Mr Roy loses his love Chirpy Bose to Paul Oktopus

Mr Roy is dejected and a feeling of helplessness has taken over his luminous personality. His glowing eyes are pale; teeth needs an immediate polishing session at Dr Prashant Rao Bhatodekar, the dentist. He is no more the animated man thumping his belly whenever he comes up with some secretive news. He infact no more comes up with any secretive news except price hike plans by cement companies and fare hike plans by airlines.

What is spelling doom for the rising star of Indian financial journalism? The shameful exit of Argentina that too beaten convincingly by no team other than Germany. Yes the loss of Argentina has given him the shock of his life. After the irritation with Vuvuzela last week, Roy saw his favourite team crashing to a 4-0 defeat.

Roy’s girlfriend Chirpy, who dislikes football, had booked two seats at a posh Bandra club just to give his lover a sense of joy when the Argentine players would have taken off their shirts after thrashing Germany. But destiny and Paul, the Oktopus had other plans. Shit happened and Roy had to handle it. And the sad thing is that he is handling it alone. Why?

Well Chirpy has left Roy for the Oktopus. Not quite literally but it happened. Chirpy who is studying psychology at a Chembur institute is an avid animal lover. Her name itself was comes from an animal function. Chirping or twittering of birds. Since her childhood the cute roly-poly girl would talk incessantly in a birdy manner whether any one listens or not. And so the name Chirpy.

Roy was the only one who would listen to her like an old quiet lazy rooster and that was the point of her attraction for Mr Roy. But after Argentina lost Roy also lost his temper and the first incomplete sentence he murmured was, “kill that Paul Oktopus.”

That’s was it. Chirpy also lost it and slapped Mr Roy in front all the Argentina fans. Chirpy cried and said you and Argentina deserved it. You guys have been talking of killing and frying that poor voiceless animal throughout the match. Paul eto cute. It’s poetic justice. You all are products of shameless capitalism. You talk about ideas, wear Che Guevara t-shirts and hail Argentina. May I know the reason?

Do you have any idea of what is happening to the globe? Climate change, greenhouse gas emission, endangered tigers only 1411 left in India and not to speak of shrinking marine animal pool. Poor Paul may not be there tomorrow because of you men. You all are the same always think of war, killing etc. This chirpy is not your game Mr Roy, you crouching tiger in the disguise of a rooster. I abhor you and declare my relationship with you null and void from this very moment.

I have added Paul Oktopus to my Facebook friends list and he has accepted it. I will rather romance an intelligent creature like him. We will play FarmVille, we will build barns and houses that will adopt cute little animals and not dirty old roosters like you. Chirpy ended her twittering while Roy was yawning and wiping his (-10) powered thick glasses.

Now Roy realized Chirpy Bose has made enough of a scene and the whole Argentina fan club has forgotten the loss of their team and is making fun of him in hushed tones.

Roy in his inimitable style stood up put his hands on his t-shirt just over the eyes of Che Guevara printed on it and said. “See I stand for what I think and don’t bring Che into your Octopus love. And as much biology I remember let me tell you, ‘These Octopuses are invertebrates, shapeless, boneless.’ They are just the kind of men you hate the most.”

Roy despite his immediate disaster management speech actually lost two things in life. His love for football and Chirpy, his cute little bird.

Roy hates everyone these days and doesn’t catch anyone on Gmail chat. He doesn’t have a status message anymore after he removed, ‘Waka waka tis time for Argentina’ last Saturday.

I have been trying to help him coping with the disaster. I found a nervous Roy checking Chirpy's profile everyday on Facebook to find out if she has changed her relationship status from single to be with Paul Oktopus.

I asked Roy what is the future plan action. Roy said, "I will create a group in Facebook called - If 1 million people join this Facebook will remove Paul Oktopus's profile."

I just checked and found one group with the bizarre name of '101 Ways to kill Oktopus Paul / 101 Reasons We hate Oktopus Paul'
What's happening? Who's playing the ball those men or the Octopus?
Photo courtesy: Google image search and funnylifeblog

A Vuvuzela for Mr Roy

He is the most popular creature in Mumbai’s media world. He’s like the superhero of journalism roaming incognito in the streets of India’s financial capital. He’s got that extra long nose for news. He pokes into everyone’s affair. When everything seems alright he spots an inconspicuous anomaly and probes deeper.

When Mumbai sleeps he stays awake and files the biggest breaking stories that shake the Sensex the next morning.

