“Did you watch Crime Dairy yesterday?” Bharath asked me over the breakfast, one-day, three years back. It was a TV series about crime in Bangalore city.
“Yup. They covered the case of the murder of that software engineer,” I said.
“Ma’an. How grouse. The girl is the daughter of an eminent lawyer of the Bangalore, and the guy engaged to her was a highly paid software engineer at INTEL. She got him murdered using her boyfriend, who is an unemployed rogue, and looks like a lizard,” Avinash added to the benefit of the rest of the crowd.
“Yes, he was a handsome chap too. Dunno why she opted that rogue over this nice guy,” I uttered in melancholy.
“It is a tragedy that he was killed,” said Bharath, “Dudes, be careful about whom you get engaged with,” he added with a sly smile.
“What about the vacancy that got created in Intel? Can we apply?” Avinash got right down to the business. :D
Well, if you have found this idea a lil crazy, wait till I tell you that a French movie ‘Le Couperet’ is made on this line of thought. A chemist (Garcia) loses his job in a Paper Company, due to outsourcing. He stays on his savings for two years, but finds no job. He has bills and mortgages to pay. He has to find a job, and soon.
He watches on TV, a top executive of a rival company Arcadia, giving a presentation of the company’s economic prosperity. He observes that the top executive’s profile matches with that of his. He strikes upon an idea.
He could kill this executive, to create vacancy for this post!!!
But, then, he realizes that after killing him; he would have a lot of competition for that post. Hence, he devises a plan.
He posts for a similar job in the newspaper, and invites people to apply. Among the huge number of applicants, he notices that there are five resumes that have the capability to beat him to the job. He plots to kill all of them, before he kills the top executive.
Formerly, a highly paid executive in one of the top firms, Garcia has no idea about how to kill a person. He flounders like a naïve, groping at the art of killing, sometimes successful, sometimes getting confused about the turn of events that lead to the murders. The cinematography is good, the performances are excellent. The narration is gripping, and keeps you on the edge of your seat. Also, there is a bit of humor added, which enriches the work of art.
It lacks the huge canvas of the Hollywood movies, but is a treat to watch because of the interesting storyline, and the strange situations where Garcia finds himself. The climax is mind blowing. Watch it, if you can get hold of a DVD of the movie.
This movie was screened in Tribhuvan theatre, as a part of the Bangalore International Film Festival, from 22nd to 28th December 06. The Film Festival consists of a great lot of good international movies with subtitles, being screened at Tribhuvan, Kailash and Movieland theatres. ( Tribhuvan and Kailash have been refurbished, to beat the PVR standards. Yes!!! Believe me, they beat the PVRs in cleanliness, and seating arrangements.) You can get the schedules and ‘about’ information for all the movies at the ticket counters of the theatres.
For those of you who can make it to the festival, see you there.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Arguments for fun…and….
Arguments run the world. Arguments ruin the world. If Benjamin Franklin had not argued with the mundane, and tried out the iron kite experiment, I would not have been able to pen this blog on a computer that runs on electricity, nor would you have been able to read this on the monitor that runs on it. It was the ‘argument’ that led to this wonderful discovery.
But, weren’t the arguments between powerful nations that led to all those wars???
Are arguments good, or bad?
“This coffee is very sweet. I should have opted for the tea,” my friend, a chronic argument specialist, blurted out at a breakfast table, at the workplace cafeteria.
“How is it going to be different? The tea is going to have the same milk, and hence the same amount of sweetness,” I uttered, casually.
The presence of two sweet looking dames along with us, at our table, called my friend for a show of his incorrigible arguing skills.
“The sugar is put into the decoction. Not the milk,” he said, smiling at me.
“Nope. Sugar is generally put into the milk,” I spoke, recalling the incident when my uncle had requested for a sugarless coffee at a self-service restaurant, the thin bearded ‘coffee-guy’ at the smoke charred corner of the restaurant had scooped up milk and a lot of froth, from a different container.
The smile on the face of my friend withdrew back to a mild frown.
“No, I perfectly know. The sugar is put to the decoction,” he said, now more of an argument. A sweep of my glance at the girls in the table told me that they were getting unnerved as my friend readied himself to another battle.
“I don’t agree. There are two containers in all hotels, one for sweet milk, and one for sugarless. The decoction is placed in a single filter, and it is always sugarless,” I said, firmly this time. I wanted to win this argument. Yes, I had witnesses too, which made the game exciting.
“You don’t know anything about running a hotel. Having sweet and sugarless milk in huge containers is a loss to them. They might as well be maintaining the sweet and sugarless decoctions in small containers,” he argued, now with stronger points, with a try to attack my ego.
“I agree that I don’t know anything about running a hotel, but I know for sure that sweet and sugarless is determined by the milk, and not the decoction,” I refused to budge from my point, not to be towed away by his secondary lines of argument.
He nodded furiously.
It was getting very exciting, and the idea of a perfect kill suddenly erupted in me. “What say we have a bet on this? I will bet you for a hundred bucks on this…..no…no….let us make this a thousand bucks,” I said, trying to trap him, in the presence of the two uncomfortable girls, who had not wanted this, early in the morning.
“Sure,” he blurted out.
And then, he did not drag it further, as would he would have done in normal circumstances, with his regular gyan about general things in life, and many other special things that he knows, that I didn’t knew, etc. He had been cornered. And I had won the argument. And I felt elated.
On a Sunday, at home, “Dad, I need this place free of clutter today,” I told my dad, pointing to a corner in the sitting room, where my father had heaped old newspapers. He was searching for some old articles. “Give me a few days, I will have them sorted out,” he said.
“No, you had already promised a month back that you would free the place from this clutter. Then you went on a tour for a week. The week after that, you were involved in your seminars, and hence I did not tell you to get it done,” I argued. I had the facts with me.
“The tour was very important for me. I had to get stuff done for my photography exhibition next month. I had to go. I met up with a lot of people at the seminars, who are useful to me. Give me one more week, and I promise to have this sorted out,” he said.
“No, I am sure you would come up with some other convincing reason, not to get this thing done,” I said.
“You think that I am giving you reasons?” he was irritated now.
“Yes. They are reasons, and they are convincing enough. But, reasons do not get the work done,” I said. Yes, it was a valid argument.
“Do you think I am lying?” he asked me.
“No. You have very good reasons. But, at the end of the day, reasons do not help me. Action will,” I put in a point, which he was not able to refute.
He just stayed silent.
I had won the argument.
I had been the victor.
He was sad, and angry.
I refused to reconcile, because I was right, and he was wrong. I had just won the argument. How could I be wrong?
But why was the voice in me screaming, that I was wrong?
Why wasn’t I elated after winning the argument?
Now, looking at these two scenarios objectively, in the first instance I was arguing to win, and in the second instance, I was arguing to make my father understand. But, in the second instance, I messed up when I began to argue to win, rather than argue to make him understand.
I had won.
But I had lost.
It is not an isolated case. Isn’t it very general for us to take up arguments because we don’t think that something is right? But, during the argument, we tend to take things personally, get agitated and in result ruin relationships.
Do you remember the last time you had started out in an argument to criticize the Indian cricket team for their performance, and got badgered by the others who supported the team passionately? After a while, the concept of logical discussion disappears, and what are left are the personal insults, victories, and a lot of judgments about each other.
Arguing to win
Drawing a clear distinction between the two types of arguments, I would say that ‘Arguing to win’ to be treated as a game. In a game, some teams win, and some teams lose. But both the teams are better off than where they were prior to playing.
In a game, if you win you feel good. But if you lose….. c’mon… it is after all a game. Don’t forget the learning, though.
When you win, while ‘Arguing to Win’, it also becomes your job to respect the losing side. It is because of the other side that you got a chance to play this game. It is very possible that there could be another chance to sharpen up your skills, if the losing side picks up another argument. This is only possible if the losing side is given due respect after losing the argument. Hence, an ambience for a lot of arguments open up, which fosters clarity of thought process, share of knowledge and quick thinking. More the arguments, merrier are the surroundings.
To exemplify,
“Ram Jethmalani is my idol,” a friend told me sometime back.
“Why?” I was curious.
“Wait, I will forward you the interview that he had with Karan Thapar on CNN-IBN,” he said, and sent me an excerpt of the interview. After going through the interview, I felt that it was a waste of time. Karan and Jethmalani had been loitering more time in personal insults, rather than discussing real issues dealing with the esteemed lawyer representing Manu Sharma. Manu Sharma is the prime accused in Jessica Lal murder case that is rocking the Indian media currently.
“Budd, did you make Ram Jethmalani your idol after going through this interview?” I asked my friend.
“Yes, he is a great lawyer. If he can get Manu Sharma out, he can get anybody out,” he said.
Ah! This was a great opportunity to ‘Argue to win’.
“What is there in the interview that makes him a great personality?” I asked him.
“He was able to answer all of Karan’s answers back in the same way he received it. He almost slapped Karan, the hardest of all TV interviewers,” answered my friend.
“Jethmalani has been a supreme court lawyer for more than 50 years. He has been arguing even before Karan was wearing chaddis. Do you really base your idols on this kind of logic?”
There was no response from my friend for a while.
“Budd,” I continued, “I think that this interview is a big waste of time. There is nothing of importance discussed but a mutual exchange of personal insults. A great TV interviewer against one of the top lawyers of the country…and they come up with this??? I am no smarter after reading this interview.”
The bubble of my friend seemed to have been burst.
After a while of silence, “Let’s discuss this after lunch,” he said.
The topic was never discussed again.
The next day, I sent him a message, “Don’t take our arguments personal, I was just arguing for the sake of arguing.”
After all, he did have the right to make anybody his idol in this world.
In this approach, you can get down and dirty in the arguments, where you can try to manipulate the interpretations of the facts, and present them to support your case. This would more resemble the reality shows on TV, in front of a hidden camera, where the TV crew irritates the general public. Then, when the reality is revealed, the targets end up with a smile.
An open mindset in very essential for this, to accept victory or failure with a smile. Victory or failure should not be taken personal, but just as a part of the game. So what if you lost this time, it is a game. You can always win it the next time.
No, it doesn’t require a different ‘YOU’ to win the argument. Just better preparation. ;-)
Just remember the part about ‘respecting the losing side’. A very essential point, to prevent the relationship from going haywire, after the argument.
Arguing to understand
There are no wins or losses in ‘Arguing to make one understand’. There needs be understanding between the participants of the arguments, irrespective of the result of the argument. This type of argument is more to understand each other, and move towards a better future together. The readiness to accept defeat on being proved wrong logically, for the greater good of the relationship is to be borne in mind. Deliberate misinterpretations of the facts in this scenario, would not only ruin the relationship, but also would prove detrimental in the move towards progress.
The move should be more towards understanding, rather than arguing.
In the context of difference of opinions, it becomes your job to find different methods of making the other person understand what you mean. Also, you will need to address the deep-rooted fears that are driving the individual to come up with his/her opinion.
If you would go on these lines of thoughts, whether you win or lose, you would definitely move towards the better future of each other.
But, does it mean simple surrender of beliefs?
No. A big NO.
How can you convince the other person of your point of view?
I have a personal example. Let’s see if this helps. J
A wall of a well-lit room in my house had to be painted. Each member of the family wanted his/her colours. My mother wanted a light yellow, sister wanted an electric blue.
This was a well-lit room. Actually, it was a glaringly lit room, and I wanted a dark wall to balance the light in the room.
My mother is against any dark walls, as she believes that darker shades lead to depressive moods. Further, she argued that she was the one who would be staying in the house for most of the time, and she did not want to have depressing shades on the walls.
I had seen the blue coloured dark ‘Armada Blue’ in one of the restaurants I had been to. I had loved the colour, and thought that it would be an ideal colour for the wall.
I put across my suggestion, but was shot down.
On arguing, I felt that I was not moving anywhere. As I did an analysis of my type of argument, I realized that I was trying to prove my point, rather than understand the fears that my mother nurtured.
She had not seen the colour, and hence, was skeptical about it.
She had not seen what I had seen. No amount of explaining would make her see what I am seeing.
Suddenly, I struck upon an idea.
I took out my digital camera, shot the picture of the wall in the room, loaded it in my computer, and digitally added that colour to the wall in the picture. I had my sister and my mother have a look at the picture.
Two days later, the wall stood gracefully, attired in dark ‘Armada blue’. ;-)
In here, argument takes a back seat, but the person/ people become more important. Understanding the other person’s point of view is very essential before putting across your argument. For all you know, the other person may have a suggestion that is better than yours. Accepting the other person’s suggestion should not be considered as defeat, but as a mark of progress.
Hence, irrespective of the result of the argument, you have won in the relationship.
Isn’t that more important?? ;-)
Just to summarize, decide beforehand whether you are arguing to win or arguing to understand. If you are arguing to win, try winning at any cost. If you lose, it is a game. If you win, it still is a game. ;-)
But, respect the losing side.
If you are arguing to understand, don’t try to win. Try to move towards betterment than the present.
Hope you have a great time arguing.
Thejas
(ps: only the examples where I have won the argument have been quoted. There are equal number of instances where I have lost, and many times have been treated with respect after losing ;-) )
But, weren’t the arguments between powerful nations that led to all those wars???
Are arguments good, or bad?
“This coffee is very sweet. I should have opted for the tea,” my friend, a chronic argument specialist, blurted out at a breakfast table, at the workplace cafeteria.
“How is it going to be different? The tea is going to have the same milk, and hence the same amount of sweetness,” I uttered, casually.
The presence of two sweet looking dames along with us, at our table, called my friend for a show of his incorrigible arguing skills.
“The sugar is put into the decoction. Not the milk,” he said, smiling at me.
“Nope. Sugar is generally put into the milk,” I spoke, recalling the incident when my uncle had requested for a sugarless coffee at a self-service restaurant, the thin bearded ‘coffee-guy’ at the smoke charred corner of the restaurant had scooped up milk and a lot of froth, from a different container.
The smile on the face of my friend withdrew back to a mild frown.
“No, I perfectly know. The sugar is put to the decoction,” he said, now more of an argument. A sweep of my glance at the girls in the table told me that they were getting unnerved as my friend readied himself to another battle.
“I don’t agree. There are two containers in all hotels, one for sweet milk, and one for sugarless. The decoction is placed in a single filter, and it is always sugarless,” I said, firmly this time. I wanted to win this argument. Yes, I had witnesses too, which made the game exciting.
“You don’t know anything about running a hotel. Having sweet and sugarless milk in huge containers is a loss to them. They might as well be maintaining the sweet and sugarless decoctions in small containers,” he argued, now with stronger points, with a try to attack my ego.
“I agree that I don’t know anything about running a hotel, but I know for sure that sweet and sugarless is determined by the milk, and not the decoction,” I refused to budge from my point, not to be towed away by his secondary lines of argument.
He nodded furiously.
It was getting very exciting, and the idea of a perfect kill suddenly erupted in me. “What say we have a bet on this? I will bet you for a hundred bucks on this…..no…no….let us make this a thousand bucks,” I said, trying to trap him, in the presence of the two uncomfortable girls, who had not wanted this, early in the morning.
“Sure,” he blurted out.
And then, he did not drag it further, as would he would have done in normal circumstances, with his regular gyan about general things in life, and many other special things that he knows, that I didn’t knew, etc. He had been cornered. And I had won the argument. And I felt elated.
On a Sunday, at home, “Dad, I need this place free of clutter today,” I told my dad, pointing to a corner in the sitting room, where my father had heaped old newspapers. He was searching for some old articles. “Give me a few days, I will have them sorted out,” he said.
“No, you had already promised a month back that you would free the place from this clutter. Then you went on a tour for a week. The week after that, you were involved in your seminars, and hence I did not tell you to get it done,” I argued. I had the facts with me.
“The tour was very important for me. I had to get stuff done for my photography exhibition next month. I had to go. I met up with a lot of people at the seminars, who are useful to me. Give me one more week, and I promise to have this sorted out,” he said.
“No, I am sure you would come up with some other convincing reason, not to get this thing done,” I said.
“You think that I am giving you reasons?” he was irritated now.
“Yes. They are reasons, and they are convincing enough. But, reasons do not get the work done,” I said. Yes, it was a valid argument.
“Do you think I am lying?” he asked me.
“No. You have very good reasons. But, at the end of the day, reasons do not help me. Action will,” I put in a point, which he was not able to refute.
He just stayed silent.
I had won the argument.
I had been the victor.
He was sad, and angry.
I refused to reconcile, because I was right, and he was wrong. I had just won the argument. How could I be wrong?
But why was the voice in me screaming, that I was wrong?
Why wasn’t I elated after winning the argument?
Now, looking at these two scenarios objectively, in the first instance I was arguing to win, and in the second instance, I was arguing to make my father understand. But, in the second instance, I messed up when I began to argue to win, rather than argue to make him understand.
I had won.
But I had lost.
It is not an isolated case. Isn’t it very general for us to take up arguments because we don’t think that something is right? But, during the argument, we tend to take things personally, get agitated and in result ruin relationships.
Do you remember the last time you had started out in an argument to criticize the Indian cricket team for their performance, and got badgered by the others who supported the team passionately? After a while, the concept of logical discussion disappears, and what are left are the personal insults, victories, and a lot of judgments about each other.
Arguing to win
Drawing a clear distinction between the two types of arguments, I would say that ‘Arguing to win’ to be treated as a game. In a game, some teams win, and some teams lose. But both the teams are better off than where they were prior to playing.
In a game, if you win you feel good. But if you lose….. c’mon… it is after all a game. Don’t forget the learning, though.
