I hate you like I love you

“Now listen to this my fellow Americans, this is what the Japanese would have heard that morning on 18th April 1942. This is the sound that struck the fear in the hearts of the Japanese for the first time in the Second World War. This is the war cry of Jimmy Doolittle that shattered the Japanese confidence and made America believe that Pearl Harbor was just an aberration. This is the announcement to the world that America will not be defeated. The sweet whisper in every American ear that America will remain independent, come what may.” The announcer shrieked the welcome to the B-25J bomber with that in the Dayton air show this year.

White people were getting their tans and sunburns and the dark skins were getting darker still. The sun was mercilessly beating down baking everyone who has gathered to see the biggest air show in the birth place of aviation.

Americans would probably never know what it is like being ruled by a foreign power, but they surely understand that it’s a very important thing to not know that. When the deafening roar of the engines heralded the B-25s every one clapped their hearts out.

It was almost cute compared to the other monstrous beauties that were its descendents. Everyone cheered the sight of the B-25. Everyone cheered except the small Asian looking family next to us.

During the enactment called “Tora Tora Tora” earlier, faces of the adults in the family, in rapt attention and awe like everyone else had still managed to betray their hearts. I could tell that this family was of Japanese extraction.

“Tora Tora Tora”, the same announcer had solemnly told everyone, “is a salute to every brave man who fell on both sides. It’s not vilification of a nation, my friends; it’s enacting a sad day in American history”. They probably plan the show in a way that the announcers can get over with other acts before playing themselves.

Only the sun was same to everyone, equally torturous. Only the kids were really enjoying the show, even those yellow kids. Sun did not bother them and everything else in the show was equally awesome.

P.S
The title of the post is title of a new song. Sigh! They are so much more funny.
And here is a list of performances at the show.

Giving it back

A colleague did a scintillating performance in the youth festival organized by the local Indian association couple of weeks back.

Reacting to the video posted on facebook, an American colleague sulked that we did not invite him.

‘Indian people don’t invite Americans to Indian dance parties’, he said, ‘it’s bad, it’s almost racist’.

He could but did not take offence to my retort, ‘how do you like it now, white man’.

Good thing that we maintain a healthy balance of annoying each other. And of course three Indian people with music and time is a dance party. There's no invitation.

P.S.

This is my first 100 word post. No, don't count the postscript. I will try to do it often, sometimes funny sometimes serious. It is fun. I will love it if you told me if you liked the idea.

I need your blessings only

I have always liked travelling in trains. It is the next best thing to driving, especially for long distances. You are not boxed in a seat. You get to walk around if you want or if like me, can happily lie down and doze off. You are much at ease. You make new friends, can have long and animated face to face discussions about anything important or not. You can’t do all this stuff in a flight. 

I too fly for the sake of time, but I spend my time cramped and hoping the guy sitting next to me does not sneeze. Bacteria are not exactly the thing which you want to take home from a journey.

God forbid, but I can only pity you if you have a newly minted couple in the seats next to you in a flight. But that is another story for another day.

So it was a nice comfortable train journey. Reading, sleeping then reading some more, checking out the cuteness of fellow passengers, sleeping again, you know, the regular stuff.

I was lying down, concentrating hard trying to figure out a figure, when I overheard someone talking about this great shaman. This was the man who bestows his blessings and goodness to everyone unconditionally.

Now everyone knows that there are many such in India. Everyone knows that all of them have a hotline with God. Some of them can levitate others can conjure sweets and gold out of thin air. Everyone knows that they are rich people. And everyone knows that you ought to donate large sums to their charities out of the kindness of your heart and to promote their noble deeds.

And I agree to it. I mean, look at how many jobs such people generate. If for nothing, I support them for that. Last I heard they were planning to have advanced courses on how to become a popular god men and women as a part of the poverty and unemployment alleviation plans. No, everyone does not know this.

So this great man (let’s call him guru henceforth in this true story, it’s easy to type) was talked about because he ran his trade somewhere near to where the train was passing through at that time. As luck would have it, while the discussion and debates on his holiness were on, the train came to an abrupt screeching halt.

On enquiry it was found that there was some fault with the rails ahead and we have to wait till that gets fixed. Now that can be shocking or not so shocking depending on where you are on the globe at the moment. I, for one, was not too surprised.

Enterprising as we are in India, we strive to get something out of even the most hopeless situations. And we are optimistic as hell. Someone thought aloud that that was a sign that we should go visit the guru.

Some of us took that idea and ran with it (pun, eh?). But who would pass on that divine opportunity? So a group of us got ready to trek to the guru’s abode.

Good thing about not knowing where you are going is that you are ready to take anything that comes. Or you just don't care.

