’s home, or making sweet origami to a child with Down’s syndrome can earn you forgiveness for that.

We all agree, acting as an autistic girl is tough. More so if the actor is a glamorous Miss World. But just because she is playing an autistic, does not necessarily make the rendering lovable. With all sympathies to the character and apologies all autistic people in the world, I did not like it. Though I liked the well researched laterally inverted B she writes. She successfully clears the Barfi Heart Entrance test, which everyone else had failed earlier. I will bet on anything my dear Barfi: she did not even notice that falling log! She was dreaming of the damn Filmfare award Oscars, holding your God knows what.

This Barfi guy himself is a really sweet entertainer, rendered with utter perfection by the actor – no satire in that. He measures his affinity to an individual with the controvertial log test, sometimes putting his orientation in question. You did your part. Let others do theirs.

For a setting in the ’70s, anachronisms are there, but comparatively rare. A transistor radio, Murphy or otherwise, on  a bicycle basket in 1972? I doubt if there were any, if at all affordable, available anywhere in India – let alone Darjeeling.  Number plates could not have started with WB 20 in the 70’s, neither could so many the cable lines crowd the lampposts, nor did Calcutta trams and buses sport those fluorescent schizophrenic non-Red color. Can’t complain, as even Hollywood classics get along with bigger goofs. The persistence of the filmmaker on avoiding scenes, locales, and angles which hint at the present is commendable. This includes finding a vintage location right next to the Howrah Bridge, old cars with left hand drive and cycles without mud-guards – I loved it all. Or Keventer’s for that matter – you should have a cup of Second Flush there. But my real crib remains that cheap jute wig which the British football club was wearing as an oldie. The half-bald mother of my granny’s maid uses a better one.

Stretching the storyline is the moral of this story. It is rumored that the script writer was inspired by a popcorn machine, and the producer had thrown a champagne party when the team announced that the film would span more than two hours, to hold you and someone else at ransom, twice. Using a shaky camera may make you look Hollywoodish, but please don’t hire a butcher to edit that film. The editor minced the film in a fashion that to follow the story – you will need to keep track of a dozen frames of reference, all presented in a intertwined spaghetti. And to seal the end with real senti, desi style, two handicapped lovers die in each other’s arms. I sobbed. All my expectations generated till the intermission were raped in the darkness of the theater that night.

Back to the topic. To quote Penny, “Handicapped people are nice, Leonard, everyone knows that!” Now that’s sweet!

The connoisseur

Rana Roy was my father’s friend. He was an extremely docile man with clean habits. Neither did he smoke, nor drink. He spoke softly and I had never known him to get angry. He wore a neatly pressed full sleeved shirt and always tucked them. He was brown, not very tall, and wore a neat moustache by his clean shaven bumpy cheeks. On asking about them, he had once told me how a terrible bout of pox almost killed him as a child. His mother had saved him then.

He owned a camera – the only one in his circle of friends. Except for entities I could draw, I barely understood the pictures which adorned the walls of his small but neatly arranged apartment. In one big get-together, his friends commended his creations. Instead of blushing – Rana Roy explained how to capture them correctly, the challenges he faced, the techniques he used and after all what it meant. Even pictures had meanings! The most interesting part about all this came twice a year, when this esteemed man made portrait shots of me. Not that I looked like a model then, but he used to do portraits for all his friend’s children – just for his and their fun.

Audio recording and playback instruments were the tech marvels of those days, and he possessed two of them. One of them had two casette decks with which he would create customized music collections for his friends, including my dad. His showcase had one shelf of audio casettes and three shelves of books – including the volumes of Tagore’s Complete Works. Tagore’s works are a status symbol that every Bengali loves to keep on display. Almost no one ever reads a single page. However, I liked to believe he had read it all.

He was the only cool artie cum techie I knew in our small town, who did these things for pleasure. Rana Roy was not very good looking, yet he was so polished and intellectually attractive. Please feel free to not trust his perfection, I must say – I adored him too much.

Rana kaku soon got married to a woman, called Chhanda. She was little fairer than Rana kaku, a little plump, had beautiful eyes and always wore a smile on her face, quite in contrast with the usual serious countenance of Rana kaku. She talked a lot and liked his friends’ families. Our get-togethers continued.

They soon had a son. A lot of friends and their families were treated in the baby shower. I did not like this little boy in the beginning. But soon started to like him – after all he was Rana kaku’s son.

—

Few years later we moved out to a different locality. I’d grown up too. The get-togethers thinned out and the photoshoots were gone. I was having strange thoughts about my adolescence, girls and acne. I definitely blamed it on my acne.