Corporates respect him, peers envy him and women love him. He is for you the inimitable MITH*****. Sorry for the unexpected five stars after MITH. It’s his towering personality that has forced me settle for the stars. Let’s call him Mr Roy (name intentionally changed to protect identity).

Mr Roy, besides news sniffing has two interests in life – football and travelling from Vashi to Andheri in Mumbai’s suburban trains on Sundays -- which invariably fits into his chock-a-bloc schedule.

For football lover Roy, FIFA world cup is like the best time in his life and he makes it a point to watch every match live. Roy comes home early in the evening and jogs around in his three-by-three feet balcony overlooking a mosquito breeding pond and a proposed mango orchard, where the mango trees are yet to be planted.

Roy claims the run between kitchen and balcony melts his extra kilos.

Well, enough of jogging. Now Mr Roy switches on his television to watch the match between Uruguay and France.

All excited, tea sipping Mr Roy jumps, laughs and bites his nail in excitement whenever the ball reached near the goal post on either side. Roy says he doesn’t support any team and every team which plays world cup football is worth supporting.

The excitement increases further in the match but Roy suddenly looks silent. Vuuun…vuuunn..vuuun..vuun..vun..vun the sound continues. Roy know there is something missing here.

No one of his neighbors, mostly nuclear scientists, would be playing something so stupid that too during a football match. But the sound continued vuun …vuun..un..un…He went to the balcony and found no movement outside. Children in the newly built shanties at the proposed mango orchard were playing cricket, while their parents were playing cards.

He then thought may be the mosquitoes in the adjacent pond which is being filled for building a new luxury tower, are to be blamed but his intelligence told mosquitoes do not have such a strong voice and to create such audible sound you need all the mosquitoes in Mumbai jamming in a studio.

The picture outside was serene. But the voice grew louder and the pattern more frequent. In his detective style he walked silently and put his large ears near the television. Suddenly there was loud vuuu which almost damaged his ear drum. Now he knows it. The poor five year old television has lost it. It’s sick now and is expressing with cough and coarse voice during the football match.

Roy suffered the match and got up early in the morning. Before even brushing his teeth, he called Atif Aslam, the namesake of the Pakistani pop singer and the plumber-cum-electrician-cum watchman and much more to the housing society. At one call Aslam was at his tenth floor apartment.

He opened the television and claimed there was some problem with internal speakers. Roy shelled five hundred rupees and went with his daily schedule. Today is an important match. Argentine vs Nigeria. Roy though claims all teams are equal, has actually secretly been endorsing the Latin American country by making his permanent Gmail status as Waka waka tis time for Argentina and has already been beaten by two English and Brazilian fans in his office for such brazen support.

Anyways now on day two Roy switches the TV set no noise. Match starts noise starts. He loses his patience and calls Aslam immediately, who cuts his call five times. Roy is furious. Bugger is this time to cut calls the real match is on and this TV is shouting. Disappointed he mutes the TV and watches. Aslam in the meantime messages back in Hindi saying, “boss samjha karo ek din to chhuti milti hai Bandstand pe baitha hun baad mein baat karte hain.”

Roy fumes in anger and decides to buy a new television the other day. Unable to sleep he watches Ram Gopal Varma directed James movie, his all time favourite, on his Acer laptop. Whenever Roy fails in life he draws inspiration from the hero in James who beats all odds to achieve his target. Others however don’t understand the inspiration part; anyways most have not seen the movie.

While watching James for the third time nonstop, the newspaper boy throws the Times of India newspaper into his balcony. He runs to get the paper while thinking about the hawker. “This is the problem with this country… everyone can throw it like a cricketer but no one can bend it like Beckham.” “How can people breathe so easily without playing football in this country?

Then in his mind he blamed it on Neheruvian socialism which destroyed teamwork and promoted a individualistic game like Cricket. Suddenly he stops and what he reads. "People want to ban irritating noise at world cup soccer." He read the noisy instrument is called Vuvuzela. He sighs and laughs at him and falls asleep while James was still playing on his laptop.

(Mr Roy thought of keeping this secret to himself till he had two small pegs of whiskey. This story is fictional and doesn’t resemble to any character except Mr Roy in real life.)