It’s a darn good thing too, for when I reached there I found that the guru was none other than the local police officer, with a handlebar moustache and all. Also, the guru’s abode was a police station, or maybe it was the other way round.

There was this long queue that was there, meandering through many checkpoints. There was a booth where you were security screened and then a booth where you had to pay huge sums as offering to the guru, all of your own free will. They even gave you receipts for this so that you could flaunt it at home and show off amongst your friends. There also was a booth selling lemonade.

I wouldn’t bore you with the details of how long and boring the queue was. Not to mention extremely hot and stuffy hallway the queue was going through. It was just the expectant joy of being in the company of the guru that kept us all going.

Then the moment came when I was in the presence of divinity. The guru police officer had such a look on his face that I was tongue tied. I don’t know how to describe what I felt there.

I would have described it as overwhelming if this word would not have got overwhelmed with the burden of the feelings I intended to put on it. It was too much of a good thing. It probably was way too much of it, and all I wanted to do at the moment was to leave and go back to the mundane.

And then the serene voice floated to my ears.

“What do you want?”

“I want nothing, just your blessings.”

He smiled, chuckled even, and said, “Yes that is ok, but what do you want”. He gently patted my arm saying this.

My eyes tightly shut, I managed to mumble, “I want your blessings only”.

He says, “Yes, you have my blessing. But what do you want?”

He patted a lot harder this time. As if he was almost slapping my arm. Much like a doctor slaps the arms of unconscious patients to bring them back. Why, I think I heard him giggle too.

Perplexed, I opened my eyes, only to see the steward from the train's dining car grinning right next to my face.

I acted as if nothing has happened and everything is normal and promptly ordered the regular chicken dinner.

Reading List - 2011

This is turning out to be not so great year for reading. Read my last year's Reading list. Here is a list of what I have been able to manage this year

1. Crime and Punishment by  Fyodor Dostoyevsky (Drama, an awesome one)
2. This will change Everything : Ideas That Will Shape the Future by Mr. John Brockman (Ideas from an assortment of people about what they think will change the world. Good, but the ideas have just been touched upon, could have done with some elaboration)
3. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen (Historical novel and a very good one)
4. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (Sci-fi/romantic and very fascinating)
5. Superfeakonomics by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner (Freaky Economics, a book perhaps marred by the expectation from a sequel of its predecessor. Good one in its own right)
6. The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson (A novel. The booker guys know their stuff)
7. 1984 by George Orwell (A novel. Ah! what a novel)
8. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (Super engaging read)
9. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (Another must read)

Hairy Tales

“Koorly.”
“Eh? “
“It is very koorly.”
“What is what?”
“Your hair is very koorly.”
“Hair is what?”
“Koorly koorly! Your hair is very koorly.”

Getting a haircut has never been a good time for me. Staring at the faces of 10 other people, all of them of varying degrees of boring sophistication, while waiting for my turn has never done any good for my nerves. What was happening now was not helping the matters one bit.

It must have showed on my face. For when sliding out of the chair I said, “Hey, I think I am done”, my friend interrupted.

“No it’s not done. She is just saying that your hair is very curly.”

God bless his soul. For that gave me enough strength to go through another 744 seconds of my haircut.

She was a charming old lady, probably of East European origin. But for all I knew, she could be a witch from medieval times casting a spell on me with a razor hovering near my throat. Bloody immigrants, I thought. Then I though, that would be me too. So I took it back.

And that is when I decided that I have had enough haircuts to last me for some time. Thankfully I was on the east coast then.

Let me put this on record here. I am fond of long hair. I am even fonder of clean hair. And scalp that does not itch due to heat and humidity is an absolute necessity in life. That is why, all my life while in India, I have been the butt of jokes for my millimeter long hair.

When I was a kid a well meaning friend of mine once innocently enquired about the cobbler that gave me the haircut.

Anyways, few months later, I came back to India on vacation. Now I am not the one to give unnecessary shocks to my folks, mostly because I give them some necessary ones once in a while. So I decided on getting my hair trimmed before I went home.

I enquired about a nice saloon which could take care of it and many months after the last time, I went in for a haircut. There was this hair expert whom I was referred to. My heart sank the moment I saw his face. All of them have looked sinister to me, but this one was more so.

He made me sit in the chair, appraised my head for a moment and started the conversation.

“How did you grow your hair?”
“I did nothing.”
“They are nice, you must have done something.”
“Really, I just did not get it cut.”
“Oh ok. For how long?”
“Few months, don’t remember exactly. “ I didn’t want to remember my last time.
“No problem. I think you have got your hair curled?”
“I did nothing.” Chill ran down my spine. If almost heard kurly.
“Anyways, I think you should not cut your hair.”
“Thank you. I will leave now.”
“No, don’t leave. I think you should get your hair straightened.”
I gasped for breath.