When you win, while ‘Arguing to Win’, it also becomes your job to respect the losing side. It is because of the other side that you got a chance to play this game. It is very possible that there could be another chance to sharpen up your skills, if the losing side picks up another argument. This is only possible if the losing side is given due respect after losing the argument. Hence, an ambience for a lot of arguments open up, which fosters clarity of thought process, share of knowledge and quick thinking. More the arguments, merrier are the surroundings.
To exemplify,
“Ram Jethmalani is my idol,” a friend told me sometime back.
“Why?” I was curious.
“Wait, I will forward you the interview that he had with Karan Thapar on CNN-IBN,” he said, and sent me an excerpt of the interview. After going through the interview, I felt that it was a waste of time. Karan and Jethmalani had been loitering more time in personal insults, rather than discussing real issues dealing with the esteemed lawyer representing Manu Sharma. Manu Sharma is the prime accused in Jessica Lal murder case that is rocking the Indian media currently.
“Budd, did you make Ram Jethmalani your idol after going through this interview?” I asked my friend.
“Yes, he is a great lawyer. If he can get Manu Sharma out, he can get anybody out,” he said.
Ah! This was a great opportunity to ‘Argue to win’.
“What is there in the interview that makes him a great personality?” I asked him.
“He was able to answer all of Karan’s answers back in the same way he received it. He almost slapped Karan, the hardest of all TV interviewers,” answered my friend.
“Jethmalani has been a supreme court lawyer for more than 50 years. He has been arguing even before Karan was wearing chaddis. Do you really base your idols on this kind of logic?”
There was no response from my friend for a while.
“Budd,” I continued, “I think that this interview is a big waste of time. There is nothing of importance discussed but a mutual exchange of personal insults. A great TV interviewer against one of the top lawyers of the country…and they come up with this??? I am no smarter after reading this interview.”
The bubble of my friend seemed to have been burst.
After a while of silence, “Let’s discuss this after lunch,” he said.
The topic was never discussed again.
The next day, I sent him a message, “Don’t take our arguments personal, I was just arguing for the sake of arguing.”
After all, he did have the right to make anybody his idol in this world.
In this approach, you can get down and dirty in the arguments, where you can try to manipulate the interpretations of the facts, and present them to support your case. This would more resemble the reality shows on TV, in front of a hidden camera, where the TV crew irritates the general public. Then, when the reality is revealed, the targets end up with a smile.
An open mindset in very essential for this, to accept victory or failure with a smile. Victory or failure should not be taken personal, but just as a part of the game. So what if you lost this time, it is a game. You can always win it the next time.
No, it doesn’t require a different ‘YOU’ to win the argument. Just better preparation. ;-)
Just remember the part about ‘respecting the losing side’. A very essential point, to prevent the relationship from going haywire, after the argument.
Arguing to understand
There are no wins or losses in ‘Arguing to make one understand’. There needs be understanding between the participants of the arguments, irrespective of the result of the argument. This type of argument is more to understand each other, and move towards a better future together. The readiness to accept defeat on being proved wrong logically, for the greater good of the relationship is to be borne in mind. Deliberate misinterpretations of the facts in this scenario, would not only ruin the relationship, but also would prove detrimental in the move towards progress.
The move should be more towards understanding, rather than arguing.
In the context of difference of opinions, it becomes your job to find different methods of making the other person understand what you mean. Also, you will need to address the deep-rooted fears that are driving the individual to come up with his/her opinion.
If you would go on these lines of thoughts, whether you win or lose, you would definitely move towards the better future of each other.
But, does it mean simple surrender of beliefs?
No. A big NO.
How can you convince the other person of your point of view?
I have a personal example. Let’s see if this helps. J
A wall of a well-lit room in my house had to be painted. Each member of the family wanted his/her colours. My mother wanted a light yellow, sister wanted an electric blue.
This was a well-lit room. Actually, it was a glaringly lit room, and I wanted a dark wall to balance the light in the room.
My mother is against any dark walls, as she believes that darker shades lead to depressive moods. Further, she argued that she was the one who would be staying in the house for most of the time, and she did not want to have depressing shades on the walls.
I had seen the blue coloured dark ‘Armada Blue’ in one of the restaurants I had been to. I had loved the colour, and thought that it would be an ideal colour for the wall.
I put across my suggestion, but was shot down.
On arguing, I felt that I was not moving anywhere. As I did an analysis of my type of argument, I realized that I was trying to prove my point, rather than understand the fears that my mother nurtured.
She had not seen the colour, and hence, was skeptical about it.
She had not seen what I had seen. No amount of explaining would make her see what I am seeing.
Suddenly, I struck upon an idea.
I took out my digital camera, shot the picture of the wall in the room, loaded it in my computer, and digitally added that colour to the wall in the picture. I had my sister and my mother have a look at the picture.
Two days later, the wall stood gracefully, attired in dark ‘Armada blue’. ;-)
In here, argument takes a back seat, but the person/ people become more important. Understanding the other person’s point of view is very essential before putting across your argument. For all you know, the other person may have a suggestion that is better than yours. Accepting the other person’s suggestion should not be considered as defeat, but as a mark of progress.
Hence, irrespective of the result of the argument, you have won in the relationship.
Isn’t that more important?? ;-)
Just to summarize, decide beforehand whether you are arguing to win or arguing to understand. If you are arguing to win, try winning at any cost. If you lose, it is a game. If you win, it still is a game. ;-)
But, respect the losing side.
If you are arguing to understand, don’t try to win. Try to move towards betterment than the present.
Hope you have a great time arguing.
Thejas
(ps: only the examples where I have won the argument have been quoted. There are equal number of instances where I have lost, and many times have been treated with respect after losing ;-) )
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
King of Torts by John Grisham - a good read
I am one of those law abiding citizens, who has no clue what is the 'law' that I am abiding. I have never appreciated the study of law, considering it to be the job of the 'smoke-coated-lips' old men, sitting behind heaps of stale smelling files, in teak panelled offices. A bloodline of lawyers from my mother's side didn' t make me love the law either, or the study of law by my mother when I was in her womb. Nope, even the 'Abhimanyu' effect didn't happen with me.
But recently, when my friend got into an imbroglio, which may involve legal issues, and no one including himself had thought about consulting a lawyer yet, my overture to take him to the legal counsel surprised me. After the assurances of the attorney, my friend is able to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing completely well that he will win the case if there is a trial.
Thank you John Grisham.
It wasn't a Grisham that I consulted. I just read his novel, 'The King of Torts'.
A typical Grisham literature, a good one at that, 'The King of Torts' talks about a mediocre, limited ambitioned lawyer Clay Karter, working for the Government, suddenly thrust into riches and stardom, due to a tip off by a mysterious man. The mysterious man is a 'fire man’, who helps extinguish financial fires of the corporate companies that land up in disastrous situations.
Together they team up, to settle issues with huge Pharmacy companies, and pull down some others, in the game of mass action lawsuits, where they make millions.
These mass action lawsuits involve the detection of possible victims of bad drugs of some miraculous medicines of huge Pharmacy companies, by the lawyers, enrolling them in a huge group of clients, and threat to sue the companies. The companies that realize that they have screwed up come to the negotiating table, where the lawyers dictate terms, which is more detrimental to the clients than the companies. The lawyers treat the companies only as sources of money, with the main intention to make millions for themselves, rather than get justice to the clients.
The clients end up getting some amount of money, which they would not have expected to begin with. Hence, they are happy. The companies are rid of fear of losing billions in lawsuits, settling for millions, and they are happy. The only people not happy are the lawyers, who, despite getting the best of the deal, pursue their greed of amassing more millions.
This is a revelation to me, who believed that the lawyers battled more in the courts. Clay Karter never goes for a trial at the court, but makes his millions by sheer entrepreneurship, and of course, illegal suggestions by his mysterious friend. The novel details about the tumults that these mass action lawyers (torts) go through, the strategies they employ to bring the companies down on their knees, and they constant battle with their conscience for not getting their clients a fair deal. Also, the novel ventures into the settings of some of these lawyers, suing their own brethren to get justice to the cheated clients.
Clay Karter makes an interesting character, a respectable man in a dicey job, with a drop-dead gorgeous lingerie-model for a girlfriend, but a different woman as the love of his life.
Though the ending lacks the punch that made ‘The Runaway Jury’ by Grisham a runaway hit, ‘King of Torts’ surprises you with the details of a specialized job, that needs different types of skill sets than any other lawyer in his other novels.
It is the story of the rise and fall of the King of them all, the story of the ‘King of Torts’
Have fun reading it.
But recently, when my friend got into an imbroglio, which may involve legal issues, and no one including himself had thought about consulting a lawyer yet, my overture to take him to the legal counsel surprised me. After the assurances of the attorney, my friend is able to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing completely well that he will win the case if there is a trial.
Thank you John Grisham.
It wasn't a Grisham that I consulted. I just read his novel, 'The King of Torts'.
A typical Grisham literature, a good one at that, 'The King of Torts' talks about a mediocre, limited ambitioned lawyer Clay Karter, working for the Government, suddenly thrust into riches and stardom, due to a tip off by a mysterious man. The mysterious man is a 'fire man’, who helps extinguish financial fires of the corporate companies that land up in disastrous situations.
Together they team up, to settle issues with huge Pharmacy companies, and pull down some others, in the game of mass action lawsuits, where they make millions.
These mass action lawsuits involve the detection of possible victims of bad drugs of some miraculous medicines of huge Pharmacy companies, by the lawyers, enrolling them in a huge group of clients, and threat to sue the companies. The companies that realize that they have screwed up come to the negotiating table, where the lawyers dictate terms, which is more detrimental to the clients than the companies. The lawyers treat the companies only as sources of money, with the main intention to make millions for themselves, rather than get justice to the clients.
The clients end up getting some amount of money, which they would not have expected to begin with. Hence, they are happy. The companies are rid of fear of losing billions in lawsuits, settling for millions, and they are happy. The only people not happy are the lawyers, who, despite getting the best of the deal, pursue their greed of amassing more millions.
This is a revelation to me, who believed that the lawyers battled more in the courts. Clay Karter never goes for a trial at the court, but makes his millions by sheer entrepreneurship, and of course, illegal suggestions by his mysterious friend. The novel details about the tumults that these mass action lawyers (torts) go through, the strategies they employ to bring the companies down on their knees, and they constant battle with their conscience for not getting their clients a fair deal. Also, the novel ventures into the settings of some of these lawyers, suing their own brethren to get justice to the cheated clients.
Clay Karter makes an interesting character, a respectable man in a dicey job, with a drop-dead gorgeous lingerie-model for a girlfriend, but a different woman as the love of his life.
Though the ending lacks the punch that made ‘The Runaway Jury’ by Grisham a runaway hit, ‘King of Torts’ surprises you with the details of a specialized job, that needs different types of skill sets than any other lawyer in his other novels.
It is the story of the rise and fall of the King of them all, the story of the ‘King of Torts’
Have fun reading it.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
pictures from Parambikulam, Kerala
most memorable weekend of my life ...in the moist Parambikulam jungles, Kerala.... on the first weekend of Nov 06....
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
DON
Would Akshay Kumar be a better Bond than Brosnan? How would a Jerry McGuire look with Shah Rukh in it? Can Amitabh better Al Pacino if he was Hollywooded?
What would happen if our Bollywood actors were put on the International pedestal? How would they look? What would they wear? How would they move?
These questions always haunted me.
The fantasy almost came true.
In a true Hollywood flick style, the 'Don' by Farhan Akthar is an impressive piece of work. The look and feel of the movie ( including the 'green' tone found in a lot of Hollywood action flicks like 'the Matrix' ) induces an exquisite touch. Living up to the expectations, the action sequences pull you right amidst the fighters, as you zip around the corners with the lashing limbs. You zoom on the Malaysian highways in a convertible, crouch under a huge moving truck at a very high speed, jump around swinging legs at goons.
Exciting???
But, before you build your expectations, there are glitches. Nope, not minor ones. They are pretty huge.
The Roma of the movie, the hot than the hottest girls, Priyanka Chopra, is the worst heroine of the recent times. She is dangerously bad. She has the ability to manage her part of the act, but fails miserably to create the necessary chemistry with the hero. She had repeated the same disaster in Krrish, but went unnoticed by the Roshans. She does it again here, but am sure, will go unnoticed by Farhaan. The acting that she does for 'her self' is dangerous to the movie when she does not show the eagerness in her eyes for her lover.
She draws a lot of passion with the liberal show of her skin, but is dispassionate herself.
With a killer physique, she lives up to the action sequences.
The aging hottie, Isha Koppikar, does her act. Though playing the female companion of the Don, she has only a small part to play. The Khallas girl does her miniscule job well, but will not make the heads turn, as Farhaan is not comfortable in unleashing her. He puts all loose attires on her, because he wants Priyanka to be the hotter. Thats unfair, both to Isha and the movie. But, that is life!!!
Boman Irani is his natural self, and does a great job. Though he is made to look awkward in the latter part of the movie. We expected a better job from Farhaan, than to make the obese Boman fight, moving around in the arena like a kid of the early twenties.
Om Puri is a joke here. The great actor is a high ranking detective, but is made to run chasing the Don in some scenes, which is not credible. The old bones would have done a better job in using his head rather than his sagging muscles.
Arjun Rampal looks excellent due to great camerawork, tries to act, succeeding occasionally. He lives his own story, not very much connected to the main plot, in this new version of the 'Don'.
Kareena has a special appearence. Though the initial TV trailers of the movie had her gyrating to a remade song, where a lot of her was promised, the lot of her is shown in that six minute song. Comparisions have been made between her and Helen, of the original Don. But, whom are we kidding??? You would not prefer a sixty seven year old Helen dancing to seduce the new Don. Would you?
The star of the show, the star who steals the show is the King Khan. He is the ruthless killer, the passionate playboy, the daring gambler, the agile fighter, the streetwise strategist, and a lot more. He is the busiest don ever. He has a lot of people working for him, loyals and moles. He has to battle the unending conspiracies dished out to him, and come out a survivor. He has to be thinking all the while, about his enemies' next move, a slip may prove disaster. He is what is expected of him, and more. Just that, he does not exude the class of Amitabh, but wait!!! Haven't you seen Amitabh already??? Why not enjoy this new Don, in a different avataar.
I am sure that you would know the story, enough to repeat it backwards. I would not be discussing that here. I remember that I had watched the Amitabh's Don, during the days of Sunday Hindi movie screenings on Doordarshan, at home, with a plate of 'Bondas' and tea, prepared by mum. I do not remember any part of the movie though. Hence, I sat back and enjoyed the chase. With detachments during some slow moving scenes in the second half, I was occasionally surprised by the strange twists in the plot. The story, I am told, deviates a lot in the second half, from the original Don.
But, I debate to give a higher rating to the movie than the 2.5 stars that the Times Of India awarded to the movie.
To summarise, you can give it a shot.
Watch it for sure, if you have not watched the Amitabh's flick, or do not remember any of it.
What would happen if our Bollywood actors were put on the International pedestal? How would they look? What would they wear? How would they move?
These questions always haunted me.
The fantasy almost came true.
In a true Hollywood flick style, the 'Don' by Farhan Akthar is an impressive piece of work. The look and feel of the movie ( including the 'green' tone found in a lot of Hollywood action flicks like 'the Matrix' ) induces an exquisite touch. Living up to the expectations, the action sequences pull you right amidst the fighters, as you zip around the corners with the lashing limbs. You zoom on the Malaysian highways in a convertible, crouch under a huge moving truck at a very high speed, jump around swinging legs at goons.
Exciting???
But, before you build your expectations, there are glitches. Nope, not minor ones. They are pretty huge.
The Roma of the movie, the hot than the hottest girls, Priyanka Chopra, is the worst heroine of the recent times. She is dangerously bad. She has the ability to manage her part of the act, but fails miserably to create the necessary chemistry with the hero. She had repeated the same disaster in Krrish, but went unnoticed by the Roshans. She does it again here, but am sure, will go unnoticed by Farhaan. The acting that she does for 'her self' is dangerous to the movie when she does not show the eagerness in her eyes for her lover.
She draws a lot of passion with the liberal show of her skin, but is dispassionate herself.
With a killer physique, she lives up to the action sequences.
The aging hottie, Isha Koppikar, does her act. Though playing the female companion of the Don, she has only a small part to play. The Khallas girl does her miniscule job well, but will not make the heads turn, as Farhaan is not comfortable in unleashing her. He puts all loose attires on her, because he wants Priyanka to be the hotter. Thats unfair, both to Isha and the movie. But, that is life!!!
Boman Irani is his natural self, and does a great job. Though he is made to look awkward in the latter part of the movie. We expected a better job from Farhaan, than to make the obese Boman fight, moving around in the arena like a kid of the early twenties.
Om Puri is a joke here. The great actor is a high ranking detective, but is made to run chasing the Don in some scenes, which is not credible. The old bones would have done a better job in using his head rather than his sagging muscles.
Arjun Rampal looks excellent due to great camerawork, tries to act, succeeding occasionally. He lives his own story, not very much connected to the main plot, in this new version of the 'Don'.
Kareena has a special appearence. Though the initial TV trailers of the movie had her gyrating to a remade song, where a lot of her was promised, the lot of her is shown in that six minute song. Comparisions have been made between her and Helen, of the original Don. But, whom are we kidding??? You would not prefer a sixty seven year old Helen dancing to seduce the new Don. Would you?
The star of the show, the star who steals the show is the King Khan. He is the ruthless killer, the passionate playboy, the daring gambler, the agile fighter, the streetwise strategist, and a lot more. He is the busiest don ever. He has a lot of people working for him, loyals and moles. He has to battle the unending conspiracies dished out to him, and come out a survivor. He has to be thinking all the while, about his enemies' next move, a slip may prove disaster. He is what is expected of him, and more. Just that, he does not exude the class of Amitabh, but wait!!! Haven't you seen Amitabh already??? Why not enjoy this new Don, in a different avataar.