Till one evening, we visited his place. Chhanda kakima had invited us to see her newly born second child. It was years I had been to his place. The whitewash had greyed out a bit, and the all but one wall photograph was hanging, though a little tilted and on a different wall. The rooms otherwise looked familiar in arrangement, however a little more packed. The show case looked similar. I could not find the double decker casette player below the new color television, though the smaller one was there.  I did not see his camera around.  Unlike other times, only one other friend has turned up to celebrate the occasion, and he leaned on the safa. I had seen this tall, fair and a good looking relatively new friend in previous get-togethers, and he always turned up alone. He talked less too, but with Rana kaku there he did not stand a chance in my likes. And he smoked too.

I was barely allowed to touch the chubby pink baby. His elder brother looked a little more serious than I had known him to be. Rana kaku himself was sitting on a chair and spoke lesser and with a lower voice than usual. His shirt was not tucked and he was tapping his right leg. His first bad habit, I thought. I overheard Chhanda kakima discuss with mom about Rana kaku not keeping well of late. They were consulting a doctor in Calcutta.

—

A few more years later,  my parents out to the market, I opened the door on a knock. A rickshaw wallah was supporting – a worn out Rana Roy on his shoulders. The rickshaw man was too confused to ask for money – he ran away dropping him like a garbage bag. Rana kaku chose to sit on the ground. He had grown very thin – he looked haggled, unshaven and dirty. He wore an untucked half sleeved, crumpled, dirty shirt. His limbs jerked involuntarily, his face showed strange twitching movements and I barely pulled the sweating Rana kaku inside the room. What was in store for me was an experience I would never forget. He could not lie down straight and kicked me. He then turned over to be in a crawling position, but something threw him back. He tried to sit straight on the floor against the wall, and it looked like the wall kicked his back. Then he swerved like a snake on the floor. He looked so worn out, and yet kept jumping around – helplessly and haphazardly for 30 more minutes. People would have laughed at the sight – I swear. But I wept.

—

A few months later, when Rana Roy died of Parkinson’s disease, he was living in a shabby tent outside their quarters. His wife could not throw him away. She made sure her elder son also lived with her, supported by his retirals and her politically connected live-in partner. No one dared to object to this arrangement. I do not know how it felt being the elder son.

I know why Hindus believe in Karma. They think life is fair!

The Charminar on Ramzan eve

The Charminar, Hyderabad’s trademark monument, is unlike other iconic monuments you have seen elsewhere.  Serving as a rotary around a U-turn in the middle of a heavily congested predominantly Muslim locality – it presents an explostion of experience on the Ramzan eve. The intermittent showers had kept my camera indoors. Pictures or videos would not have captured the platter of delight – words are needed anyway.

The evening prayers had just finished when I landed there. The street leading to it were adorned with two lanes, totaling four rows, of makeshift stalls selling almost everything the visitor might buy on the festive eve: from haleem to underwear, surma to beef, lime soda to buckets, jewellery to banana chips. The new shops are in addition to the two rows of permanent shops along the street. Nobody was idle – and huddles of entropy swarmed chaotically, jamming everything else. The parking attendant was auctioning parking slots.

The mild drizzle had not made any difference. Till a brief spurt of heavier shower made the place almost vacant in less than a minute. A thela of chocolate wafers was lying across one of the streets when the owner, a lad of 13-14 ran back to cover it.  The rain was gone already – he swore and slapped his forehead. No one noticed, as he was in business in a few minutes.

There were unusually high number of burquas today. Burquas were more common around sellers of clothes and leather items. A bevy in all black, probably wives or daughters of one man, with just slits to see, carried exact replicas of pink shining vanity bags. They tried cheap jewellery at the street corner, with a middle aged bearded man in guard. A fair and tall Middle Eastern man with sharp features, wearing a traditional white robe roamed around, accompanied by a strikingly beautiful fair woman in a colorful attire, covering everything but her face. They behaved like European tourists,  keeping a safe distance from anything filthy.

It must be a paradise for Pickpockets and shoplifters. Petty snatchers made hay in the gloom and crowd. More organized schemes involve fake Haleem delivery boys with a fake badge with a fake name and ID number. A gentleman shouting at the shop owner had paid the tout real money – to avoid the fistfight at the queue for haleem. A real delivery boy does not earn a salary – he earns only the tip – about 5 rupees for a hundred rupee portion, from every second customer. After some futile bargaining, I bought a knit skullcap, to feel as one with the everything else. With my skullcap on, I savored some Haleem after generously tipping the sweet and honest delivery boy. He was keen to go but I asked him how it was so tasty. His master rears his own goats, feeds them with his own hands, and before cooking the recipe, butchers them himself. “That is what makes it so tasty”.

An old beggar woman on a walker repeatedly reinforced the frown on her face. She has made hay too. Unlike practicing Muslims fasting for the month, she fasts for 10 months.  And unlike practicing Muslims who enjoy goodies for a day, her whole month of evening goodies has climaxed today. I don’t know why I enjoyed watching this circus of man’s most profound invention – and perhaps his worst. I may crib about it, but I cannot ignore it.