Let’s take a pause here. I had lived almost all my life in small town India. A saloon has always meant a quick haircut. A barber has always been a barber to me and not a hair expert. Get in, get it mowed, pay 5 rupees (15 now) and get out. Snap! Nice and cool. And everyone who meets you will know that you have had a haircut.

As it is, the presence of a hair expert was making me nervous. This suggestion took my breath away.

Since this place has been highly recommended and deep in my heart even I did not want to trim my hair, I steeled my resolve and decided on continue the discussion.

“How much time will it take?”
“Thirty minutes, may be forty five. It depends.”
“Ok. So you are saying that in an hour’s time I will have permanently straight hair?”
“Yes absolutely. All the big actors have it done. Even John Abraham has it done. “ He counted a few more such names that I don’t remember now.
“How much does it cost?” Right now I was holding my breath. I had never spent more than 15 rupees in to get a haircut in India.
“It will take between 2 and 3 thousands now and about 1500 or so for touch ups every 6 months. It again depends. We will analyze your hair, create a hair profile and then compare with your face and then we can decide.” With this he threw in some technical jargon, which probably he only knew.

The shock at the initial cost was overwhelmed by the shock of the prospect of going through this again.

“Touch ups? But you said it was permanent.”
“Yes, it is. It is permanent for six months.”

That day I went back and looked into the dictionary. Permanent still meant permanent.

“I think I will get a simple trimming.”
“But a straight long hair will look good on you." By this time he was touching my face and trying to arrange my hair in a way which he thought would look when it is straight. At least I like to think that is what he was trying to do.

I was about at the end of the tether.

“I think I need to think about it. I will come again later." I was stealthily moving out of the chair.
“It’s ok; you can get a simple trim that too will work.” He said. He seemed to be having a slow business that day.

I slid back into the chair. He started wetting my hair.

“What do you do?” He started the conversation again.
“I work for a software firm.” More than this, I have never been able to explain to anyone.
“Yours is such a glamorous job. Many of your colleagues get such exclusive styling done here. We have so many customers from your industry. I really think you should get the hair straightened.”
“Please keep your trap shut and get over it already.” That is what I wanted to say, but by this time he had his scissors ready. And common sense stopped me. All I did was mumble.

“Hmm.”
“All the big actors have curly hair, but they get it straightened. Yours is such a glamorous job. You should have got it done. It’s permanent.”
“Hmm. I think even your profession is so glamorous. How much more time will it take?”

And so the ordeal lasted for about 1432 seconds. At the end of it I was lighter by 150 rupees and was not lighter by any perceptible amount of hair. No one would know that I have had a haircut.

And sure enough next evening when I met my dad, first thing he enquired about was the duration since I have seen a barber. I deftly escaped answering this. But early next morning dad asked me to get something from the market and get a haircut on my way back.

So there I was back at my childhood barber shop. A brisk hair cut in 10 minute, including the waiting time. Only the rate was up from last time. I had to pay 20 rupees now.

But that is okay, for everyone was happy.

You promised that you will die for me, now please do

When I started this blog, I wrote a couple of posts about Dan Brown and the Lost Symbol. Go ahead and read them if you have nothing better to do (here and here). I promised to write about the latest book once I read it. Since I have read all Dan Brown books, even the ones before Robert Langdon stories, this should have been easy and natural. But the problem is that between then and now, I have read some awesome literature. I have been amazed at how some of them have such intricately woven plots, or how some of them would pull even the most neutral reader into the scene just by sheer power of words. Or even books of essays that starts with an idea and builds on it with such irrefutable arguments that you either agree or are forced to think about it and then agree.

But since I keep my promises, I read the book.

And boy it was a different kind of experience. I am so brain dead that I don’t know what to write. May be it’s the fear of going over the stuff I read in my mind over again. I don't even find it as much fun making fun of it as I did in those old posts.

A book review is going to be too late now. But what I can and will tell you is the most important thing that I take out of this experience. There are two actually.

First thing first. This is an old wine in a new bottle. Just that this time someone forgot to cork the bottle properly.

You can take this idea of symbology only so far. Sooner or later you will exhaust all the words from ancient languages that can have an open interpretation. And once you do, you are going to be repetitive and painful. That is what this book is. A severely watered down version of Da Vinci Code.

The most frightening thing about the book is that at places even the author seems to be not enjoying it. That is the worst feeling that you can give to the reader.