I am sure that you would know the story, enough to repeat it backwards. I would not be discussing that here. I remember that I had watched the Amitabh's Don, during the days of Sunday Hindi movie screenings on Doordarshan, at home, with a plate of 'Bondas' and tea, prepared by mum. I do not remember any part of the movie though. Hence, I sat back and enjoyed the chase. With detachments during some slow moving scenes in the second half, I was occasionally surprised by the strange twists in the plot. The story, I am told, deviates a lot in the second half, from the original Don.
But, I debate to give a higher rating to the movie than the 2.5 stars that the Times Of India awarded to the movie.
To summarise, you can give it a shot.
Watch it for sure, if you have not watched the Amitabh's flick, or do not remember any of it.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Celebrations.....
... a picture of the devotees taken at the ISKCON temple, during the Brahmotsav Celebrations, in April 06....
The Dholes
on a lucky jungle Safari in Bandipur, last weekend.... we spotted the invincible Dholes
This picture was taken at 8:20 am on 7 Oct, 06
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Short Review of 'Aishwarya' - the Kannada flick
"One, Two, Three, Four", I remember my physical training teacher count, as we moved our limbs in straight lines in different directions, in my primary school. I never had understood the logic behind doing these exercises in the uncomfortable school uniform. In addition to the fact that the PT period was the last period of the school, the venue was always the dusty school ground.
Weren't we supposed to exercise in a refreshing place, early in the morning???
It was nostalgic for me to see the same sort of exercises being performed by Deepika Padukone, in the various songs. Rigid limbs accustomed to walking on the ramp were made to pierce air in all directions. She wore the mini skirts in some sequences that had the model's frail legs doing the gawky steps. The 20-year-old damsel wore miniscule tops in some sequences, which established that she had not consumed fatty foods since she was born.
Ok,ok...jokes apart, she was very honest in her approach. She knew for sure that she could not act, and she never attempted to do the same in the whole of the movie. I am sure that Inderjeet (director of the movie) could have substituted her with a cardboard cut out of her picture, and we would never have noticed the difference.
And yes, she is a gorgeous woman.
What happens when the Puneet Issar (Duryodhan of Mahabharath fame) would act the role of Hritik Roshan, in the remake of Kaho Na Pyaar Hain?
Don't try to imagine that. You get to see the same stuff in Uppi's role as Abhishek Hegde in this movie.
He refuses to admit that he cannot carry off a role, which demands soft approach, and rudely, tries to barge into the Sudeep's territory. This character has been manhandled by Uppi (believe me, I still adore his Om, A and Upendra), as he tries in vain to smile like a lover boy. The smile resembles more like that of a serial killer, grinning at his latest victim.
But, I must admit that Inderjeet has been greatly successful in taming the Uppi in Uppi, and forcing him into giving a subdued performance (by Uppi's standards), thankfully not needing the carrying of Amrutanjan to the theatre.
The hulk has a sculpted body, and he tries to show them off even in the formal attires that he wears to the meetings in Europe, in the form of top three shirt buttons undone. I wonder if the Europeans in his board meetings appreciated the liberal show of cleavage by this huge male.
Finally, there is the breather. The refreshing, and good-looking Daisy Bopanna does a marvelous job. Though not a seasoned actress, she is not expected to carry out great performances. She is supposed to act bubbly, energetic, and full of spirits. She does that to a T, and has all the frontbenchers, and the frontbencher hearts of those in the balcony jump up with joy. She is glamorous, and she shows it off. She has a charming smile, and flashes it liberally. She has a great physique, and wears nice clothes....sometimes sweet and sometimes hot. She does not beat Madhuri at the dancing floor, but who cares? Madhuri is anyway an aunty now.
She dominates the first half, and I definitely wished that she would take over the whole of the movie.
The story is simple. Uppi is the manager of a top advertising company, and hates women. This is because his former lover had ditched him when in time of need. Deepika is appointed as the assistant manager of the company, as the company deals with a lot of stuff that is being used by women, on the likes of lip sticks, face creams, etc. (Yes, it does resemble 'What Women Want' starring Mel Gibson). The resemblance becomes more prominent, when Uppi tries to use a lipstick on his face, experimenting.
Deepika works hard, but all her ideas are stolen and presented by Uppi, who uses a 'tehelka.com' microphone, hidden in Deepika's office.
Deepika finds it tough to work in the office, and wants to resign, but the boss of the company, uncle of Uppi, retains her, and makes her the manager. Uppi is demoted to being the Assistant Manager.
Deepika wonders about Uppi's hatred, and is made aware of his rough past experience by his uncle. She becomes nice towards him.
They go to Europe on an assignment, and Uppi falls in love with Deepika. But, when he proposes to her, he realizes the glitch.
She is already engaged.
The dialogues are crisp, with many one-liners, and gags. The script is inundated with PJs, but timing makes them appear as passable ones at least. All the scenes are rich, vibrantly colored, and the characters are attired in gaudy colored dresses.
Fashion does play a big role, in contrast to other Kannada movies.
Europe locales have been shot gracefully, which are pleasant to watch.
The comic characters make the movie hilarious, with all the scenes focused on getting the audience to laugh.
To summarize, the movie resembles the publicity posters. All glamour, and colours. No real stuff, only time pass.
Have fun this weekend.
Weren't we supposed to exercise in a refreshing place, early in the morning???
It was nostalgic for me to see the same sort of exercises being performed by Deepika Padukone, in the various songs. Rigid limbs accustomed to walking on the ramp were made to pierce air in all directions. She wore the mini skirts in some sequences that had the model's frail legs doing the gawky steps. The 20-year-old damsel wore miniscule tops in some sequences, which established that she had not consumed fatty foods since she was born.
Ok,ok...jokes apart, she was very honest in her approach. She knew for sure that she could not act, and she never attempted to do the same in the whole of the movie. I am sure that Inderjeet (director of the movie) could have substituted her with a cardboard cut out of her picture, and we would never have noticed the difference.
And yes, she is a gorgeous woman.
What happens when the Puneet Issar (Duryodhan of Mahabharath fame) would act the role of Hritik Roshan, in the remake of Kaho Na Pyaar Hain?
Don't try to imagine that. You get to see the same stuff in Uppi's role as Abhishek Hegde in this movie.
He refuses to admit that he cannot carry off a role, which demands soft approach, and rudely, tries to barge into the Sudeep's territory. This character has been manhandled by Uppi (believe me, I still adore his Om, A and Upendra), as he tries in vain to smile like a lover boy. The smile resembles more like that of a serial killer, grinning at his latest victim.
But, I must admit that Inderjeet has been greatly successful in taming the Uppi in Uppi, and forcing him into giving a subdued performance (by Uppi's standards), thankfully not needing the carrying of Amrutanjan to the theatre.
The hulk has a sculpted body, and he tries to show them off even in the formal attires that he wears to the meetings in Europe, in the form of top three shirt buttons undone. I wonder if the Europeans in his board meetings appreciated the liberal show of cleavage by this huge male.
Finally, there is the breather. The refreshing, and good-looking Daisy Bopanna does a marvelous job. Though not a seasoned actress, she is not expected to carry out great performances. She is supposed to act bubbly, energetic, and full of spirits. She does that to a T, and has all the frontbenchers, and the frontbencher hearts of those in the balcony jump up with joy. She is glamorous, and she shows it off. She has a charming smile, and flashes it liberally. She has a great physique, and wears nice clothes....sometimes sweet and sometimes hot. She does not beat Madhuri at the dancing floor, but who cares? Madhuri is anyway an aunty now.
She dominates the first half, and I definitely wished that she would take over the whole of the movie.
The story is simple. Uppi is the manager of a top advertising company, and hates women. This is because his former lover had ditched him when in time of need. Deepika is appointed as the assistant manager of the company, as the company deals with a lot of stuff that is being used by women, on the likes of lip sticks, face creams, etc. (Yes, it does resemble 'What Women Want' starring Mel Gibson). The resemblance becomes more prominent, when Uppi tries to use a lipstick on his face, experimenting.
Deepika works hard, but all her ideas are stolen and presented by Uppi, who uses a 'tehelka.com' microphone, hidden in Deepika's office.
Deepika finds it tough to work in the office, and wants to resign, but the boss of the company, uncle of Uppi, retains her, and makes her the manager. Uppi is demoted to being the Assistant Manager.
Deepika wonders about Uppi's hatred, and is made aware of his rough past experience by his uncle. She becomes nice towards him.
They go to Europe on an assignment, and Uppi falls in love with Deepika. But, when he proposes to her, he realizes the glitch.
She is already engaged.
The dialogues are crisp, with many one-liners, and gags. The script is inundated with PJs, but timing makes them appear as passable ones at least. All the scenes are rich, vibrantly colored, and the characters are attired in gaudy colored dresses.
Fashion does play a big role, in contrast to other Kannada movies.
Europe locales have been shot gracefully, which are pleasant to watch.
The comic characters make the movie hilarious, with all the scenes focused on getting the audience to laugh.
To summarize, the movie resembles the publicity posters. All glamour, and colours. No real stuff, only time pass.
Have fun this weekend.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
an NHS experience
Circa August 1993.......in the 8th Standard E Section...The National High School, Bangalore.....
"This time, I am going to say firmly to ASM, to give our ball back," said Shreyas, the captain of the class basketball of eighth standard, 'E' section. The issue of the balls had been plaguing the team since its inception. There were few balls with the school sports management (management????...err.... could be termed as more of a mismanagement by the orange haired goblin, who considered himself to be the Salman Khan of the school, holding hands of any female who would come closer than 1 metre radius of him). Even the balls which the school had, carried the pet names Baldy ball ( the ball had no grip), Thooth ball ( the ball had holes at unusual places) and Tuss ball (had a bladder similar to that of a 70 yr old's biceps).
And there were the invincible 8C section team who beat us at every game, also managed to politically steal the good balls. The glamourous 8D section team stole the rest of the balls, leaving none for the docile 8E.
But things were going to change. Our 'Chreyas' (Shreyas renamed by ASM) was going to place our claim on atleast one of the balls.
That afternoon, during the games period, the carrot top (coloured hair) hulk came to the class. Shreyas told him that we need a ball permanently, for practising during the lunch breaks, and even after school. We could not go begging for balls everytime we needed to play.
"Do you have a ball now?" ASM asked.
"We have a ball sir, but C section guys would tell your name and take away the ball from us," complained Shreyas, mentally cursing Pradeep ( C section basketball team captain), who was always jumping around in the unwashed banians (yes, he was famous for that....also, there was rumour that he made it to the Limca book of records for not taking bath for the largest number of days).
"OK. I will tell them. They will not take your ball ever," said ASM. "THAT BALL IS CHREYAS. CHREYAS IS THAT BALL," he declared.
Shreyas is that ball??!!!
So, whenever we played basketball, Shreyas (the ball) was being thrown around.
But the actual impact of this declaration did not show up until the drop dead gorgeous female basketball team captain of our class requested our basketball for a practise session, and there..... Shreyas (the ball) was being thrown around by the soft feminine hands.
"Oh! Man. All girls are touching you," said Pummy (Pramod) "Only, if I were the ball instead of you."
"This time, I am going to say firmly to ASM, to give our ball back," said Shreyas, the captain of the class basketball of eighth standard, 'E' section. The issue of the balls had been plaguing the team since its inception. There were few balls with the school sports management (management????...err.... could be termed as more of a mismanagement by the orange haired goblin, who considered himself to be the Salman Khan of the school, holding hands of any female who would come closer than 1 metre radius of him). Even the balls which the school had, carried the pet names Baldy ball ( the ball had no grip), Thooth ball ( the ball had holes at unusual places) and Tuss ball (had a bladder similar to that of a 70 yr old's biceps).
And there were the invincible 8C section team who beat us at every game, also managed to politically steal the good balls. The glamourous 8D section team stole the rest of the balls, leaving none for the docile 8E.
But things were going to change. Our 'Chreyas' (Shreyas renamed by ASM) was going to place our claim on atleast one of the balls.
That afternoon, during the games period, the carrot top (coloured hair) hulk came to the class. Shreyas told him that we need a ball permanently, for practising during the lunch breaks, and even after school. We could not go begging for balls everytime we needed to play.
"Do you have a ball now?" ASM asked.
"We have a ball sir, but C section guys would tell your name and take away the ball from us," complained Shreyas, mentally cursing Pradeep ( C section basketball team captain), who was always jumping around in the unwashed banians (yes, he was famous for that....also, there was rumour that he made it to the Limca book of records for not taking bath for the largest number of days).
"OK. I will tell them. They will not take your ball ever," said ASM. "THAT BALL IS CHREYAS. CHREYAS IS THAT BALL," he declared.
Shreyas is that ball??!!!
So, whenever we played basketball, Shreyas (the ball) was being thrown around.
But the actual impact of this declaration did not show up until the drop dead gorgeous female basketball team captain of our class requested our basketball for a practise session, and there..... Shreyas (the ball) was being thrown around by the soft feminine hands.
"Oh! Man. All girls are touching you," said Pummy (Pramod) "Only, if I were the ball instead of you."
Saturday, September 02, 2006
HELP!!
Would a rendezvous with danger for a beautiful lass, change this man's life in one night? Expect the unexpected...
A light jerk woke him up. His eyes fluttered open, but saw nothing. It was silent. And dark. A thin streak of light from a distant bulb of the aisle spread out weakly all over the aisle.
He could only hear the light whirring of the fan.
He shut his eyes tightly, and concentrated to come out of the muzziness.
Slowly, he reopened his eyes.
As his eyes got adjusted, he could see thin streaks of white light penetrating through the shutters of the window. The train must have stopped in some station, he guessed.
He gulped. The throat was dry.
He wanted water, desperately.
He got up. He fished out his water bottle from his bag, in the dim light. It was empty.
He glanced at the other two passengers sleeping peacefully. It would be a crime to disturb their sleep.
Slowly, he wore his shoes silently, and dragged his feet to the aisle, and moved towards the door.
With a violent yank, he opened the non-greased thick handle of the door. A rough pull gave way to a flood of white fluorescent light, from the station’s tube lights.
His hands came up defensively, to shield his strained eyes from the flood of light.
With his eyes getting adjusted to the flood of light, he hobbled onto the platform.
He stretched out his arms. His back muscles creaked.
His body ached due to the hard surface of his berth he had been sleeping on. He scanned the deserted platform for drinking water. It was strange that he could not see any human figure in the whole of the station.
His eyes zeroed on a sink.
As he walked towards the sink, he noticed that the station was not of an important place. The unkempt, unclean floor was an evidence of this. Some dried leaves, some dead insects scattered here and there. He could even see some things lying at a corner, which in his muzziness could be guessed as dead rats. It could easily be guessed that the station had not witnessed fresh paint for decades now.
Suddenly, he heard some voices at a distance. Some male voices. They were shouting.
He thrust his hand over the tap, and twisted the grip to open the tap. It was stuck and refused to budge. He tried with greater effort.
Suddenly, the voices had come near.
He could guess that the voices were just around the corner.
He saw a girl dashing out of the corner, her denim dress drenched in sweat, clutching a bag. Her hair was wet, unkempt, and her face was enveloped with droplets of sweat, as she breathed heavily, running with all the effort she could muster.
But, he noticed that she was exceptionally beautiful.
Suddenly, her eyes noticed him.
Her pace decreased, as she neared him.
Her eyes screamed of the trouble that was following her.
She was almost near him, now. She almost stopped. Her eyes stared at him for any sign of help.
He was puzzled.
Suddenly, his eyes fell on the hefty men in sleazy clothes who were following her, who had just emerged out of the corner.
With a reflex the girl turned back, a look at the men, and she dashed ahead, having lost all hopes of help from a stranger.
Before the sequence of incidents could enter his comprehension, the train jerked. It would move any second now. He had to dash get into the train.
But, would it be alright to leave a helpless girl behind.
He turned back to the girl.
She was almost at the gates of the station, followed by the four men.
He looked at the train. It had begun to pick up speed. His entire luggages lie there. If he could run fast, he could still make it to the train.
But, what would happen to the girl?!! Raped? Murdered?
Suddenly, he felt something for the girl. It certainly wasn’t love, but yes, he would be lying if he did not accept that he had felt attracted towards the girl. She was gorgeous.
Damsel in distress!!!
He would be a fool not to help her out.
Of what use would his built body be, if not for a good cause like this.
He shot out towards the gates.
As he came to the gates, he could see the four men running, following the damsel, sprinting towards the fields. In the darkness, he could make out the human figures vaguely, in the station’s lights. He turned to the station guard outside, sleeping soundly.
Should he wake him up?
There was no time.
Every second, the damsel was in more danger.
He shot ahead, to take on the four men single handedly. Anyway, they were not carrying any weapons.
In half a minute, he was running behind the hefty guy who was the trailing of the four.
“Catch the bitch!” the man was heard screaming.
Suddenly, the man received a kick on his buttocks, jolting him forward. Waving all over for support, the man crashed to the ground with a scream.
The other three stopped in their tracks, turned back.
The young man had stern eyes boring into the eyes of the rogues.
Before they could realize, the young man lashed out his hand on another man’s face.
A fainted scream was heard, which followed a splash of red from his mouth.
The man collapsed, clutching his mouth.
The other two rushed at him together.
A vicious kick from trained legs, at a rogue’s groin, and a fist at another’s Adam’s apple.
The men reeled backwards, clutching their organs, which had been punished.
Everything was over?!!
The first man was getting up, preparing himself to take on the young man.
But before he could see anything, he saw the young man’s boots rushing at his temple. Next, he saw black. Deep, dark, black.