Computer in Allahabad

My first brush with computers was in Allahabad, during the first year of my graduation in the late 90s. The exposure to a giant, greasy pale yellow machine at that time seemed to be a delight.
At the agriculture university where most classes discussed lifecycle of crops, primary constituents of milk or best practices of feeding piglets, computer classes were like a picnic.
The powerful moving visuals, air-conditioned ambience and the excitement of checking your Yahoo mail in the lone desktop powered by mostly dysfunctional dial-up connection, it was fun.
Most of us never got more than a few minutes to touch the black, almost broken key boards, but it was pleasure anyways. The computer session also saw the unlikely pairing of people who were desperate to share a computer overcoming all earthly distinctness.
Like the always fighting conservative Malayali Christian boy and equally conservative Bihari Brahmin, the sophisticated chiffon clad Lucknowi girl and the rustic paan chewing Jaunpuri boy.
Years of differentiation, cultural egos and heartfelt irritation melted for a short while every Saturday at 12 P.M Indian Standard Time, when the computer classes began. The vivid memories of the computer classes come back as I discover more of my graduation tribe on the Facebook or Twitter.

Midnight thoughts: social networking is good

I had always hated to become a writer by night, except some educational writing, compelled by the desire to earn a degree. But the last few days have brought the writer in me to wake only after midnight.

The IPL is surely to be blamed for this. I read my daily dose of book after the night IPL match ends around 1130 pm and after midnight your body and mind gets diluted and flows in the ether.

If you listen to equally airy thin music from the collection of ‘Guns and Roses’, Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan, the heart pounds like a unstable volcanic mass and thoughts erupt and spread like clouds that can burst as the right temperament touches them.

One such thought burst yesterday, technically this morning as I write. The thought is about being eternally happy and innocent. Do we ever manage to stay innocent in all our thoughts and actions? I think we don’t.

The ability to hide sorrow with the faint smile and happiness with the dumbfounded awkwardness is familiar to all of us in workplaces.

Those who are lucky have a family and friend network to be innocent and real whenever they want to. I think for millions of others the gift of social networking is doing miracle.

It’s like the village chowpal or you, where you have your small society that gathers, drinks chai, hookah or whatever they want. They talk about all sorts of issues -- sensitive, insensitive, political, social – and that too in small groups of likeminded ones.

Here you have the option to share your mundane views without being rebuked. You share your best moments through pictures, which can be enhanced with the gift of technology and spares you the time and effort of actually looking good.

You can share your disillusioned state of mind by sharing Bob Dylan‘s Knocking on Heaven’s Door video through YouTube, despite actually being a hope less singer yourself.

It’s good for your self esteem, your heart and mind too. You learn the slangs and management case studies here before anywhere else. I dare to disagree with whoever did the study inferring social networking sites reduce productivity. I claim they boost in more than one ways the individual’s moral, ego and power her/him even to stay on the top of her/ his professional developments.

Even in personal relationships it helps you find some and also protects you from losing some. It helps you with regular birthday wishes, which all men now can’t blame they forgot.

It also gives you opportunities to wish at personal and professional developments thereby cutting on actual travels. Lot of carbon foot prints reduced. Besides you chat and save millions of trees every year, it’s another thing you destroy them as toilet papers and on Pizza delivery.

The verdict is social networking makes your life better. As I am writing the last line, I can say it took me about 25 minutes to compose this prose and I’m still listening to Knocking on Heaven’s Door on the background.

Note: By the I posted this story I had switched to Lady Gaga's hit number' Bad Romance' so that my romance with midnight writing ends and I could catch some sleep.

PHOTOGRAPH: By Samrat Mukherjee. We all social networking aficionados, like the thirsty little boy pumping and getting his water, do our tweets, FB messages and meet our thirst of virtual society.

The Lonely White Horse

The Lonely White Horse, my latest acrylic-on-canvas work is a portrayal of the peaceful Indian security personnel. He may be from any section of the Indian security apparatus, always smiling, judicious with power and protector of the sovereignty of the large sub-continent. But almost complete absence of political leadership has converted him into a sitting duck. The enemy of the country like the blood thirsty red horse is engulfing him from all the sides – north, west, east, south - and even within the country. Salute to the bravery and spirit of such a white horse. But will he find a good leader who is as concerned about the country’s security and autonomy as him?
(Disclaimer: I have learnt my horse patterns from MF Hussain's horse paintings.)

Batak Mian's story must be told

Batak Mian’s story must be told to every Indian. Despite the unfamiliarity of the name, the absence of his story in India’s history, Batak Mian cannot be ignored. One Indian mainstream news paper recently took the pain to digging out and publishing the story of this extra-ordinary Indian, without whom India’s independence might not have been possible.