When you refer back to your own old works over and over again, it’s bad. When it’s “the lost word” you are looking for and still title the book lost symbol, it’s bad. When in the end you take the reader down a thousand steps, just to inform that the lost word is a bible which is there somewhere around, its awesomely rotten after about 500 pages. If your story has two set of people, who believe and who don’t, don’t give me a main character (Katherine Solomon) which changes sides over and over again without so much of a warning.

And please, please, please don’t tell me in detail every little thought in the brain of a dying person. It might be fun and thoughtful, it just happens to insult my intelligence. I would rather you give me the taste of cyanide and make it firsthand this time.

So that was it people, about the book.

Here are my take-away from the experience. Sometimes staring blankly in the void can be the most awesome idea.

And I need to learn to make promises carefully.

Sometimes Natha’s poop is better analyzed than the rising Yamuna waters

Few weeks back I watched this movie called Peepli [Live]. Now if you are in India and have not heard about this movie, then it’s probably because

You live under a rock in the middle of Thar desert

You tribe lives in one of the protected jungles

You are illiterate, blind, deaf, all of these

You live in a different country (at least you think so) called Tamilnadu

You live in Bombay (which is almost not India, even if you think so), and only poverty you have known is in the slums (which is more of squalor, more about unaffordable real estate and less of actual ‘going without food’ poverty).

Take your pick.

This movie is about a brother duo, who happens to be small farmers in some village in the Hindi heartland. And by extension very poor. They have mortgaged their small strip of land for their mother’s medical expenses. Since they cannot repay the loan, one of them, Natha Das Manikpuri, decides to commit suicide to get the compensation from the government.

What follows is a huge drama over the suicide, played by the frenzied media and the wily politicians. Of which the movie is touted to be a satire over. And it’s a very finely done satire. Not too understated and not overtly loud. This fine satire is the most likable thing about the movie.

You laugh through the movie and in the end go home with a compelling issue or two to think about.

While I can tell a thousand likable things about the movie like the real characters, the almost real story, the fabulous presentation and the immaculate attention to details, I will not.

That is because this post is not about reviewing the movie. Which I wanted to do but got too lazy about.

This post is just to draw attention to the current drama in the news media. The case in point my people is, the flooding of Yamuna River and the imminent floods in Delhi. Although waters did not enter the city, but we got severely flooded by all the ‘exclusive and by the minute’ reports of the water levels of Yamuna and how far above the danger mark it is flowing.

What pisses me off is to hear every day for last two weeks that by 4 pm (or near about on different days) the water will be flowing 2 meters above the danger mark. Every single day.

Monday (before 4 pm): another 2.5 cusecs of water has been released and by 4 pm Yamuna will be flowing 2 meters above the danger mark. Monday (after 4 pm):  water is currently flowing at 1.8 meters above the danger mark. Will be above 2 meters above danger mark by 4 am.

Tuesday (before 4 pm): another 1 cusec of water has been released and by 4 pm Yamuna will be flowing 2 meters above the danger mark. Tuesday (after 4 pm):  water is currently flowing at 1.8001 meters above the danger mark. Will be above 2 meters above danger mark by 4 am.

……………..

……………..

Friday (before 4 pm): another bout of rains and by 4 pm Yamuna will be flowing 2 meters above the danger mark. Friday (after 4 pm):  water is currently flowing at 1.899 meters above the danger mark. Will be above 2 meters above danger mark by 4 am.

And all of a sudden today, water has started to recede. Despite huge rainfall in the city.

If you have been feeling acute concerns about the floods in Delhi, hold on for now. You have been duped. And I wonder if you will be really concerned if it really happened. What with having exploited out of all your emotional juice.

Besides, how this flood will put the commonwealth games in jeopardy, as if it is not already. But that is another drama in its own right.

Or how dengue will be an epidemic, like it is not already.

The high point of all this is this: one fine day the news anchor is waxing eloquent about how water is above 2 meters above danger mark, a caption just next to his face showing 2.01 or some such number. And the news flash at the bottom of the screen shows 1.8 meters.

Well, we all need to know and hold on to the high points when there is flood at your door steps.

Talking of high points, one high point in the movie is this: Natha goes for the ablutions and goes absconding from thereon. Bereft of a subject, one of the news team camping there goes on to broadcast the analysis of color and consistency of Natha’s poop. That apparently helps to determine the emotional and psychological state of the person.

That was at least hilarious.

If you have friends and family in Delhi, don’t worry. They are perfectly safe. Unless they have been meditating in a tent on banks of Yamuna. In that case they deserved it.

Water logging in low lying areas is only a little worse than what you get after a day of good rainfall.

Now can I have some more analysis of Natha’s poop please!