Everything was definitely over.
The young man looked at the girl. She stood motionless, gaping at the valiant act of the young man. Her breasts heaved heavily due to the deep breaths she was taking.
Unmistakably innocent eyes, wide open in wonder.
“Are you okay?” he enquired.
She looked at him.
“How did you do that?” she uttered, amidst the heavy breaths.
He smiled, chivalrous.
Slowly, he moved towards her.
“Are you okay?” he enquired again.
He noticed that she was drenched in sweat. He fished out his handkerchief, and held it to her.
“Thanks,” she uttered, and took the kerchief. Her lips had begun to smile, when she placed his kerchief over her cheeks, and then her lips.
Though there was no light but the moonlight, she was glowing.
She was a perfect piece of art. The slender, fair fingers emerged out of the fair hands, covered by the sleeves.
His kerchief was so lucky, he thought.
Even if he could not get the girl, he would definitely preserve the kerchief in a safe, he decided.
Suddenly, she stopped.
She looked at his eyes. He could guess that a feeling of gratitude had swept her over.
“You saved my life,” she uttered, as tears swelled up her eyes. “You are a great person,” she said.
Though he felt ecstatic, he just smiled.
“You risked your life….for me….”her head bent down, as her voice weakened. She began to sob silently, the back of her hand held against her eyes.
“No, look. I am no great person, I just felt it was my duty to help you,” he placed his hand over her shoulder.
She looked up to him. Her eyes were drenched in tears. The innocent deer-like eyes required protection. The glistened eyes had a faint sparkle of the distant moon. He wanted to hold her, to embrace her, to comfort her.
He could guess that she had been brought up in a very protective ambience. The experience had left her shaken.
“Now, don’t worry. It is all over,” he gave a comforting smile.
Slowly, she wiped her eyes with her shirt’s cuffs.
“I was coming back from tuitions….” she began.
“Don’t speak now, relax,” he uttered softly.
As he led her through the narrow path, through a farm, her breaths became lighter, and her sobs simmered down.
“Where is your house?” he asked.
“A kilometer from here,” she said.
“Why you are here?” he asked, deciding to know more about this angel, who would become the turning point of his miserable life.
“I am in my final year B.Com,” she said, “I was returning from tuitions, when these guys started following me.”
“A girl of your looks should not be walking alone,” he said.
“No, no. I never walk alone. Today, my friends had failed to come. Today, just today, I was left alone,” she said, slowly moving in the darkness, with only the moonlight to guide them.
Suddenly, she realized that he had complimented her.
“And thanks,” she uttered, with a light laugh.
He smiled to himself.
He knew he had established a good rapport with her, the instant he had floored the goons for her. Now, he was establishing that he would make a good husband.
“I think you missed your train for me,” she said.
“I will find another one,” he uttered.
“But your luggage?” she asked.
This girl was really caring.
“Do not worry about it,” he said.
“You have already said this twice. You are very protective,” she said.
He felt elated.
“Just like my father,” she said.
He felt warm.
“Would you accompany me to my house?” she asked, a trifle skeptical.
“Did you think otherwise?” he asked.
She became silent.
“Thanks,” she uttered meekly.
A few minutes of walking silently, had developed a strange bond between them. The young man felt increasingly drawn towards her innocence. He did not know whether she was feeling the same towards him. But, he was definitely sure that she must have been thinking about him now. It was such a wonderful experience that such a piece of art was thinking about him. He felt excited imagining that he was expecting the girl to think about him for the whole of her life.
Would it be possible?!
Why would not it be possible?
“Are you sure this is the way to your house?” he asked, suddenly realizing that it was getting darker, and darker, as the trees were getting denser.
“Oh!” she uttered, “I will switch on the torch,” she understood his concern, and moved quickly to a brighter place. She zipped opened her bag, and rummaged the insides for her torch. Suddenly, she fished it out.
A glimmer of light reflected from the torch made him guess that the torch was of a non-lustrous metal.
It could not be a torch!!!
It was a gun.
She turned back to him, the muzzle of the gun pointed at him.
Confused and shocked, the young man stared at the girl.
“Okay, smart guy,” she said, “you can give me your wallet,” she held the gun pointed at him. Her voice had suddenly seemed ruthless.
“What the…”
“Shut up, and take it out. No smart moves, else I will blow you off,” she said, her tone was highly professional.
“The guys were following me because I had shot one of them trying to catch me stealing the jewellery of the village’s temple. Don’t let the same thing happen to you,” she said.
He pulled out his wallet.
“And take out your watch. Is it RADO?” she said.
She had guessed it right.
She was a pro. He felt like a fool, being attracted to her non-existent innocence.
He removed his watch.
“Your chain is beautiful. It will fetch a good sum,” she smiled.
He bit his lip.
He stared at her eyes.
No trace of the innocence there.
It was as cold as ice’s.
A murderer? She could have managed, he decided.
She was ruthless. The chain was a very expensive one. It could be worth lakhs.
How could something be so beautiful and yet so cruel?
He removed his chain and held it out to her with his wallet, and the watch.
“Keep it on the ground and back off,” she said, brandishing the muzzle at him.
Did he have a choice? No amounts of stunts were useful in front of the gun.
He bent down, placed the things on the ground, and backed off.
He felt shattered. He felt angry. He felt like a fool.
He had risked his life to beat up a couple of good people. To save this crook!!!
Fate! He never believed it till date. He had to get up at the middle of the night, he had to be thirsty, he had to chase the goons for her, and finally he had to be left in the jungles, with no money, at night, without knowing the way back.
Slowly, he could see her move towards his things.
As she bent down to pick them up, a thought struck him.
‘Why would she be running from the guys, if she had a gun with her?
She was running because the gun was not loaded. It would be empty’.
Suddenly, he pounced on her, reaching out for the gun.
But, he realized that the girl was prepared when he received a vicious kick at his groin. He winced in pain, and held his hands cupping his groin.
Suddenly, he saw a broken branch of a tree fast approaching him, the girl swinging it at him. He felt it hit somewhere near the neck, and before he could remember which part of the body it was, he saw black.
He collapsed like a heap of flesh.
She kicked him again, to make sure he was out cold. She picked up his things and thrust it into her bag. Then, she whisked him for anything worthwhile.
An expensive bracelet was found.
She smiled to herself, as she pulled it free from his hand, and thrust it into her bag.
Slowly, she walked away into the dark wilderness.
A thick cloud of smoke escaped from her lips, as she exhaled. Again, she stuck the cigarette between her lips, and drew the smoke.
It was a cold morning, and she was seated on a kerb, dressed in the same old denims. It had taken her a long walk to the town, to come out of the wilderness she had floored the young man. She had hardly slept the previous night
She exhaled again, eyes shut, concentrating on the ecstatic pleasure the piece of tobacco was imparting.
A glance at her wrist watch, and she realized that the store across the street would open any moment.
She was musing about the incidents of the previous evening. The next time she must be very careful when invading a temple, she thought. It had taken whole month, for her to get friendly with the villagers, then with the temple authorities, later joining as one of the volunteers. Finally, the eventful night had arrived with the chief priest along with few other priests departing to Varanasi to participate in a congregation.
But, few men residing near the temple had observed her, and had chased her. But, the love struck young man had been an unexpected boon to her.
A chortle escaped her lips, recollecting the expression of the young man, when she had pointed her gun at him.
Just then, her eyes fell on the obese man in silky kurta with two boys arrive at the shop across the street. The boys unlocked the shutters, and pulled it up to unveil a jewellery shop. The obese man, obviously the owner, trudged in, to seat himself behind the cash counter.
The girl got up.
‘Time for action’, she told herself.
She threw her cigarette, crushed it with her shoes, and crossed the street at a brisk pace.
There was no time to lose. She had to get rid of the necklace and the bracelet of the young man before he would reach a police station. She required money to travel as far as possible, and then try to dispose off the jewellery of the temple.
“Good morning, sethji,” said the girl.
The owner gave a broad smile, displaying all his yellowed teeth. But, the smile had a charm, an I-like-you feel, which the owner knew would make an impact on the customers.
“Sethji, I am in urgent need of money,” she said, noticing that the expression on his face was changing.
“Here is something I want to mortgage,” she said, pulling out the expensive chain, and the bracelet she had obtained from her admirer the previous night.
The owner took the chain, and the bracelet. He observed it for a while. She could witness his experienced eyes pierce through each and every corners of the jewellery.
“This is very expensive,” he uttered, in a tone of finality, his eyes still fixed on the exotic piece of jewellery.
“How much can you give?” she asked. Anything was a profit for her. She had hardly planned this bonus. She wanted something, and fast.
“My son is good at diamonds. He will be coming here any moment, now,” he said, and called one of the boys.
“Go and get Anil,” the owner ordered the boy.
The girl began looking at all the other jewellery, which she would never be able to wear. If she could seduce the owner, maybe he would part with some of those.
Or, maybe she would seduce the owner’s son.
Few minutes later, a police inspector, along with two constables arrived at the shop. They arrested the girl on charge of stealing a chain. The chain she was trying to sell had been stolen from the same shop, by a guy.
Few days later, the villagers of the nearby village, were very happy to see the jewellery of the temple being restored back by the police.
A light jerk woke him up. His eyes fluttered open, but saw nothing. It was silent. And dark. A thin streak of light from a distant bulb of the aisle spread out weakly all over the aisle.
He could only hear the light whirring of the fan.
He shut his eyes tightly, and concentrated to come out of the muzziness.
Slowly, he reopened his eyes.
As his eyes got adjusted, he could see thin streaks of white light penetrating through the shutters of the window. The train must have stopped in some station, he guessed.
He gulped. The throat was dry.
He wanted water, desperately.
He got up. He fished out his water bottle from his bag, in the dim light. It was empty.
He glanced at the other two passengers sleeping peacefully. It would be a crime to disturb their sleep.
Slowly, he wore his shoes silently, and dragged his feet to the aisle, and moved towards the door.
With a violent yank, he opened the non-greased thick handle of the door. A rough pull gave way to a flood of white fluorescent light, from the station’s tube lights.
His hands came up defensively, to shield his strained eyes from the flood of light.
With his eyes getting adjusted to the flood of light, he hobbled onto the platform.
He stretched out his arms. His back muscles creaked.
His body ached due to the hard surface of his berth he had been sleeping on. He scanned the deserted platform for drinking water. It was strange that he could not see any human figure in the whole of the station.
His eyes zeroed on a sink.
As he walked towards the sink, he noticed that the station was not of an important place. The unkempt, unclean floor was an evidence of this. Some dried leaves, some dead insects scattered here and there. He could even see some things lying at a corner, which in his muzziness could be guessed as dead rats. It could easily be guessed that the station had not witnessed fresh paint for decades now.
Suddenly, he heard some voices at a distance. Some male voices. They were shouting.
He thrust his hand over the tap, and twisted the grip to open the tap. It was stuck and refused to budge. He tried with greater effort.
Suddenly, the voices had come near.
He could guess that the voices were just around the corner.
He saw a girl dashing out of the corner, her denim dress drenched in sweat, clutching a bag. Her hair was wet, unkempt, and her face was enveloped with droplets of sweat, as she breathed heavily, running with all the effort she could muster.
But, he noticed that she was exceptionally beautiful.
Suddenly, her eyes noticed him.
Her pace decreased, as she neared him.
Her eyes screamed of the trouble that was following her.
She was almost near him, now. She almost stopped. Her eyes stared at him for any sign of help.
He was puzzled.
Suddenly, his eyes fell on the hefty men in sleazy clothes who were following her, who had just emerged out of the corner.
With a reflex the girl turned back, a look at the men, and she dashed ahead, having lost all hopes of help from a stranger.
Before the sequence of incidents could enter his comprehension, the train jerked. It would move any second now. He had to dash get into the train.
But, would it be alright to leave a helpless girl behind.
He turned back to the girl.
She was almost at the gates of the station, followed by the four men.
He looked at the train. It had begun to pick up speed. His entire luggages lie there. If he could run fast, he could still make it to the train.
But, what would happen to the girl?!! Raped? Murdered?
Suddenly, he felt something for the girl. It certainly wasn’t love, but yes, he would be lying if he did not accept that he had felt attracted towards the girl. She was gorgeous.
Damsel in distress!!!
He would be a fool not to help her out.
Of what use would his built body be, if not for a good cause like this.
He shot out towards the gates.
As he came to the gates, he could see the four men running, following the damsel, sprinting towards the fields. In the darkness, he could make out the human figures vaguely, in the station’s lights. He turned to the station guard outside, sleeping soundly.
Should he wake him up?
There was no time.
Every second, the damsel was in more danger.
He shot ahead, to take on the four men single handedly. Anyway, they were not carrying any weapons.
In half a minute, he was running behind the hefty guy who was the trailing of the four.
“Catch the bitch!” the man was heard screaming.
Suddenly, the man received a kick on his buttocks, jolting him forward. Waving all over for support, the man crashed to the ground with a scream.
The other three stopped in their tracks, turned back.
The young man had stern eyes boring into the eyes of the rogues.
Before they could realize, the young man lashed out his hand on another man’s face.
A fainted scream was heard, which followed a splash of red from his mouth.
The man collapsed, clutching his mouth.
The other two rushed at him together.
A vicious kick from trained legs, at a rogue’s groin, and a fist at another’s Adam’s apple.
The men reeled backwards, clutching their organs, which had been punished.
Everything was over?!!
The first man was getting up, preparing himself to take on the young man.
But before he could see anything, he saw the young man’s boots rushing at his temple. Next, he saw black. Deep, dark, black.
Everything was definitely over.
The young man looked at the girl. She stood motionless, gaping at the valiant act of the young man. Her breasts heaved heavily due to the deep breaths she was taking.
Unmistakably innocent eyes, wide open in wonder.
“Are you okay?” he enquired.
She looked at him.
“How did you do that?” she uttered, amidst the heavy breaths.
He smiled, chivalrous.
Slowly, he moved towards her.
“Are you okay?” he enquired again.
He noticed that she was drenched in sweat. He fished out his handkerchief, and held it to her.
“Thanks,” she uttered, and took the kerchief. Her lips had begun to smile, when she placed his kerchief over her cheeks, and then her lips.
Though there was no light but the moonlight, she was glowing.
She was a perfect piece of art. The slender, fair fingers emerged out of the fair hands, covered by the sleeves.
His kerchief was so lucky, he thought.
Even if he could not get the girl, he would definitely preserve the kerchief in a safe, he decided.
Suddenly, she stopped.
She looked at his eyes. He could guess that a feeling of gratitude had swept her over.
“You saved my life,” she uttered, as tears swelled up her eyes. “You are a great person,” she said.
Though he felt ecstatic, he just smiled.
“You risked your life….for me….”her head bent down, as her voice weakened. She began to sob silently, the back of her hand held against her eyes.
“No, look. I am no great person, I just felt it was my duty to help you,” he placed his hand over her shoulder.
She looked up to him. Her eyes were drenched in tears. The innocent deer-like eyes required protection. The glistened eyes had a faint sparkle of the distant moon. He wanted to hold her, to embrace her, to comfort her.
He could guess that she had been brought up in a very protective ambience. The experience had left her shaken.
“Now, don’t worry. It is all over,” he gave a comforting smile.
Slowly, she wiped her eyes with her shirt’s cuffs.
“I was coming back from tuitions….” she began.
“Don’t speak now, relax,” he uttered softly.
As he led her through the narrow path, through a farm, her breaths became lighter, and her sobs simmered down.
“Where is your house?” he asked.
“A kilometer from here,” she said.
“Why you are here?” he asked, deciding to know more about this angel, who would become the turning point of his miserable life.
“I am in my final year B.Com,” she said, “I was returning from tuitions, when these guys started following me.”
“A girl of your looks should not be walking alone,” he said.
“No, no. I never walk alone. Today, my friends had failed to come. Today, just today, I was left alone,” she said, slowly moving in the darkness, with only the moonlight to guide them.
Suddenly, she realized that he had complimented her.
“And thanks,” she uttered, with a light laugh.
He smiled to himself.
He knew he had established a good rapport with her, the instant he had floored the goons for her. Now, he was establishing that he would make a good husband.
“I think you missed your train for me,” she said.
“I will find another one,” he uttered.
“But your luggage?” she asked.
This girl was really caring.
“Do not worry about it,” he said.
“You have already said this twice. You are very protective,” she said.
He felt elated.
“Just like my father,” she said.
He felt warm.
“Would you accompany me to my house?” she asked, a trifle skeptical.
“Did you think otherwise?” he asked.
She became silent.
“Thanks,” she uttered meekly.
A few minutes of walking silently, had developed a strange bond between them. The young man felt increasingly drawn towards her innocence. He did not know whether she was feeling the same towards him. But, he was definitely sure that she must have been thinking about him now. It was such a wonderful experience that such a piece of art was thinking about him. He felt excited imagining that he was expecting the girl to think about him for the whole of her life.
Would it be possible?!
Why would not it be possible?
“Are you sure this is the way to your house?” he asked, suddenly realizing that it was getting darker, and darker, as the trees were getting denser.
“Oh!” she uttered, “I will switch on the torch,” she understood his concern, and moved quickly to a brighter place. She zipped opened her bag, and rummaged the insides for her torch. Suddenly, she fished it out.
A glimmer of light reflected from the torch made him guess that the torch was of a non-lustrous metal.
It could not be a torch!!!
It was a gun.
She turned back to him, the muzzle of the gun pointed at him.
Confused and shocked, the young man stared at the girl.
“Okay, smart guy,” she said, “you can give me your wallet,” she held the gun pointed at him. Her voice had suddenly seemed ruthless.
“What the…”
“Shut up, and take it out. No smart moves, else I will blow you off,” she said, her tone was highly professional.