Srisailam

Warning: Not for the strong faithed
This piece only discusses the magic of the Srisailam temple. There is a scenic dam and reservoir too. But all that is too clichéd.

In Hyderabad it is widely accepted as the ‘only good place’ in the vicinity worth visiting. A ride to this abode of Shiva takes about 5 to 6 hours from Hyderabad and is pretty scenic. And you will ride through plains, forests and hills over State Highways which are pretty well maintained by Indian standards.

We had pre-booked the APTDC hotel which is a few blocks from the temple. It had uniformly unmaintained rooms with nice views of the adjacent building on all sides. They will leave you to yourself and will not disturb you with room service or cleaning, as long as you stay. The attached ‘restaurant’ serves ‘complimentary’ breakfast of the holy trinity of idly, vada and upma. The lunch you may buy is also the classic South India thali prepared with an extra touch of salt and red chili powder. Veg of course, that’s implicit! There is a Canteen near the temple – which serves much better food. But get your food packed – unless you want to witness how hygiene is ravished.

Srisailam overflows with the typical Hindu obsession with cows and cow dung. It is just not possible to walk without stepping on one of those blackish heaps. I could see cows even inside the temple complex. If you somehow manage to dodge a cow you will bump on a beggar; or someone selling overly colourful overpriced booklets of Bronze Age stories in various languages. The sidewalks are cluttered with the vastly popular fortune tellers who otherwise look like hippies, and have a wingless parrot crammed into a 4 inch cage, which pulls out a dirty brown card of fate from a stack. We surely need more beef eaters; and since I cannot possibly ask for more cannibals, a serious drive on vasectomy.

Roads from all sides to the temple complex are blocked by low gates to stop all vehicles, leaving only the pedestrian ways free on both sides. The guard was confronting a brand new car which had just been administered some holy scribbling as well as paintings of various gods on all its windows including windscreen, rendering them virtually opaque. The barefooted guard ultimatey prevailed, and saved the temple from that car. One bystander asked him something – and he nodded – it was clear no car is allowed. He had barely seated himself that he stood up again in a salute. Lo! A white Mercedes with a beacon was waiting on the temple side of the gate. After he attended it, I asked if that was ‘an aircraft’. He nodded again. I do not know why.

On both side of the roads there are shops of various sizes, but all of them selling exactly the same items, which are used to bribe deities. There is a strong positive correlation between how much you spend and how much of luck you can earn. No wonder the Mercedes people are so lucky. Finding a grocer or medic will be tough; his shop too will be selling the bribe-ware on the front row.

It was worth going inside the temple – to experience the real connect. A group of devotees, about 50 in number, unkempt except for their newly made white clothes, were seated on the ground around the gate – and infinitely repeating a devotional sentence. Most of them were enjoying it, in fact, having fun. While howling on, they were keeping tab on the aunties and sisters around. Some played with their mobile phones.

At the temple you may buy privileged darshan at a cost which allows short cuts to the deities, and a free one which requires you to stand at least for a few hours in a stenchy filthy zigzag queue guided by a mesh of metal nets.

We took neither – and bribed our way in. As a result we got a Nepalese guard who guided us through. During the entry to the narrow pathway overlooking sanctum sanctorum, you will be fitted into the longer queue. Then onwards you need not bother about moving – the mass of humanity will guide you. Shrieks, cries, shouts, moans, pushes, punches, smells and gasps will drown your sanity. Children barely understand the magic this peril will bring to their lives and were uniformly uncooperative. Except for one I saw sleeping – probably she has passed out in this magic spell.

I felt like one with the world.

===========================================
To address the most obvious question that you may ask: Why did a filthy atheist like me go there?

1. Someone had to write this up. Devotion overlooks details. Ain’t the details funny?
2. To see more clichéd stuff too
3. To see a lovely rainbow on my way back
4. To drive 500 km in 3 days

Life on Facebook

Let me tell you how I live my Facebook life.

Firstly, you see, I need to become popular, and ‘Like’ is the unit of popularity. So after posting anything, just any crap, I press the ‘Like’ button myself! No kidding, this is an expression of self confidence. How can someone else like it if I myself do not! After some introspection, I think I figured out the real reason. What would I do when I see a random post (like one of mine 😉 ) from my friend? I would bother myself to look at it only if it certified by at least one ‘Like’.  Who will take the risk on doing a first certification ? Likewise. There is yet another benefit – the like count goes up by one. And sometimes, when my post is an absolute generic crap, it has saved my face from zero likes.

You know, I am a great connoisseur of art. At least I have to  show it off to look cool. The easiest way to achieve this is to repost already cool photos posted by my friends. I do not like some of the photos I post, but you have to do these things to remain popular. To show off the genuine artist in me I post my own random photos, like real bull shit, or my own torn rubber chappals, all shot on my cheap cell phone’s 10 MP camera. Tagging makes it much easier to tell my friends that they have some assignment.