The story goes back to 1917 British India. Mahatma Gandhi was visiting Bihar’s Champaran district where he started his career India’s politics, supporting the cause of the local indigo planters.

Batak Mian was serving as a cook with a British indigo plantation manager who apparently instructed him to offer Mahatma poisoned milk. Mian disclosed the plot in front of Mahatma and Rajendra Prasad, who became the first President of an independent India later. Result Mahtma’s life saved and the rest is history as we all know.

I understand the story sounds loose and slightly heroic. Even as an objective writer I find despite the folklore involved in glorifying Batak Mia’s role, it’s worth remembering. And at least his grand children shouldn’t earn their wages as daily labourers.
Here is a link to the original story http://www.hindustantimes.com/Family-of-Mahatma-s-saviour-in-dire-straits/H1-Article1-500334.aspx

Noble piracy or guilty pleasure: The case of Ram and Bhagwanji

This morning a friend of mine asked me if I have watched 3 Idiots, the Hindi movie. I said yes on my computer using a pirated DVD borrowed from someone. She was aghast to discover this part of me. “Not you.” Never expected something like this from you, she said. I was rather confused realising how I was unknowingly acknowledging something so unlawful, almost criminal! I’m supposed to be the sensitive, morally responsible, law abiding, patriotic individual. Someone, who’s not even travelled a single day without ticket in the local trains, someone who has never dared to disrupt the discipline in his workplace, school or college, even if no one is watching.

Yet someone like me buys roadside cheap novels photocopied from the licensed book and pirated DVDs without any signs of doing anything wrong.

Is it a systemic problem in India that discounts piracy as something criminal though the law says so? May be? Am I embarrassed? Don’t know, but I have a logical reasoning why piracy is thriving without people noticing the criminal side as if it’s a genetic disorder.

Picture this: Ram Chander Tiwari, the sixth son of landless Pujari somewhere in eastern Uttar Pradesh. Ram is the most brilliant student in the local school but rarely goes to school thanks to the poverty that has forced him to work at the local Halwai, (sweet-meat maker). The sixteen-year-old manages to borrow some book or the other from the Halwai’s lousy son and manages to appear in class ten examinations. Comes out as a topper and easily gets admitted in the best college in Allahabad city. He toils hard even to pay his fees and travel expenses, which is less than 10 US dollars annually. In the meantime Ram’s father dies and three brothers leave for brick kilns and live on their own.

Now Ram has to earn for his family while helping her mother to get her two elder sisters married. Ram does very well again, joins medical and gets a scholarship, most of which he sends home while eating one time and not joining the hostel mess. Ram works as a salesman with a bookshop as well.

Now medical books are expensive. Ram with no money to spend on his food and clothes, goes to the book shop owner Bhagwanji, a generous man. Bhagwanji gets him photocopies of most expensive books and even provides coloured copies whenever they are needed to explain a medical case. So the books which would have cost 20,000 rupees come at 400 rupees, even that is bought by Ram’s friends who share it with him.

Ram struggles for almost a decade becomes a surgeon and later a civil servant. Even now he visits Bhagwanji, who also helped him in providing access to pirated IAS study material.

One morning Bhagwanji gets a heart stroke. Someone informs Ram, then the collector of the district. When Ram reaches the small local hospital he was greeted by the chief secretary of the state. “Sir, How come you are here?” The chief said guy I would not have been what I’m today had Bhagwanji not been there. Slowly in the crowd Ram discovered hoards of civil servants, doctors and scientists making a cue to show their presence to an ailing Bhagwanji.

Bhagwanji did piracy work for a righteous cause. He did the work of Bharat Nirman, which may be rated as good as the total contribution of India’s education ministry.

No doubt he cheated the authors, publishers and breached the law, but he made an underprivileged India reach the power corridors and write policy for the country.
May be we can call it ‘noble piracy’.

Everyone must not have solved the same dignified purpose with their piracy skills in India, but they did their bit to feed, enlighten and entertain an impoverished India.

Millions of Indians with whom money has not been kind also dream to study, wear, eat and entertain themselves. They can't pay the monopolistic giants of food, water, education and entertainment a fee for this.

The stale Dabeli infront of a MacDonald, contaminated flavoured water, pirated books and DVD keeps them abreast of a changing India. The one which they want to become a part of. May this bit of piracy keep help India to tick the unreachable 10 percent plus GDP growth?

This is an age where information is power and facilitator of equality the faster it spreads the better its for the country.