“The guys were following me because I had shot one of them trying to catch me stealing the jewellery of the village’s temple. Don’t let the same thing happen to you,” she said.
He pulled out his wallet.
“And take out your watch. Is it RADO?” she said.
She had guessed it right.
She was a pro. He felt like a fool, being attracted to her non-existent innocence.
He removed his watch.
“Your chain is beautiful. It will fetch a good sum,” she smiled.
He bit his lip.
He stared at her eyes.
No trace of the innocence there.
It was as cold as ice’s.
A murderer? She could have managed, he decided.
She was ruthless. The chain was a very expensive one. It could be worth lakhs.
How could something be so beautiful and yet so cruel?
He removed his chain and held it out to her with his wallet, and the watch.
“Keep it on the ground and back off,” she said, brandishing the muzzle at him.
Did he have a choice? No amounts of stunts were useful in front of the gun.
He bent down, placed the things on the ground, and backed off.
He felt shattered. He felt angry. He felt like a fool.
He had risked his life to beat up a couple of good people. To save this crook!!!
Fate! He never believed it till date. He had to get up at the middle of the night, he had to be thirsty, he had to chase the goons for her, and finally he had to be left in the jungles, with no money, at night, without knowing the way back.
Slowly, he could see her move towards his things.
As she bent down to pick them up, a thought struck him.
‘Why would she be running from the guys, if she had a gun with her?
She was running because the gun was not loaded. It would be empty’.
Suddenly, he pounced on her, reaching out for the gun.
But, he realized that the girl was prepared when he received a vicious kick at his groin. He winced in pain, and held his hands cupping his groin.
Suddenly, he saw a broken branch of a tree fast approaching him, the girl swinging it at him. He felt it hit somewhere near the neck, and before he could remember which part of the body it was, he saw black.
He collapsed like a heap of flesh.
She kicked him again, to make sure he was out cold. She picked up his things and thrust it into her bag. Then, she whisked him for anything worthwhile.
An expensive bracelet was found.
She smiled to herself, as she pulled it free from his hand, and thrust it into her bag.
Slowly, she walked away into the dark wilderness.
A thick cloud of smoke escaped from her lips, as she exhaled. Again, she stuck the cigarette between her lips, and drew the smoke.
It was a cold morning, and she was seated on a kerb, dressed in the same old denims. It had taken her a long walk to the town, to come out of the wilderness she had floored the young man. She had hardly slept the previous night
She exhaled again, eyes shut, concentrating on the ecstatic pleasure the piece of tobacco was imparting.
A glance at her wrist watch, and she realized that the store across the street would open any moment.
She was musing about the incidents of the previous evening. The next time she must be very careful when invading a temple, she thought. It had taken whole month, for her to get friendly with the villagers, then with the temple authorities, later joining as one of the volunteers. Finally, the eventful night had arrived with the chief priest along with few other priests departing to Varanasi to participate in a congregation.
But, few men residing near the temple had observed her, and had chased her. But, the love struck young man had been an unexpected boon to her.
A chortle escaped her lips, recollecting the expression of the young man, when she had pointed her gun at him.
Just then, her eyes fell on the obese man in silky kurta with two boys arrive at the shop across the street. The boys unlocked the shutters, and pulled it up to unveil a jewellery shop. The obese man, obviously the owner, trudged in, to seat himself behind the cash counter.
The girl got up.
‘Time for action’, she told herself.
She threw her cigarette, crushed it with her shoes, and crossed the street at a brisk pace.
There was no time to lose. She had to get rid of the necklace and the bracelet of the young man before he would reach a police station. She required money to travel as far as possible, and then try to dispose off the jewellery of the temple.
“Good morning, sethji,” said the girl.
The owner gave a broad smile, displaying all his yellowed teeth. But, the smile had a charm, an I-like-you feel, which the owner knew would make an impact on the customers.
“Sethji, I am in urgent need of money,” she said, noticing that the expression on his face was changing.
“Here is something I want to mortgage,” she said, pulling out the expensive chain, and the bracelet she had obtained from her admirer the previous night.
The owner took the chain, and the bracelet. He observed it for a while. She could witness his experienced eyes pierce through each and every corners of the jewellery.
“This is very expensive,” he uttered, in a tone of finality, his eyes still fixed on the exotic piece of jewellery.
“How much can you give?” she asked. Anything was a profit for her. She had hardly planned this bonus. She wanted something, and fast.
“My son is good at diamonds. He will be coming here any moment, now,” he said, and called one of the boys.
“Go and get Anil,” the owner ordered the boy.
The girl began looking at all the other jewellery, which she would never be able to wear. If she could seduce the owner, maybe he would part with some of those.
Or, maybe she would seduce the owner’s son.
Few minutes later, a police inspector, along with two constables arrived at the shop. They arrested the girl on charge of stealing a chain. The chain she was trying to sell had been stolen from the same shop, by a guy.
Few days later, the villagers of the nearby village, were very happy to see the jewellery of the temple being restored back by the police.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Line of Control by Tom Clancy
No. This is not a Bollywood starrer with the Sunny Deol's efforts towards social service i.e population reduction of Paks.
No gun touting underfed junior artists masquerading in Indian army uniforms, mouthing sentimental dialogues, and dying in comic positions. (any resemblence to JP Dutta's movie is purely coincidental ;-) )
This is a simple novel by Tom Clancy.
Briefly,
An explosion in Kashmir, where a Police Station, a Hindu temple, and a bus brimming with pilgrims are blown up makes for a sensational beginning. The Opcentre, one of the numerous government security agencies of the US of A, sends out a team of commandos to help the Indian defence forces to handle the terrorist activities in Kashmir. But, the developments in the duration between the take off and reaching of Indian subcontinent by the team, suggest that there is a deeper conspiracy. India is planning for a full fledged nuclear war against Pakistan.
War or no war, depends on one single Indian female, working as a spy, presently held captive by a team of terrorists in the heart of the Himalayas.
Exciting?
Yup. The excitement mounts, when the team of American commandos jump out of their aircraft in the Himalayas, to rescue the Indian spy, and realise that they are being peppered by the firing from the Indian army at the Line of Control, neutralising most of the team.
Hmm,
As an Indian, you would not be able to digest that a democratic country of the likes of India can carry out such an act of aggression. But , this novel is by an American, and the point of view is mostly American. Except for this discomfort, there is a lot of research that has been done to make this novel. The scenes are very picturesque, the characters are interesting, though not very deeply established due to the length of the novel.
The novel raises a lot of expectations, both by its bombastic beginning, and the build up of the story. But ends very quickly. Almost abruptly.
I would have loved if the length of the novel were doubled.
A pleasant surprise is the absence of the Clancy's technical jargon, which had turned me off in just the first few pages in my first Clancy's novel 'The Hunt of the Red October'.
To summarise,
A good book for a bibliophile while on a three day vacation.
No gun touting underfed junior artists masquerading in Indian army uniforms, mouthing sentimental dialogues, and dying in comic positions. (any resemblence to JP Dutta's movie is purely coincidental ;-) )
This is a simple novel by Tom Clancy.
Briefly,
An explosion in Kashmir, where a Police Station, a Hindu temple, and a bus brimming with pilgrims are blown up makes for a sensational beginning. The Opcentre, one of the numerous government security agencies of the US of A, sends out a team of commandos to help the Indian defence forces to handle the terrorist activities in Kashmir. But, the developments in the duration between the take off and reaching of Indian subcontinent by the team, suggest that there is a deeper conspiracy. India is planning for a full fledged nuclear war against Pakistan.
War or no war, depends on one single Indian female, working as a spy, presently held captive by a team of terrorists in the heart of the Himalayas.
Exciting?
Yup. The excitement mounts, when the team of American commandos jump out of their aircraft in the Himalayas, to rescue the Indian spy, and realise that they are being peppered by the firing from the Indian army at the Line of Control, neutralising most of the team.
Hmm,
As an Indian, you would not be able to digest that a democratic country of the likes of India can carry out such an act of aggression. But , this novel is by an American, and the point of view is mostly American. Except for this discomfort, there is a lot of research that has been done to make this novel. The scenes are very picturesque, the characters are interesting, though not very deeply established due to the length of the novel.
The novel raises a lot of expectations, both by its bombastic beginning, and the build up of the story. But ends very quickly. Almost abruptly.
I would have loved if the length of the novel were doubled.
A pleasant surprise is the absence of the Clancy's technical jargon, which had turned me off in just the first few pages in my first Clancy's novel 'The Hunt of the Red October'.
To summarise,
A good book for a bibliophile while on a three day vacation.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
...Over a drink...
...A short story that I penned sometime back...
An tempestuous evening at a bar, of a failure, with an enticing woman and a jealous colleague....expect the unexpected...
---------------------
Life is unfair. Very, very unfair.
From the beginning, it was unfair for me. Why should I be born as the ugly kid in a handsome family? And the last, neglected one.
It is always an oft repeated complaint among the early-borns. It was the other way in our family. Should I blame my misfortune???
Should I blame my luck for giving me a raw deal while giving away intelligence? Or giving me a bald head before twenty five? A protruding paunch…
The list goes on.
The thoughts went round in a vicious cycle, as the tip of my index finger rolled on the smooth rim of the wine glass. The quaint, circular wooden table of the pub was meant for four. But, who would like to give me company, an uninteresting clerk at a local law firm?! They would only be bored more by my soporific tales, and lackluster jokes. Who would be interested in making their life more miserable in talking to an epitome of vapidity like me?!
Had not I tried to make my life more interesting?!
The vivid pictures have been stamped on my brain, burningly. I had approached the gorgeous stenographer, with a customary red dress, with a deep neck, presenting her bosoms in an offering demeanor. She never gave me a chance. Turned me down, outright.
Well, Mary could have been out of my league.
But, the gaunt courier girl, in a black uniform was very well within my reach. She was not even as beautiful as my wife. She had agreed to have a dinner with me. But, suddenly, Mr Mehta happened. The ever-charming Mr Mehta had seduced her before the most anticipated dinner, and she had stood me up. Mehta, the Casanova of the firm. He had all the women desperate for a single glimpse of him.
What did women find in him?
He was just good looking. And maybe, a little charming. But his jokes were pathetic.
Maybe, it was his money. Though he, himself had a meager income, his wife was a rich lady. She was much more than ugly. Thin bloodless lips, amidst the pockmarked cheeks, hovering above a long, corded neck, emerging out of weak shoulders.
Yes, it was her money.
I did not envy him. I did not just envy him.
I hated him, to the extent that I could kill him.
He had had the dare enough to ditch Mary after sleeping with her.
Now, there he was, trying to run his hands on the young lady’s haunches he had met just minutes back, on the dancing floor.
The dull music added to the pleasurably depressing mood of the ambience, illuminated faintly by somber lights. I picked up the wine glass, and placed it on my lips, the viscous fluid slowly entering through my wet lips. Mehta, had come along with me, to give me company. But, on suddenly, watching the beautiful young girl over the dancing floor, he had made a dash for it.
As the fluid entered my throat, I felt a trifle relaxed. Now, I could see that Mehta’s palm had firmly rested on the young lass’ buttocks.
I could not bear to look at it anymore.
I turned away towards the entrance. Not many people coming in.
My gaze wandered to the patterned roof, the lozenge paned windows, and suddenly something caught my sight.
A fairly beautiful woman looking at me.
I turned away.
She might be just gazing through.
I looked back.
She was staring at me!
She was alone at the table, at a corner. Clad in a dead black, deep necked dress, she looked ravishing.
Might be in her early thirties, I guessed.
The pub always had interesting denizens. Could she have come alone?
I turned away, unable to gaze at her eyes anymore. I turned to the dancing floor. Mehta was doing his job there.
Suddenly, it struck me. I have to make my move now. Else, Mehta would not lose this opportunity. I turned back to her.
My lips broke into a smile.
She was surprised. Her hand picking up her wine glass stopped. She glared more into my eyes. She was not expecting a response.
Had I committed a mistake? I was sure this lady was very good looking. Why was she interested in me?
Her sight lingered on mine for sometime. I was unabashedly staring into her eyes. Now, I was getting aroused. Though she was seated at a distance, I became oblivious of all the people between us. I began to appreciate her well shaped eyebrows, the meticulously laid mascara, the fastidiously done make up…
Suddenly, breaking me out of my abstraction, she smiled.
A chill traveled down my spine.
I felt nervous, and had uneasiness in my stomach.
Would I end up tonight with this lady? Not that I would mind, but she was unnervingly enticing. Would I be able to satiate her?
I smiled at my thoughts.
I flashed a teasing smile. I knew she was expecting me to make the first move. But, I was too nervous, and lacked enough confidence to walk up to her.
Slowly, I could see her stand up.
Suddenly, I had a lump in my throat. The light from a nearby bulb reflected hazily off her lustrous long, black skirt, wrapped tightly around her shapely legs, with an elongated split at the side.
Languidly, she moved towards me, across the numerous tables. With her every step, my exultation escalated.
I stood up, slowly, when she had come near to my table. She halted, and stared at me.
She was taller to me!!!
Anyway, I liked taller women.
She wanted me to make the first move.
First move?? She had already made a lot of moves.
I felt ashamed of myself. She had done my work, and I still expected her to make the move to talk.
“Good evening…..er,” I flashed a glorious smile.
“Amelia D’Souza…Good evening,” she said. It was almost a whisper. I moved around the table, and pulled her a chair.
She sat down gracefully.
Suddenly, confidence was rushing back to me. I remembered that my wife, who was also a beautiful lady once upon a time, had commented that she had liked my friendly face, and gestures. Women felt comfortable with me.
They never felt nervous, like they would have with an Adonis of likes of Mehta.
“What would you fancy, Miss D’Souza?” I asked when I had seated myself in front of her.
I noticed that there could have been some marks on her facial skin, but she had made them up carefully. She still looked impressive.
“Something to while away time,” she bit her upper lip. The voice was just more than a whisper. I realized that she was apprehensive too.
I smiled.
I was gaining grounds.
“Something strong, perhaps?” I asked.
“Light,” she uttered, and bit her upper lip back, her eyes never ceasing to stare at mine. My eyes searched for the waiter, but he was very far away. I gesticulated to him, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
I turned back to her.
“Have we met before?” I asked her, my eyes rolling all over her neck, and suddenly back to her eyes.
“I don’t know. I had a kind of feeling that,” a slight pause, and instantaneously I returned my gaze from the cleavage of her breasts back to her eyes, “I have seen you somewhere,” she continued.
“I am Rahul Saxena,” I said with a smile, “I work in a law firm,” I begged that she would not go into the details of my worthless job.
“Hmm,” she let out a light exclamation, “Interesting job. So you are a lawyer.”
“No, not exactly, I work as a clerk in a law-firm,” I said, feeling strongly to kick myself the next moment. Why was I ruining my chances?
But her expression did not change. I thanked god, relieved.
“You have come here alone?” she asked.
I nodded, morosely.
She let out a heavy breath.
Suddenly, I realized that she was alone too. I guessed that she was one of those damsels who kept on rejecting all the men, always in search of better, but never found the perfect one, finally settling for anyone.
But, I was not anyone. Was I?
Why was I denigrating myself? I lacked self confidence, and trust in myself.
I must come out of it. This was my final opportunity.
“It is difficult being alone, isn’t it?” I asked, treading a safe path.
She nodded, wearily.
So, she was definitely alone.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked, not sure whether that was a good question.
“I have property left by my late husband,” she said, “I am able to pull along.”
So, she was a widow. Though disappointed a trifle that she was not a spinster, I felt courageous that I was not dealing with an amateur.
I glanced around for the waiter. He was still attending the other customer, looked at me, and nodded apologetically.
Suddenly, I felt cold. I felt something at my feet. Was she playing in footsie?
Slowly, I stretched back casually, and glanced at my shoe.
It was just touching the centre leg of the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been real fast.
The next moment my eyes fell on her black pointed shoe near the leg of the table, the shapely fair leg emerging out of it, and felt disappointed that she had not started footsie.
With a reflex, I returned back my gaze to her eyes, and she was looking at my wine glass wistfully. “He passed away an year back,” she said in nostalgic tone.
Now was the time to be supportive. I thought of placing my hand on her hand, on the table. I bit my lower lip. I gulped. My right hand refused to come up.
A bead of sweat began to form on my forehead.
Desperately, I wanted to place my hand over her’s. But I felt my right hand go into coma.
“I am sorry,” I barely whispered, dejected. I felt like a coward.
‘Would you like to dance with me?’ I wanted to ask. But my voice refused to co-operate. I took a heavy breath. It was now, or never. I had to ask her. She had given me all the liberty; it would be absurd not to take the opportunity.
“Hello, Saxena, won’t you introduce me to your charming friend of yours?” I heard a voice, and turned with a reflex to see Mehta standing behind me, with a captivating smile.
God! I had dreaded this moment for all the time.
Why? Why is my misfortune always accompanying me?
“Well…er,…this is Miss D’Souza,” I showed him the bewitching lady, “and this is Mr Mehta,” I showed Mehta in despair.
“How do you Mr Mehta?!” the lady’s voice was enchanting, extending her hand.
“Charmed, I am sure,” Mehta took her hand, and placed an elegant light kiss on her fingers. As he ensconced himself over a chair, he flashed a brilliant smile at her.
“Would you fancy a drink?” I heard him ask.
She nodded in positive.
Mehta turned back at the waiter, who was free by now. The waiter rushed at us, and took Mehta’s orders.
I watched the occurrence in wonder.
All the time I had been calling the waiter, he was busy.
My luck had given me away, again.
“That is my favorite drink,” I heard her exclaim, “How do you know that?”