Another nice thing about Facebook is how it helps to keep us informed. Like knowing the right moment Facebook will become a paid service, and how to avoid being charged by forwarding the message to 19 friends. I was surprised when one the prophecies which promised a surprise on the next morning turned out to be fluke. See it too was true. I have helped uncountable  charitable causes by sharing disfigured photos, grammatically incorrect and logically inconsistent passages, and other crap on my Wall. I know Facebook pays one cent for each share. Doubt these claims? Why take a chance in these important matters?

My Friend count is another status parameter in the Facebook world, and I am nearing a thousand friends. So what if I do not know most of them? I have punks, addicts, psychopaths, and people who include cryptic words and characters in their profile names. Not to mention those who use vigorously disfigured or indescent profile pics. I know these friends are just true people – like you and me.

I get a high every time I see those red numbers at the top left. There are rumours that I try to live my dream of a glorious life on Facebook to forget my reality. But stay assured all that is a propaganda. Sai Baba’s blessings automatically appear on my wall once every few days. I know I am on the right path!

Bharat Darshan

My trip starts from my home town Kolkata. On that typical hot and humid summer afternoon, I went to that drowsy rickshaw puller. He barely heard my calls, and on trying a bit harder, half opened his marijuana blessed red eyes and muttered, “Can’t go …”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t! Don’t bother me!”

… somehow reaching the Hospital’s reception for the clinical test, I asked the reception where to proceed. The glossy faced overweight woman was chatting, presumably women stuff, profusely over her mobile phone. Visibly disturbed, she frowned at me …. and came her irritated response:

“No tests today … today is a bandh …”. Yes there was a strike call by some Autorickshaw Unions.

… and thus you are relaxing. “… but … this is healthcare …how ..”

“What do you understand about politics ? It is about rights … everything can wait.”

“But … ”

“Wake up! A revolution is unfolding!”, said she, and resumed chatting.

 

 

 

And back in Delhi, one Saturday night at the pub, a group of senior school kids were stealing the show.

“Patiala Blue Label for all my friends … “, the tall and fair leader announced.

.. the confused waiter vanished .. must be to talk to his manager …

“Why won’t she like me? My dad is a minister … I can do anything… and that 10 lakh bike is sure to steal her heart”

“But …”, his friend objected … “that’s about your father … because of that incident you had to leave the school …”

“Yes … my father will settle that too … ”

“And if they don’t agree ? You almost raped her!”

“Simple … I will shoot her … all her family!”

“Cummon …. you cannot do that”

And here came the shocker: He drew a pistol – a real one … and roared “How dare you **** … I will shoot you down and your whole clan …”

Before someone says, “Aarey! Ye tow mar gya!” – We fled!

 

 

 

Once when I visited Chennai, a guy in our group had lost a piece of luggage on the train. De-boarding at the Central station we visited the station master’s office. At the complaints desk, our guy committed the master blunder … he started in Hindi.

“No Hindi!”

“Okay … someone stole my bag …”

“… or you lost it …”

“Well, …maybe I misplaced …”

“You North Indians … don’t know what happened to your own bag ?”

“I am from Assam … and not a North Indian … ”

It was simple to spot an alien: “You speak Hindi … you North Indian” … said the dark guy, his heavily powdered face bubbling with perspiration.

 

 

 

My friend Rajat’s prospective landlord in Hyderabad is a stinking rich man – and wears a massive bunch of bright yellow chains. My friend says he stinks too! He otherwise looks similar to his own driver – only with a bigger belly and a cleaner shirt. The man stuck all the gold when Hyderabad stuck the cyber-tech buzz and expanded to engulf the neighbouring villages. He owns half of the flats in the society.

They met at the lift foyer, with the landlord’s bright young son also accompanying him.

“The cyclone Thane will cause a lot of damage to those Andhra guys”, he smiled.

Oh boy! You must have totally forgot this was Telengana!

The boy goes to an international school and his dad soon went gaga about its greatness. Without any insistence he boasted of his memory skills – and soon started listing the 51 US states. And lo! He was done in below 30 seconds.

“All my flats are perfectly Vastu compliant. It works like magic in your life”, he described his flats, all of which have two things in common – their terrible design, and a kitchen in the south east – usually the best place for a balcony.

At last, my friend got his first chance to introduce himself to the boy. When he added that he hails from Tripura, the grinning boy quipped, “Welcome to India!”

 

 

After Kashmir cooled down in recent years, Deepak’s long desire to visit materialized.

An inquisitive tourist, he talks with every man he can. Riding a Shikara on the Dal Lake, he befriended his boatman. Discussing about the spate of tourism in recent times, his boatman was quick to agree, “Indians are visiting a lot nowadays”.