May be I can afford the spend 250 rupees for a three hour show of 3 Idiots, but not many like Ram Chander Tiwari. For me piracy is ‘guilty pleasure,’ for them it’s ‘Bhagwanji’s treasure.’

Idiots sell in India

I am an idiot and following is my analysis on all kinds of idiots that rule India. The grading of the idiots is inspired from Chetan Bhagats's novel 'Five Point Someone'. The grade points are between zero and ten.I'm posting this analysis after my comment on facebook attracted good audience so thought of sharing with blog friends.

"Idiots sell in India never the talented ones.
The zero point no ones become the policymakers.
The one point someones become historysheeters.
The two point someones grab land for SEZs.
The three point someones become kingmakers.
The four point someones become successful filmakers.
The five point someones like Chetan Bhagat become bankers and successful authors. The six point someones like me do facebooking and tweeting to get attention.
The seven point someones teach the nation. The eight point someones protect and build the nation.
The nine point someones treat and cure the nation and the ten point someones take orders from the zeropoint nonones. Cycle completes.

PIS (Post Idiotic Script):The above description is not to be taken seriously, This is for pure fun and fiction similarity with any person's name is purely coincidental.

Orissa, mining, marriage and smartphone

On an early December evening two news agency journalists and an investment banker were travelling in a crowded intercity train into the mining and industrial belt of Orissa. The three hour journey seemed longer than usual.

It was pronounced winter, cramped train coaches and jostling of people from all walks of life - executives, government employees, fruit/chat vendors and daily labourers – catching the last train to the mining hinterland of Orissa. The three from Mumbai were on a their way to a journalist friend’s wedding in Angul, industrial capital and the most centrally located city of Orissa.

The immobility inside the train forced them to converse relentlessly in order to evade the drudgery of the small yet tough journey. Topics discussed varied from whether to sell gold just when it has hit the peak to the charisma of Obama that was worthy a Nobel. Heated arguments followed and the intellectual cells of the brain were stimulated.

The concentrated intellectuality was also lightened by some talk of women, i-pod and twitter, but it couldn’t beat the pursuit of talking about money and economy. The three realised they despite there humble background were talking something incomprehensible to their fellow passengers, who were dumbfounded.

The three realised exposure to metro-life and education has already created a water tight compartment between them and their own people who are pressed against them in this cramped coach, who speak their own language and about their own region.

A quick realisation was enough to stop the discussion about stock market, 8 percent growing economy, mergers/acquisitions, investment banker fees and switchover to local issues. The three spoke to their co-passengers in Oriya about the best trains in the route, new industrial development coming up in their neighbourhood and how is the government paying after the sixth pay commission report was implemented. It was relaxing to all of them.

The three finally reached their friend’s wedding reception and joined the celebration dinner. Here they were surrounded by locals, many of them related to the the hundreds of small and large neighourhood industries.

They overheard two of them talking in distress about China’s pressure tactics about lowering the offer price of some commodity.

One of them soon recalled a coverpage story he did about black gold (iron ore) and China some years ago. The three soon discussed how thousands of small time exporters have turned rich overnight by exporting minerals primarily iron ore from Orissa to China, world’s biggest steelmaker. However, with insatiable demand and import monopoly Chinese authorities are deciding prices in the past few months.

While chatting over Orissa's mineral policy and unknowingly meandering through the large open air banquet space the three spotted the glowing faces of the bride and groom which reminded them of their own families.

The gorgeous pink designer lehnga and neatly tailored western suit was making the couple look like one of those from the Shahrukh Khan starring Bollywood movies. Both of them were sitting on two large princely chairs, ususal in most Indian weddings.

At the entry of the marriage hall there was red ticker going on intermttently --Devidutta Weds Purabi-- all in capital letters. The guys joked, it looked a ticker on a television set or a news platform.

The groom, a telecom reporter and the bride, an engineer were trying to hold eachothers' hands in the absence of few attentive eyes but had to soon stay away from eachothers like a playful couple in a garden.

The groom, 48 hours ago on his wedding day amused everyone by his typing skills on the his smartphone. The instrument was in his hands even as he was tying knots with the bride. Whether it’s his affiliation to technology or effort to update his status on Facebook, the invasiveness of the tech revolution was loud and clear.

The bride also earned some reputation 48 hours ago by beating hands-down the technosavvy groom in a thousand-year-old game of finding the cowdy. The groom complained about the sharp nails of the bride going against him.

The three idiots had a nice wedding experience afterall.

(all characters here are fictitious and don't bear any resemblance with anyone living or dead)