“I had observed you when you ordered your first drink at your table,” Mehta said, in an endearing voice. “I am a very sensitive person.”
She nodded slowly.
“That has become my problem,” he said, joyless.
“How?” she seemed surprised.
“Well, I lost the love of my wife for being sensitive. I became a very possessive husband. She felt I was invading her freedom. She wanted to have a very free marriage, and I did not agree to that. She punished me,” he uttered in melancholy.
I was feeling weak.
I knew I had lost the battle. I was nowhere in the picture. The two did not require me. The sheer speed with which Mehta made way to her heart shocked me.
She was already feeling sympathetic towards him.
It would not take him long to transform that to love.
“But, let me not bore you with my stories,” he said as though realizing his mistake. It was all planned. He would have done these innumerable times.
Slowly, he took her hand on the table, “Would you give me the honour of dancing with you, now?” he held her hand with tender roughness, affectionate but firm.
Her lips broke into a glorious smile.
“Sure,” she said, as she got up along with him.
“Be back in a minute,” Mehta said, turning to me.
I knew that the minute would never come.
It was beyond my threshold of tolerance. I stood up slowly, called for the bill, threw some bills on the table, and strode out of the pub, crestfallen.
It had taken a lot of effort from me to maintain my equanimity during the drive back home. I got out of the car, strode to the house, barged in, paced straight to the bedroom. I wanted to end the day as soon as possible. I changed into pajamas, and came out to see my wife laying the dinner. Perfunctorily, I served myself, and started gobbling down the meal.
“I wanted to speak to you,” my wife spoke.
I was in no mood to discuss anything. I wanted to end this wretched day, and start afresh the next day.
“Not now, let it wait till morning,” I said, hurriedly.
“Mary was here three days back,” she uttered.
I felt a jolt!
Suddenly, I recovered, and it took me a lot of effort to prevent myself from getting excited.
“And?” I asked, nonchalantly, not looking at her.
I prepared myself to encounter the worst possible allegation that would follow the next moment.
“She had complained about your behavior towards her, in the office,” she said.
I let out a silent breath of relief. She had put it in the mildest of terms.
“What?” I still did not show much excitement.
“It seems that you were sexually harassing her,” she said.
“She’s mad,” I said, carelessly, “Does nothing in the office, but flaunting off skin. I am not moved by her charms, and hence she is trying out all these tricks,” I uttered with studied composure.
“I know,” she said.
What did she know?
“It seems that she had gone to Mrs Mehta’s house also,” she added.
“And?” it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to control myself.
“She accused Mr Mehta of taking advantage of her,” she said.
I knew that Mary had accompanied Mehta, on her own self. Now, that he had dumped her, she was complaining.
I was waiting for more, though I did not display my inquisitiveness.
“I am sorry,” she said, as her tears swelled up in her eyes, “I distrusted you for a moment, and went to a detective agency along with Mrs Mehta.”
I was caught off guard. I glared at her. I was not sure whether I was angry, or scared.
“They said they would employ a lady to allure you, and Mehta,” she said, as the whole tempestuous evening ran before my eyes, and my head started reeling. “They told me that you had behaved very elegantly with the lady,” she said, and suddenly stood up and rushed at me, and hugged me. “I am sorry,” she began sobbing, her head resting against my chest.
I was still in a trance.
The whole evening had been a trap.
Suddenly, it dawned upon me about the peril I had been so very close to.
Slowly, as I regained my composure, I ran my hands over her hair, comforting her.
“What happened with Mehta?”
“Mrs Mehta had called. She was crying,” I could hear her say, “Mehta not only flirted with the girl he was allotted, but also took away your girl, it seems.”
My lips broke into a smile.
“She is filing for a divorce tomorrow,” I heard my wife’s muffled voice speak.
My luck was changing. Wasn’t it?
-------------------------------------------------------
- Authored by Thejas K R
An tempestuous evening at a bar, of a failure, with an enticing woman and a jealous colleague....expect the unexpected...
---------------------
Life is unfair. Very, very unfair.
From the beginning, it was unfair for me. Why should I be born as the ugly kid in a handsome family? And the last, neglected one.
It is always an oft repeated complaint among the early-borns. It was the other way in our family. Should I blame my misfortune???
Should I blame my luck for giving me a raw deal while giving away intelligence? Or giving me a bald head before twenty five? A protruding paunch…
The list goes on.
The thoughts went round in a vicious cycle, as the tip of my index finger rolled on the smooth rim of the wine glass. The quaint, circular wooden table of the pub was meant for four. But, who would like to give me company, an uninteresting clerk at a local law firm?! They would only be bored more by my soporific tales, and lackluster jokes. Who would be interested in making their life more miserable in talking to an epitome of vapidity like me?!
Had not I tried to make my life more interesting?!
The vivid pictures have been stamped on my brain, burningly. I had approached the gorgeous stenographer, with a customary red dress, with a deep neck, presenting her bosoms in an offering demeanor. She never gave me a chance. Turned me down, outright.
Well, Mary could have been out of my league.
But, the gaunt courier girl, in a black uniform was very well within my reach. She was not even as beautiful as my wife. She had agreed to have a dinner with me. But, suddenly, Mr Mehta happened. The ever-charming Mr Mehta had seduced her before the most anticipated dinner, and she had stood me up. Mehta, the Casanova of the firm. He had all the women desperate for a single glimpse of him.
What did women find in him?
He was just good looking. And maybe, a little charming. But his jokes were pathetic.
Maybe, it was his money. Though he, himself had a meager income, his wife was a rich lady. She was much more than ugly. Thin bloodless lips, amidst the pockmarked cheeks, hovering above a long, corded neck, emerging out of weak shoulders.
Yes, it was her money.
I did not envy him. I did not just envy him.
I hated him, to the extent that I could kill him.
He had had the dare enough to ditch Mary after sleeping with her.
Now, there he was, trying to run his hands on the young lady’s haunches he had met just minutes back, on the dancing floor.
The dull music added to the pleasurably depressing mood of the ambience, illuminated faintly by somber lights. I picked up the wine glass, and placed it on my lips, the viscous fluid slowly entering through my wet lips. Mehta, had come along with me, to give me company. But, on suddenly, watching the beautiful young girl over the dancing floor, he had made a dash for it.
As the fluid entered my throat, I felt a trifle relaxed. Now, I could see that Mehta’s palm had firmly rested on the young lass’ buttocks.
I could not bear to look at it anymore.
I turned away towards the entrance. Not many people coming in.
My gaze wandered to the patterned roof, the lozenge paned windows, and suddenly something caught my sight.
A fairly beautiful woman looking at me.
I turned away.
She might be just gazing through.
I looked back.
She was staring at me!
She was alone at the table, at a corner. Clad in a dead black, deep necked dress, she looked ravishing.
Might be in her early thirties, I guessed.
The pub always had interesting denizens. Could she have come alone?
I turned away, unable to gaze at her eyes anymore. I turned to the dancing floor. Mehta was doing his job there.
Suddenly, it struck me. I have to make my move now. Else, Mehta would not lose this opportunity. I turned back to her.
My lips broke into a smile.
She was surprised. Her hand picking up her wine glass stopped. She glared more into my eyes. She was not expecting a response.
Had I committed a mistake? I was sure this lady was very good looking. Why was she interested in me?
Her sight lingered on mine for sometime. I was unabashedly staring into her eyes. Now, I was getting aroused. Though she was seated at a distance, I became oblivious of all the people between us. I began to appreciate her well shaped eyebrows, the meticulously laid mascara, the fastidiously done make up…
Suddenly, breaking me out of my abstraction, she smiled.
A chill traveled down my spine.
I felt nervous, and had uneasiness in my stomach.
Would I end up tonight with this lady? Not that I would mind, but she was unnervingly enticing. Would I be able to satiate her?
I smiled at my thoughts.
I flashed a teasing smile. I knew she was expecting me to make the first move. But, I was too nervous, and lacked enough confidence to walk up to her.
Slowly, I could see her stand up.
Suddenly, I had a lump in my throat. The light from a nearby bulb reflected hazily off her lustrous long, black skirt, wrapped tightly around her shapely legs, with an elongated split at the side.
Languidly, she moved towards me, across the numerous tables. With her every step, my exultation escalated.
I stood up, slowly, when she had come near to my table. She halted, and stared at me.
She was taller to me!!!
Anyway, I liked taller women.
She wanted me to make the first move.
First move?? She had already made a lot of moves.
I felt ashamed of myself. She had done my work, and I still expected her to make the move to talk.
“Good evening…..er,” I flashed a glorious smile.
“Amelia D’Souza…Good evening,” she said. It was almost a whisper. I moved around the table, and pulled her a chair.
She sat down gracefully.
Suddenly, confidence was rushing back to me. I remembered that my wife, who was also a beautiful lady once upon a time, had commented that she had liked my friendly face, and gestures. Women felt comfortable with me.
They never felt nervous, like they would have with an Adonis of likes of Mehta.
“What would you fancy, Miss D’Souza?” I asked when I had seated myself in front of her.
I noticed that there could have been some marks on her facial skin, but she had made them up carefully. She still looked impressive.
“Something to while away time,” she bit her upper lip. The voice was just more than a whisper. I realized that she was apprehensive too.
I smiled.
I was gaining grounds.
“Something strong, perhaps?” I asked.
“Light,” she uttered, and bit her upper lip back, her eyes never ceasing to stare at mine. My eyes searched for the waiter, but he was very far away. I gesticulated to him, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
I turned back to her.
“Have we met before?” I asked her, my eyes rolling all over her neck, and suddenly back to her eyes.
“I don’t know. I had a kind of feeling that,” a slight pause, and instantaneously I returned my gaze from the cleavage of her breasts back to her eyes, “I have seen you somewhere,” she continued.
“I am Rahul Saxena,” I said with a smile, “I work in a law firm,” I begged that she would not go into the details of my worthless job.
“Hmm,” she let out a light exclamation, “Interesting job. So you are a lawyer.”
“No, not exactly, I work as a clerk in a law-firm,” I said, feeling strongly to kick myself the next moment. Why was I ruining my chances?
But her expression did not change. I thanked god, relieved.
“You have come here alone?” she asked.
I nodded, morosely.
She let out a heavy breath.
Suddenly, I realized that she was alone too. I guessed that she was one of those damsels who kept on rejecting all the men, always in search of better, but never found the perfect one, finally settling for anyone.
But, I was not anyone. Was I?
Why was I denigrating myself? I lacked self confidence, and trust in myself.
I must come out of it. This was my final opportunity.
“It is difficult being alone, isn’t it?” I asked, treading a safe path.
She nodded, wearily.
So, she was definitely alone.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked, not sure whether that was a good question.
“I have property left by my late husband,” she said, “I am able to pull along.”
So, she was a widow. Though disappointed a trifle that she was not a spinster, I felt courageous that I was not dealing with an amateur.
I glanced around for the waiter. He was still attending the other customer, looked at me, and nodded apologetically.
Suddenly, I felt cold. I felt something at my feet. Was she playing in footsie?
Slowly, I stretched back casually, and glanced at my shoe.
It was just touching the centre leg of the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been real fast.
The next moment my eyes fell on her black pointed shoe near the leg of the table, the shapely fair leg emerging out of it, and felt disappointed that she had not started footsie.
With a reflex, I returned back my gaze to her eyes, and she was looking at my wine glass wistfully. “He passed away an year back,” she said in nostalgic tone.
Now was the time to be supportive. I thought of placing my hand on her hand, on the table. I bit my lower lip. I gulped. My right hand refused to come up.
A bead of sweat began to form on my forehead.
Desperately, I wanted to place my hand over her’s. But I felt my right hand go into coma.
“I am sorry,” I barely whispered, dejected. I felt like a coward.
‘Would you like to dance with me?’ I wanted to ask. But my voice refused to co-operate. I took a heavy breath. It was now, or never. I had to ask her. She had given me all the liberty; it would be absurd not to take the opportunity.
“Hello, Saxena, won’t you introduce me to your charming friend of yours?” I heard a voice, and turned with a reflex to see Mehta standing behind me, with a captivating smile.
God! I had dreaded this moment for all the time.
Why? Why is my misfortune always accompanying me?
“Well…er,…this is Miss D’Souza,” I showed him the bewitching lady, “and this is Mr Mehta,” I showed Mehta in despair.
“How do you Mr Mehta?!” the lady’s voice was enchanting, extending her hand.
“Charmed, I am sure,” Mehta took her hand, and placed an elegant light kiss on her fingers. As he ensconced himself over a chair, he flashed a brilliant smile at her.
“Would you fancy a drink?” I heard him ask.
She nodded in positive.
Mehta turned back at the waiter, who was free by now. The waiter rushed at us, and took Mehta’s orders.
I watched the occurrence in wonder.
All the time I had been calling the waiter, he was busy.
My luck had given me away, again.
“That is my favorite drink,” I heard her exclaim, “How do you know that?”
“I had observed you when you ordered your first drink at your table,” Mehta said, in an endearing voice. “I am a very sensitive person.”
She nodded slowly.
“That has become my problem,” he said, joyless.
“How?” she seemed surprised.
“Well, I lost the love of my wife for being sensitive. I became a very possessive husband. She felt I was invading her freedom. She wanted to have a very free marriage, and I did not agree to that. She punished me,” he uttered in melancholy.
I was feeling weak.
I knew I had lost the battle. I was nowhere in the picture. The two did not require me. The sheer speed with which Mehta made way to her heart shocked me.
She was already feeling sympathetic towards him.
It would not take him long to transform that to love.
“But, let me not bore you with my stories,” he said as though realizing his mistake. It was all planned. He would have done these innumerable times.
Slowly, he took her hand on the table, “Would you give me the honour of dancing with you, now?” he held her hand with tender roughness, affectionate but firm.
Her lips broke into a glorious smile.
“Sure,” she said, as she got up along with him.
“Be back in a minute,” Mehta said, turning to me.
I knew that the minute would never come.
It was beyond my threshold of tolerance. I stood up slowly, called for the bill, threw some bills on the table, and strode out of the pub, crestfallen.
It had taken a lot of effort from me to maintain my equanimity during the drive back home. I got out of the car, strode to the house, barged in, paced straight to the bedroom. I wanted to end the day as soon as possible. I changed into pajamas, and came out to see my wife laying the dinner. Perfunctorily, I served myself, and started gobbling down the meal.
“I wanted to speak to you,” my wife spoke.
I was in no mood to discuss anything. I wanted to end this wretched day, and start afresh the next day.
“Not now, let it wait till morning,” I said, hurriedly.
“Mary was here three days back,” she uttered.
I felt a jolt!
Suddenly, I recovered, and it took me a lot of effort to prevent myself from getting excited.
“And?” I asked, nonchalantly, not looking at her.
I prepared myself to encounter the worst possible allegation that would follow the next moment.
“She had complained about your behavior towards her, in the office,” she said.
I let out a silent breath of relief. She had put it in the mildest of terms.
“What?” I still did not show much excitement.
“It seems that you were sexually harassing her,” she said.
“She’s mad,” I said, carelessly, “Does nothing in the office, but flaunting off skin. I am not moved by her charms, and hence she is trying out all these tricks,” I uttered with studied composure.
“I know,” she said.
What did she know?
“It seems that she had gone to Mrs Mehta’s house also,” she added.
“And?” it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to control myself.
“She accused Mr Mehta of taking advantage of her,” she said.
I knew that Mary had accompanied Mehta, on her own self. Now, that he had dumped her, she was complaining.
I was waiting for more, though I did not display my inquisitiveness.
“I am sorry,” she said, as her tears swelled up in her eyes, “I distrusted you for a moment, and went to a detective agency along with Mrs Mehta.”
I was caught off guard. I glared at her. I was not sure whether I was angry, or scared.
“They said they would employ a lady to allure you, and Mehta,” she said, as the whole tempestuous evening ran before my eyes, and my head started reeling. “They told me that you had behaved very elegantly with the lady,” she said, and suddenly stood up and rushed at me, and hugged me. “I am sorry,” she began sobbing, her head resting against my chest.
I was still in a trance.
The whole evening had been a trap.
Suddenly, it dawned upon me about the peril I had been so very close to.
Slowly, as I regained my composure, I ran my hands over her hair, comforting her.
“What happened with Mehta?”
“Mrs Mehta had called. She was crying,” I could hear her say, “Mehta not only flirted with the girl he was allotted, but also took away your girl, it seems.”
My lips broke into a smile.
“She is filing for a divorce tomorrow,” I heard my wife’s muffled voice speak.
My luck was changing. Wasn’t it?
-------------------------------------------------------
- Authored by Thejas K R
Thursday, July 27, 2006
H1 Hunks... the sequel
...a slice of my experience with the dudes on the other part of the planet...
Click here for the first part of the two part series
"So, where do you work?" a married H1 hunk, originally from Vijayawada started the conversation, on the way back from a car rental company. He had hired a car for the weekend too, like us (my roommate and myself), and was getting dropped at the same venue as us, after returning the rental car.
I mentioned the place.
"Oh! That is a nice place. When did you come to the US?"
"Four months back," I said, "What about you?"
"Five years back," he said, and asked, "Which place in India are you from?"
"Bangalore."
"Oh! Bangalore??!!! Then you must be very intelligent."
Yahoooooooo!!! At least one person on this planet recognizes my worth ;-)
I was pretty much happy because he said that, but was puzzled about the criterion. What had Bangalore to do with my intelligence?
"Why do you say that?"
"You know... I tried for a lot of companies in Bangalore. I couldn't get a job anywhere. Hence, I had to come here," he said.
Heh heh..... my roomy and myself uttered a few embarrassing laughs.
"Bangalore has all intelligent professionals. Especially, now, I have heard that all top companies go to Bangalore. It is soaring to great heights. It has a very bright future," he said nostalgically.
As an afterthought, he added, "I want to go there after a while, but don't know .....depends on whether I get a job or not," he gave a toothy smile.
Ma'an. This guy was steeped in inferiority complex.
"Don't worry, the market has expanded greatly now. Everybody is getting recruited nowadays," said my roomy, to placate him. ;-)
Now, now. We all know that America is a rich country, with everyone moving around in swanky cars, and wearing leather jackets. The H1 hunks are ogled by all in the eastern part of the world to be carrying around a truckload of money.
But it takes sheer hard work to collect that truckload.
It takes a lot of will to turn down the Subway bread at restaurants, to save few dollars, when you are accustomed to hogging at ' The Forum' when back home.
It takes a lot of will to turn down the weekend night at the nightclub, to save a few dollars, when you are accustomed to partying in Purple Haze when back home.
It does take a lot of will to sustain the unwashed clothes for weeks, to save a few dollars at the Laundromat, when you are accustomed to the 'bai' washing your clothes everyday when back home.
Also, there have been some popular stories about the dudes wielding the scissors, and the comb to help each other with the haircuts, to abstain from those expensive visits to the hair saloons.
Hence, remember. That truckload of money is through sheer hard work, and not a result of hour long commuting to work, to write few lines of code, waiting for the 5 pm bell to ring as in 'back home'. :D
"Car, car, car, car, elnodi car" echoed the haunting voice over the screens in Bangalore sometime back.
Food, shelter, and clothing are very essential for humans, so is the car for the humans in the land of Uncle Sam.
Desi dudes who ventured into the land of opportunities without a four-wheelers' drivers license would feel devoid of all opportunities. Yes, they always had their friend's bike to borrow to that late night movie, or the pillion seat of an Activa for a weekend afternoon lunch with buddies. But here, there are no buses, no auto rickshaws.
No car. No life.
Hence, the rush to get an American Drivers' License.
I had to get one for myself too.
"Sir, you may want to come again," said the bearded examiner after he took my driver's license test.
Whaaaat???!!! Did that mean that I had failed the test???!!!
I guessed I had.
"Ok," I said.
FAILED!FAILED!FAILED! .... thoughts echoed in my mind. Despite an experience of having driven 40,000 kilometers back home??!!!
Unfortunately, the examiner did not care about my historically proven road skills, especially in the toughest conditions in the world.
Nope...not on the Himalayas.... but on Hosur road.
He had a systematic checklist of things, to be performed on the roads inside the compound of the drivers' license office. If one doesn't pass the minimum number of instructions, one fails!!!
I have to learn the rules properly next time, I made a mental note.
But there are dudes who prepare damn well for the test. After having learnt the rules, they use the Google Maps to get the layout of the roads, signals, parallel parking place, etc in the drivers' license office compound.
And that, my friends, is true dedication!!!
(By the way, he failed the first time too :D )
In my second driving test, the more patient of the examiners sat through my immaculate performance, and at the end spoke, "Where are you from?"
"Bangalore, India."
"Oh! I get a couple of people from Bangalore. If you have driven there, you can drive anywhere in the world I guess," he smiled.
Just as important as the car, is a phone. The small device is a lifeline for the dudes to maintain their sanity amidst the pressures of the alien world.
Nope... I don't mean the phone-dating network. Those dudes will lose their sanity anyway, when they meet up with their date.
I am speaking about the endless voice chats that begin... on dot at 9pm in the evening.
The reason for this strange phenomenon is that T Mobile and few other GSM service providers give out free minutes of airtime from 9 pm till 9am.
Hence, phones begin to ring all over the US, in all H1 dudes' phones at 9pm, almost simultaneously as though heralding the birth of Harry Potter.
The dudes update themselves with their friends' lives, from their rotten bosses to their latest vacations.
And the dudes who are busy for long distance calls, are busy calling up longer distances on the Reliance and other undersea cables.
The calls vary from few minutes of India update to hours of remote sorting out complex family issues.
But yes, most of the conversations definitely would carry 'Alli eiga time estu?' [ 'What time is it there?' ]
'Nine thirty,' says the dude.
'It is 11 here......alli nightaa [ is it night there] ?'
The dude smiles, with a 'yes'.
"Ond KG akki, moor KG sakkare, ardha KG bele (one kilogram rice, three kilograms of sugar, half kilograms of daal)," I remember in my childhood, mother giving her orders on the phone to the local grocery vendor, who would send across the items on the rear carrier of the Atlas cycle of his assistant boy. "Nikon digital camera, Sony handycam, 1 gb flash drive," I could hear the crackling voice on the speaker phone of my friend, his friends from India giving him a list of e-grocery to be bought, at his place when he announced that he would be going to India for vacation. The list went on for the next few minutes, as the talk proceeded from a few hundred dollars to a few thousands.
Also, there was a new niece, recently wed couples, and excited cousins, who all had to be satiated by a shower of special presents.
The 'India shopping' for the H1 dude is one of the most special occasions, and also a very tiring one. After booking deals in the various web sites, it is the time for the shopping at the 'Premium Outlets'. The brotherhood accompanies the dude to the plush factory outlets, where they shop till they drop. They shop like there is no tomorrow. They shop till their cars can muster up the last bit of space inside it.
They become the dream boys for all the shop owners, and also for the custom officers back home.
"Take a flight with port of entry as Bangalore, dude. Don't take Mumbai, you will be screwed," the advices pour in from the brotherhood.
The dude does that, but later mentions on phone that he still had to pay up 3000 rupees as bribe to the customs.
"Didn't you say that Bangalore was safe?" I asked the other H1 dude who had come up with this advice.
"You don't know the amount of stuff he carried back. If it leaks out that he escaped for just three thousand bucks, Dawood would hire him next," laughed the other dude aloud
From the excitement of watching trivial bollywood comedies on the local screens, and local potluck parties at friends' places to the anxieties of tumultuous news on rediff.com and burgeoning real estate prices back home, the H1 hunks celebrate India in their everyday lives on the other part of the lonely planet. The Toshibas, the IPODs, or the SONYs do provide temporary escape from the mundane of the lonely life, but nothing compares to an occasionally visit to India, which is looked upon by envy by all in the H1 brotherhood.
Yet, the H1 hunks perform with excellence in the large halls of the American corporate, with a dream to be able to do the same in India, sometime later.
Often misunderstood, sometimes looked at with wonder, and sometimes with skepticism, the H1 hunks take all of these in their stride.
With a warm smile, that says ' I get you budd, but we gotta hurry home. I have got a meal to cook'.
Click here for the first part of the two part series
"So, where do you work?" a married H1 hunk, originally from Vijayawada started the conversation, on the way back from a car rental company. He had hired a car for the weekend too, like us (my roommate and myself), and was getting dropped at the same venue as us, after returning the rental car.
I mentioned the place.
"Oh! That is a nice place. When did you come to the US?"
"Four months back," I said, "What about you?"
"Five years back," he said, and asked, "Which place in India are you from?"
"Bangalore."
"Oh! Bangalore??!!! Then you must be very intelligent."
Yahoooooooo!!! At least one person on this planet recognizes my worth ;-)
I was pretty much happy because he said that, but was puzzled about the criterion. What had Bangalore to do with my intelligence?
"Why do you say that?"
"You know... I tried for a lot of companies in Bangalore. I couldn't get a job anywhere. Hence, I had to come here," he said.
Heh heh..... my roomy and myself uttered a few embarrassing laughs.
"Bangalore has all intelligent professionals. Especially, now, I have heard that all top companies go to Bangalore. It is soaring to great heights. It has a very bright future," he said nostalgically.
As an afterthought, he added, "I want to go there after a while, but don't know .....depends on whether I get a job or not," he gave a toothy smile.
Ma'an. This guy was steeped in inferiority complex.
"Don't worry, the market has expanded greatly now. Everybody is getting recruited nowadays," said my roomy, to placate him. ;-)
Now, now. We all know that America is a rich country, with everyone moving around in swanky cars, and wearing leather jackets. The H1 hunks are ogled by all in the eastern part of the world to be carrying around a truckload of money.
But it takes sheer hard work to collect that truckload.
It takes a lot of will to turn down the Subway bread at restaurants, to save few dollars, when you are accustomed to hogging at ' The Forum' when back home.
It takes a lot of will to turn down the weekend night at the nightclub, to save a few dollars, when you are accustomed to partying in Purple Haze when back home.
It does take a lot of will to sustain the unwashed clothes for weeks, to save a few dollars at the Laundromat, when you are accustomed to the 'bai' washing your clothes everyday when back home.
Also, there have been some popular stories about the dudes wielding the scissors, and the comb to help each other with the haircuts, to abstain from those expensive visits to the hair saloons.
Hence, remember. That truckload of money is through sheer hard work, and not a result of hour long commuting to work, to write few lines of code, waiting for the 5 pm bell to ring as in 'back home'. :D
"Car, car, car, car, elnodi car" echoed the haunting voice over the screens in Bangalore sometime back.
Food, shelter, and clothing are very essential for humans, so is the car for the humans in the land of Uncle Sam.
Desi dudes who ventured into the land of opportunities without a four-wheelers' drivers license would feel devoid of all opportunities. Yes, they always had their friend's bike to borrow to that late night movie, or the pillion seat of an Activa for a weekend afternoon lunch with buddies. But here, there are no buses, no auto rickshaws.
No car. No life.
Hence, the rush to get an American Drivers' License.
I had to get one for myself too.
"Sir, you may want to come again," said the bearded examiner after he took my driver's license test.
Whaaaat???!!! Did that mean that I had failed the test???!!!
I guessed I had.
"Ok," I said.
FAILED!FAILED!FAILED! .... thoughts echoed in my mind. Despite an experience of having driven 40,000 kilometers back home??!!!
Unfortunately, the examiner did not care about my historically proven road skills, especially in the toughest conditions in the world.
Nope...not on the Himalayas.... but on Hosur road.
He had a systematic checklist of things, to be performed on the roads inside the compound of the drivers' license office. If one doesn't pass the minimum number of instructions, one fails!!!
I have to learn the rules properly next time, I made a mental note.
But there are dudes who prepare damn well for the test. After having learnt the rules, they use the Google Maps to get the layout of the roads, signals, parallel parking place, etc in the drivers' license office compound.
And that, my friends, is true dedication!!!
(By the way, he failed the first time too :D )
In my second driving test, the more patient of the examiners sat through my immaculate performance, and at the end spoke, "Where are you from?"
"Bangalore, India."
"Oh! I get a couple of people from Bangalore. If you have driven there, you can drive anywhere in the world I guess," he smiled.
Just as important as the car, is a phone. The small device is a lifeline for the dudes to maintain their sanity amidst the pressures of the alien world.
Nope... I don't mean the phone-dating network. Those dudes will lose their sanity anyway, when they meet up with their date.
I am speaking about the endless voice chats that begin... on dot at 9pm in the evening.
The reason for this strange phenomenon is that T Mobile and few other GSM service providers give out free minutes of airtime from 9 pm till 9am.
Hence, phones begin to ring all over the US, in all H1 dudes' phones at 9pm, almost simultaneously as though heralding the birth of Harry Potter.
The dudes update themselves with their friends' lives, from their rotten bosses to their latest vacations.
And the dudes who are busy for long distance calls, are busy calling up longer distances on the Reliance and other undersea cables.
The calls vary from few minutes of India update to hours of remote sorting out complex family issues.
But yes, most of the conversations definitely would carry 'Alli eiga time estu?' [ 'What time is it there?' ]
'Nine thirty,' says the dude.
'It is 11 here......alli nightaa [ is it night there] ?'
The dude smiles, with a 'yes'.
"Ond KG akki, moor KG sakkare, ardha KG bele (one kilogram rice, three kilograms of sugar, half kilograms of daal)," I remember in my childhood, mother giving her orders on the phone to the local grocery vendor, who would send across the items on the rear carrier of the Atlas cycle of his assistant boy. "Nikon digital camera, Sony handycam, 1 gb flash drive," I could hear the crackling voice on the speaker phone of my friend, his friends from India giving him a list of e-grocery to be bought, at his place when he announced that he would be going to India for vacation. The list went on for the next few minutes, as the talk proceeded from a few hundred dollars to a few thousands.
Also, there was a new niece, recently wed couples, and excited cousins, who all had to be satiated by a shower of special presents.
The 'India shopping' for the H1 dude is one of the most special occasions, and also a very tiring one. After booking deals in the various web sites, it is the time for the shopping at the 'Premium Outlets'. The brotherhood accompanies the dude to the plush factory outlets, where they shop till they drop. They shop like there is no tomorrow. They shop till their cars can muster up the last bit of space inside it.
They become the dream boys for all the shop owners, and also for the custom officers back home.
"Take a flight with port of entry as Bangalore, dude. Don't take Mumbai, you will be screwed," the advices pour in from the brotherhood.
The dude does that, but later mentions on phone that he still had to pay up 3000 rupees as bribe to the customs.
"Didn't you say that Bangalore was safe?" I asked the other H1 dude who had come up with this advice.
"You don't know the amount of stuff he carried back. If it leaks out that he escaped for just three thousand bucks, Dawood would hire him next," laughed the other dude aloud
From the excitement of watching trivial bollywood comedies on the local screens, and local potluck parties at friends' places to the anxieties of tumultuous news on rediff.com and burgeoning real estate prices back home, the H1 hunks celebrate India in their everyday lives on the other part of the lonely planet. The Toshibas, the IPODs, or the SONYs do provide temporary escape from the mundane of the lonely life, but nothing compares to an occasionally visit to India, which is looked upon by envy by all in the H1 brotherhood.
Yet, the H1 hunks perform with excellence in the large halls of the American corporate, with a dream to be able to do the same in India, sometime later.
Often misunderstood, sometimes looked at with wonder, and sometimes with skepticism, the H1 hunks take all of these in their stride.
With a warm smile, that says ' I get you budd, but we gotta hurry home. I have got a meal to cook'.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
H1 hunks
...a slice of my experience with the dudes on the other part of the planet...
"Actually, a bit of asafoetida after it starts to splatter would be great."
"But don't you think you should let it splatter for a while in oil, before putting asafoetida? I guess it will taste better then. Especially, if you have used dry chilli."
"Try my way. You will surely like it."
"Hmm, what about onions? Early or later?"
"Early would spoil the taste. Put it a bit later."
The conversation was excerpt from a Udaya TV serial, between two grannies??!!
No. NO!!!
The conversation was between two mid twenties dudes in the Patel's Groceries in Chicago, United States.
WHAT THE....
Yezz. The dudes were discussing cuisines.
Nope, not the hunks you see on Star Plus serials who visit Italian restaurants for a casual evening, stretch their legs on the Hawaiian beaches on weekends. These were real desi dudes, with real food problems, in an alien country, discussing about how to make their next meal better.
But don't you get everything in America?
Yes!!! You get everything in America. Drenched in cheese, with a few crumbs of what was moving around on four legs, sometime back.
But relax!!! You need not know cooking for going to the US. It is going to be like the first time you went to profess your love to that high school hottie.
"Hehehe," she laughed then? You forgot to put water below the steel container in the cooker here.
She turned and ran away then? Your curry appears like the one you see in the dilip kumar movies about jails.
But, surely you are lucky than the SLAP!!! The safety valve of the cooker shoots up like a missile!!!
Nooo!!! Class teacher called home then!!! You have a bonfire on the pan, and there is a fire alarm now!!! All those gorgeous females from the apartment gym had to run out of the building because of you??? Congratulations, your social life has just been reduced to less than zero.
But, fret not. There is a band of brothers to help you out. The H1 brotherhood never gives up on you. Away from home, they are your home. They are there for your parties, they are there for your fire alarms. They are there to rejoice when you finish the long distance, to announce that your niece is born. They are also there for support during those frustrating, home sick times.
"So, are you a veggie or a non veggie?" a friend once asked me, at a Mexican restaurant, with a group of buddies. He had been in the US for more than five years now, and still had been able to maintain his veggie status.
"I am a veggie by choice," I announced.
"Eh? By choice? Then what do you think about me? There is a fatwa on me to be a vegetarian??"
I let out a few guffaws. "No, I had been a non veggie for sometime. Didn't like it. Hence, switched back to veggie status," I smiled.
Complex answer for a simple question ?!!
He turned to another friend. "Veggie or Non veggie? I will have to give the orders now. Don't give a complex answer," he said. There was no need to explicitly quote my name, in the accusation.
"I am a vegetarian non-veggie," the other friend said.
"What?"
"I eat non-veg stuff, which usually would have had only vegetarian food," he smiled.
Talk about complex answers!!!
After having given all the orders, he fished out his sleek 'Discover' card to be elegantly swiped by the fat, short Mexican woman at the cash counter.
The credit card!!!
A matter of pride for the young professionals, fresh entrants to the US!!!
Yes, I know that a software professional in Bangalore would have half of his incoming calls from the attractive voices of sales girls of various credit cards. But in here, you need to possess a 'Credit History' to get a credit card.
The credit history is a record of all the credit transactions that you would have had since the day you entered the States. Based on the transactions, you would have a 'Credit Score', which represents your consistency in paying off your credits.
It is linked to your Social Security Number, a reference number.
The system seems very matured and sensible. Oh! Yeah??? Hear this out. One's credit score will not be built unless you borrow good amount of money, and pay it in time. Hence, for being a reliable person for the banks to lend, you need to borrow money heavily, and pay it back in turn. Go tell this to your grandma who had embedded in your middleclass gene, to stay away from loans.
But this is a vicious circle. You don't get a card till you have a credit history. You don't get a history till you have a card.
Wait. There's relief. :-)
The alternative is the 'Secured Credit Card'. You deposit an amount in the bank, based on which you get this credit card. Your credit limit would be equivalent to the amount you deposit. This is a work around to build your credit history.
After a decent score is built, suddenly you are showered with 'preapproved' credit cards from anybody who can print a plastic card. Everyday, you will find in your mailbox, the 'most attractive scheme in the world' from the 'most trusted bank in the US'. The same guys who avoided you like a leper before, would be ready to worship the ground you walked on. ;-)
"Enakkoru girlfriend venumada," screamed the speakers, with Rahman's drums hitting out at us from the Yamaha speakers that my friend had bought from a Chinese for a good deal. We were at our usual hangout at the Infy H1 boys' apartment.
The sitting room consisted of two 'super comfortable' couches, in which one could just sink in. The bachelor boys had purchased it at a throw away price of less than 20$ - 30$ each. Generally, the moving population in the apartments would go in for a 'moving sale'. One can get some real good deals in the sale. Sometimes, the moving population just gives things away, when they are not able to sell.
As the country lives on surpluses, anything that is a little old loses its resale value, irrespective of its quality.
A TV, and a DVD player adorned the corner of the room. Generally, the kitchens are furnished with an electric stove, an oven, and a dishwasher. And that is where the action happens. :D
The sitting room was taken over with the aroma of the exotic sambar prepared by one of my friends, a chef par excellence. All the other guys had their laptops on, connected to the high-speed cable Internet. One of them was just checking out his emails. The other was chatting with his friend in India over GTalk. Another was busy checking out news on deals2buy.com.
And suddenly, there was a thumping sound on the walls.
Wow!!! Screw the BOSE systems. These cheap Yamaha speakers were making the walls shake!!!
"Oh! Shit," blurted out the 'deals' guy and pounced on the speakers to bring down their volume.
"What happened?" I asked, not sure if the walls might actually come down, as they used to show on old BPL commercials during the Doordarshan times.
"The white guy on the other side is thumping on the wall, to reduce the volume," he said.
As the walls are made of wood, they are not entirely soundproof. Hence, these guys had to coexist with the subtler crowd living on the other side of the wall. "We will have to find another apartment soon. This guy is getting on our nerves," announced the chap. Err... I had thought that it was the other way.
After the dinner, we got down to watch a movie on one of the laptops. This was a Telugu movie downloaded from the Internet. The audience consisted of Kannada boys, Tamil dude, Mallus and Northies. How is that for National Integration???!!!
The world of Bachelors is divided into two. Those who have girlfriends, and those who don't. There is the third special category, an intersection set, who letch at others' girlfriends, but that is a complex scenario, which is beyond the scope of our conversation. :D
( Was never good at Set Theory..heh heh)
The H1 hunks without girlfriends, are pretty much predictable. They spend their life in cubicles all the time, or watching downloaded movies, or drowning their sorrows by traveling throughout the country.
The curiosity always lies with the H1 hunks with girlfriends. Or friends who are girls.
For those Indian dudes who haven't got the American visa stamped on their passports, nightlife of H1 dudes are seems like a dream. Easy alcohol, skimpily clad blond dudettes, in skintight blouses, and tighter mini skirts, nightclubs, blaring rock music, etc etc.
Yeah rite!!!
How about that dude who went onto date that frail H1 female, with spectacles, whose most exciting moment was when her debugger blurted out that her code had passed without errors, on the first go???
Well, he did have an option. Her friend was better looking, but was bigger than his two eyes could handle, due to all the melted cheese of the McDonald's that had melted down her throat. She was well built, but in wrong places.
And there are the ones who have their statuses as 'Committed' on Orkut, spending more than the Ambanis' investment on 'Reliance India Call' to call their beloveds back home. But yes, they do join us for the nightclubs on Sat nites :D
"Dude, I have a date with an ABCD [slang for American Born Indians]," said an excited friend one day.
"Green card fever, hunh?" I smiled.
"No da. Just checking her out," he winked.
"Where did you meet her?"
"Have not met her yet. There is this mutual friend, and he said he would want to me to meet up with her," the buddy, who never had the dare to talk to a girl more than a 'excuse me' back in India, was scaling mountains here. He was going on a blind date!!!
"And when she opens her mouth, talking like an American, you can hide under the table," I guffawed.
He did want to hide under the table when this mid twenties dude met up with the girl, who was in her mid thirties.
Blondes in tight skirts, eh??
Join me at this space on the morrow for some lines about jobs, sleek phones... and ofcourse... classy cars.
For the sequel for this write up, click here
"Actually, a bit of asafoetida after it starts to splatter would be great."
"But don't you think you should let it splatter for a while in oil, before putting asafoetida? I guess it will taste better then. Especially, if you have used dry chilli."
"Try my way. You will surely like it."
"Hmm, what about onions? Early or later?"
"Early would spoil the taste. Put it a bit later."
The conversation was excerpt from a Udaya TV serial, between two grannies??!!
No. NO!!!
The conversation was between two mid twenties dudes in the Patel's Groceries in Chicago, United States.
WHAT THE....
Yezz. The dudes were discussing cuisines.
Nope, not the hunks you see on Star Plus serials who visit Italian restaurants for a casual evening, stretch their legs on the Hawaiian beaches on weekends. These were real desi dudes, with real food problems, in an alien country, discussing about how to make their next meal better.
But don't you get everything in America?
Yes!!! You get everything in America. Drenched in cheese, with a few crumbs of what was moving around on four legs, sometime back.
But relax!!! You need not know cooking for going to the US. It is going to be like the first time you went to profess your love to that high school hottie.
"Hehehe," she laughed then? You forgot to put water below the steel container in the cooker here.
She turned and ran away then? Your curry appears like the one you see in the dilip kumar movies about jails.
But, surely you are lucky than the SLAP!!! The safety valve of the cooker shoots up like a missile!!!
Nooo!!! Class teacher called home then!!! You have a bonfire on the pan, and there is a fire alarm now!!! All those gorgeous females from the apartment gym had to run out of the building because of you??? Congratulations, your social life has just been reduced to less than zero.
But, fret not. There is a band of brothers to help you out. The H1 brotherhood never gives up on you. Away from home, they are your home. They are there for your parties, they are there for your fire alarms. They are there to rejoice when you finish the long distance, to announce that your niece is born. They are also there for support during those frustrating, home sick times.
"So, are you a veggie or a non veggie?" a friend once asked me, at a Mexican restaurant, with a group of buddies. He had been in the US for more than five years now, and still had been able to maintain his veggie status.
"I am a veggie by choice," I announced.
"Eh? By choice? Then what do you think about me? There is a fatwa on me to be a vegetarian??"
I let out a few guffaws. "No, I had been a non veggie for sometime. Didn't like it. Hence, switched back to veggie status," I smiled.
Complex answer for a simple question ?!!
He turned to another friend. "Veggie or Non veggie? I will have to give the orders now. Don't give a complex answer," he said. There was no need to explicitly quote my name, in the accusation.
"I am a vegetarian non-veggie," the other friend said.
"What?"
"I eat non-veg stuff, which usually would have had only vegetarian food," he smiled.
Talk about complex answers!!!
After having given all the orders, he fished out his sleek 'Discover' card to be elegantly swiped by the fat, short Mexican woman at the cash counter.
The credit card!!!
A matter of pride for the young professionals, fresh entrants to the US!!!
Yes, I know that a software professional in Bangalore would have half of his incoming calls from the attractive voices of sales girls of various credit cards. But in here, you need to possess a 'Credit History' to get a credit card.
The credit history is a record of all the credit transactions that you would have had since the day you entered the States. Based on the transactions, you would have a 'Credit Score', which represents your consistency in paying off your credits.
It is linked to your Social Security Number, a reference number.
The system seems very matured and sensible. Oh! Yeah??? Hear this out. One's credit score will not be built unless you borrow good amount of money, and pay it in time. Hence, for being a reliable person for the banks to lend, you need to borrow money heavily, and pay it back in turn. Go tell this to your grandma who had embedded in your middleclass gene, to stay away from loans.
But this is a vicious circle. You don't get a card till you have a credit history. You don't get a history till you have a card.
Wait. There's relief. :-)
The alternative is the 'Secured Credit Card'. You deposit an amount in the bank, based on which you get this credit card. Your credit limit would be equivalent to the amount you deposit. This is a work around to build your credit history.
After a decent score is built, suddenly you are showered with 'preapproved' credit cards from anybody who can print a plastic card. Everyday, you will find in your mailbox, the 'most attractive scheme in the world' from the 'most trusted bank in the US'. The same guys who avoided you like a leper before, would be ready to worship the ground you walked on. ;-)
"Enakkoru girlfriend venumada," screamed the speakers, with Rahman's drums hitting out at us from the Yamaha speakers that my friend had bought from a Chinese for a good deal. We were at our usual hangout at the Infy H1 boys' apartment.
The sitting room consisted of two 'super comfortable' couches, in which one could just sink in. The bachelor boys had purchased it at a throw away price of less than 20$ - 30$ each. Generally, the moving population in the apartments would go in for a 'moving sale'. One can get some real good deals in the sale. Sometimes, the moving population just gives things away, when they are not able to sell.
As the country lives on surpluses, anything that is a little old loses its resale value, irrespective of its quality.
A TV, and a DVD player adorned the corner of the room. Generally, the kitchens are furnished with an electric stove, an oven, and a dishwasher. And that is where the action happens. :D
The sitting room was taken over with the aroma of the exotic sambar prepared by one of my friends, a chef par excellence. All the other guys had their laptops on, connected to the high-speed cable Internet. One of them was just checking out his emails. The other was chatting with his friend in India over GTalk. Another was busy checking out news on deals2buy.com.
And suddenly, there was a thumping sound on the walls.
Wow!!! Screw the BOSE systems. These cheap Yamaha speakers were making the walls shake!!!
"Oh! Shit," blurted out the 'deals' guy and pounced on the speakers to bring down their volume.
"What happened?" I asked, not sure if the walls might actually come down, as they used to show on old BPL commercials during the Doordarshan times.
"The white guy on the other side is thumping on the wall, to reduce the volume," he said.
As the walls are made of wood, they are not entirely soundproof. Hence, these guys had to coexist with the subtler crowd living on the other side of the wall. "We will have to find another apartment soon. This guy is getting on our nerves," announced the chap. Err... I had thought that it was the other way.
After the dinner, we got down to watch a movie on one of the laptops. This was a Telugu movie downloaded from the Internet. The audience consisted of Kannada boys, Tamil dude, Mallus and Northies. How is that for National Integration???!!!
The world of Bachelors is divided into two. Those who have girlfriends, and those who don't. There is the third special category, an intersection set, who letch at others' girlfriends, but that is a complex scenario, which is beyond the scope of our conversation. :D
( Was never good at Set Theory..heh heh)
The H1 hunks without girlfriends, are pretty much predictable. They spend their life in cubicles all the time, or watching downloaded movies, or drowning their sorrows by traveling throughout the country.
The curiosity always lies with the H1 hunks with girlfriends. Or friends who are girls.
For those Indian dudes who haven't got the American visa stamped on their passports, nightlife of H1 dudes are seems like a dream. Easy alcohol, skimpily clad blond dudettes, in skintight blouses, and tighter mini skirts, nightclubs, blaring rock music, etc etc.
Yeah rite!!!
How about that dude who went onto date that frail H1 female, with spectacles, whose most exciting moment was when her debugger blurted out that her code had passed without errors, on the first go???
Well, he did have an option. Her friend was better looking, but was bigger than his two eyes could handle, due to all the melted cheese of the McDonald's that had melted down her throat. She was well built, but in wrong places.
And there are the ones who have their statuses as 'Committed' on Orkut, spending more than the Ambanis' investment on 'Reliance India Call' to call their beloveds back home. But yes, they do join us for the nightclubs on Sat nites :D
"Dude, I have a date with an ABCD [slang for American Born Indians]," said an excited friend one day.
"Green card fever, hunh?" I smiled.
"No da. Just checking her out," he winked.
"Where did you meet her?"
"Have not met her yet. There is this mutual friend, and he said he would want to me to meet up with her," the buddy, who never had the dare to talk to a girl more than a 'excuse me' back in India, was scaling mountains here. He was going on a blind date!!!
"And when she opens her mouth, talking like an American, you can hide under the table," I guffawed.
He did want to hide under the table when this mid twenties dude met up with the girl, who was in her mid thirties.
Blondes in tight skirts, eh??
Join me at this space on the morrow for some lines about jobs, sleek phones... and ofcourse... classy cars.
For the sequel for this write up, click here
Monday, July 24, 2006
Cyanide....a commendable effort in Kannada cinema
"Sivarasan may use any of these aliases, Raghuvaran, Raghuppa, Raja..." the lady in the Kannada Doordarshan news was blurting out the twenty aliases of Sivarasan on the TV, in the summer of 1991. The country had been shaken violently, by the gruesome assassination of the ex-Premier of India. The Deccan Herald of those days didn't carry any other news but the police news about the massive manhunt for the elusive team of LTTE, which had consummated the horror. The country was in gloom, the citizens were in a state of shock, and the police stood ridiculed.
And when the man hunt ended after those days of turmoil, the assassins were dead. But the details flashed in the dailies, on the militant group, the assassins, and the movement gave me a different picture than the initial one of a group of fanatics out to conquer the world.
But, how could the Karnataka police, never known for its efficiency or valor, capture one of the most intelligent assassins the world has ever seen?
This question lingered in my mind.
The 'Cyanide' movie cleared it.
The slick camera work, the very good clarity of the film used (believe me, this matters a lot), the near perfect performances by the artistes (they are supposedly theatre artists), taut script, and good work at the editing table, all make this effort a treat to watch.
There is not much of a story, but for what already has been published in news papers, and many other books that followed the assassination. But, the skill of the director lies exactly in this. He has not ventured into the history of the LTTE movement, or the background of the assassination team members. An occasional mention of the background is included to make the conversation flow natural. The director has not glamorized any characters, or their principles.
They have their point of view. That point of view does not hold good in this country. Hence, no matter whether they are right or wrong universally, they are wrong in this country, and hence will be punished in this country.
Cutting the crap, the narration sticks to the core.
The dialogues are impressively natural.
"How did you come to Bangalore?" Ranganath , a Bangalore local forced to help the team, asks Shubha, a team member.
She doesn't respond. She is busy nibbling on a fruit.
"How did you come to Bangalore?" he asks again.
"On a chemical tanker. Generally, the police don't venture to look at its content, as it is very smelly," she answers
"How did you sit inside it?"
"Cleaned it for three days. We put some holes in the wall of the tank, for breathing. Me and Master (Shivarasan) sat inside and played chess," she says.
"How will you play chess in the tanker? Won't the pawns fall off?" asks Ranganath.
"It is magnetic," she answers.
The performances by the ace artistes are impeccable. There is not a scene where the audience is embarrassed due to over acting. The professionals do not disappoint, and deliver without a flaw.
Technical limitations only occur in the form of the shoot out scenes between LTTE and the Srilankan army. The action scenes could have been more polished, and could be made more realistic than the usage of diwali crackers for bullet hits.
The narration style is journalistic in nature. It does not take parties, or state point of views. It just states the facts, and gets out.
For the audience who is fed up with bland love stories amidst terrorist back drop (Dil Se), and confusing point of views (Fiza) this is a refreshing change, where you are given what you came for....
'What actually happened.'
Short movie, tight movie.
A treat to watch.
And when the man hunt ended after those days of turmoil, the assassins were dead. But the details flashed in the dailies, on the militant group, the assassins, and the movement gave me a different picture than the initial one of a group of fanatics out to conquer the world.
But, how could the Karnataka police, never known for its efficiency or valor, capture one of the most intelligent assassins the world has ever seen?
This question lingered in my mind.
The 'Cyanide' movie cleared it.
The slick camera work, the very good clarity of the film used (believe me, this matters a lot), the near perfect performances by the artistes (they are supposedly theatre artists), taut script, and good work at the editing table, all make this effort a treat to watch.
There is not much of a story, but for what already has been published in news papers, and many other books that followed the assassination. But, the skill of the director lies exactly in this. He has not ventured into the history of the LTTE movement, or the background of the assassination team members. An occasional mention of the background is included to make the conversation flow natural. The director has not glamorized any characters, or their principles.
They have their point of view. That point of view does not hold good in this country. Hence, no matter whether they are right or wrong universally, they are wrong in this country, and hence will be punished in this country.
Cutting the crap, the narration sticks to the core.
The dialogues are impressively natural.
"How did you come to Bangalore?" Ranganath , a Bangalore local forced to help the team, asks Shubha, a team member.
She doesn't respond. She is busy nibbling on a fruit.
"How did you come to Bangalore?" he asks again.
"On a chemical tanker. Generally, the police don't venture to look at its content, as it is very smelly," she answers
"How did you sit inside it?"
"Cleaned it for three days. We put some holes in the wall of the tank, for breathing. Me and Master (Shivarasan) sat inside and played chess," she says.
"How will you play chess in the tanker? Won't the pawns fall off?" asks Ranganath.
"It is magnetic," she answers.
The performances by the ace artistes are impeccable. There is not a scene where the audience is embarrassed due to over acting. The professionals do not disappoint, and deliver without a flaw.
Technical limitations only occur in the form of the shoot out scenes between LTTE and the Srilankan army. The action scenes could have been more polished, and could be made more realistic than the usage of diwali crackers for bullet hits.
The narration style is journalistic in nature. It does not take parties, or state point of views. It just states the facts, and gets out.
For the audience who is fed up with bland love stories amidst terrorist back drop (Dil Se), and confusing point of views (Fiza) this is a refreshing change, where you are given what you came for....
'What actually happened.'
Short movie, tight movie.
A treat to watch.
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