Leaving this space unattended was not intentional. It just happened. Perhaps, Facebook is to blame as it devours a bulk of my time; especially, I find posting quick and short film reviews, without much editing or thought, easier and convenient. Here, I’d labor over grammar and vocabulary and definitely a deeper thought process would be involved. Plus, most friends are there who read it immediately and give a quick comment.

However, past week or so I realized the downside. Leaving home unattended meant cyber-tramps barged in. Spam comments has shot up to an unbelievably high levels; the menace has reached a stage where I have to put my foot down, so here I am updating the site and hoping this will curb their barrage. Of course, the spam comments ranged from the hilarious to the fescennine but still I’d do without them.

Life’s been mostly routine, normal and hardly post-worthy. Or, and most likey that’s the correct reason, my life-vision has dimmed to not view it from that angle any longer. Picking up the thread from my last post, I settled comfortably into my new house. Err, much too comfortably, as my friend pointed out. Though I’d somewhat disagree. I have gone and seen (and rejected) a few houses (for buying purpose) but yes admittedly the effort has carried the same amount of urgency as it did at the beginning of this year. Which reminds me, 2011 is almost over. Strange, how time flies.

[...]

Finally, I found a house – albeit, a rented one, for now! But before I could reach here I had to undergo my share of the proverbial baptism by fire!

My search for a decent house to purchase went up right up to mid-April, when panic set in. Time had run out -I had to vacate the previous one by the month-end, and I was nowhere close to selecting, leave alone starting the cumbersome paper-work. Before I left for Delhi for a short-trip, I zeroed-in on a nice rental accommodation. On return, I went to pay the advance when the owner dropped a devastating bomb on my well-laid plans: the society will not allow bachelors to stay there. As he spoke those horrifying words the ground shifted beneath my feet, my mouth dried and I felt uncomfortably nauseous. Sitting in the owner’s obnoxiously claustrophobic office, I stammered some well-meaning arguments which fell with impotent futility on his iron-hard demeanor. The only words echoing in my mind were my promises to my then-current owner made just that morning, about vacating the next weekend, and they played relentlessly like a tape in an infinite spool.

Stepping out into the oppressive Mumbai humidity, I turned to my property consultant. I was too frustrated to even get angry at him who should have checked all these details beforehand. On his part, he apologized profusely and frantically dialed his contacts and lined up a few more.

The next few hours felt like a movie hurtled into a frenzied pace, without making any sense or logic – driving from one house to another, tiresomely waiting in the courtyard for keys to arrive, viewing some that befit haunted movies sets than living-in, negotiating with prospective owners (as suddenly I discovered I had to adjust my budget upward). And all this without having eaten either breakfast or lunch or having even a drop of water. Like a parched and shriveled leaf thrown into a gargantuan whirlpool, by the end of that terrifying noon I felt beaten and bruised.

In all this, the sun hammered with its unforgiving fury and the humidity sucked out the last of my waning energies.

I am on a house-hunt. Again. Last week, my landlady dropped the bomb that they needed the house returned; and this, after their broker had lulled me into believing the lease will be renewed. Apparently, that’s not the case. This, when (after all my doubts) I had actually started to love my current pad. I requested for a three-month buffer, and immediately dialed my regular broker. He all but groaned though nevertheless promised to help; after all, that’s his business.

I saw the first batch yesterday and like the previous two times, returned frustrated, grumpy & cribbing. Yesterday’s search added one more word from Bombay’s unique property lexicon: ‘converted homes’ ; and though I realize property is an unlisted but potent religion, still, the word flummoxed me, till the time I saw one such ‘convert’ . It means slicing an already tiny 1BHK into further two frustratingly tinier bedrooms; usually, the kitchen area is the sacrificial lamb in this sacrament, reduced to a mere apology of a sliver. In the first such house, I marveled at a family staying in this constricted space – consisting of a father, a couple *and* a huge dog!

I decided ‘Converted houses’ are not my cup of poison and I strictly forbade the broker to show me anymore such hybrids. Likewise, I also struck off any one-hall-kitchen; in one such home, I gaped with amusement at the kitchen (with a sink and gas stove) on one corner and the bed on the other. I crave my coffee cup early morning but to stagger sleepily out of bed and immediately face the gas-stove is stretching convenience even beyond my lazy limit.

[...]

Hey bloggers, how has it been all the while I did a Mr. India and disappeared from this space. I guess, blogging is passe now, with every one worth his keypad chirping away on twitter. Frankly, I never really took to this social medium. The space is too short to incorporate my verbose thoughts. Yes, I fell for the initial euphoria of cine-stars’ daily updates, but I soon figured out they are not really there to interact and make friends with us aam-janta, unless of course, there is a forthcoming release, when the charm is more than conspicuously visible. So twitter fell from my grace pretty soon.

Life has been so boringly routine that I really struggle to find something decent to put up here. Plus, my office shifted to far away South Bombay (though it beats me why they still call it ‘town’, and Bandra upwards ‘suburbs’), so I am these days spending quality time with my SX4.

Kerala

I paid two quick visits to Kerala, with the second one turning out to be mildly exciting. I reached Kochi airport past the counter closing time. A dour looking airline official rudely refused to take me and another late-comer in. It’s not a big airport, and it’s not too crowded either, and I still feel had he wished he could have bended a bit. The flight hadn’t even been fully boarded.

More than his refusal, I found his demeanor and way of speaking very arrogant, rude and definitely not customer friendly. You can’t summarily tell a customer to take the next day’s flight, especially when I cried out that I was on a day trip & wasn’t even carrying a change of clothes. Marie Antoinette and her infamous remarks on ‘if not bread let them have cakes’ from French history flashed across my mind.

[...]

Six months back, seeing me busy in a flurry of signing agreements & making fresh post-dated rental cheques, someone had remarked, “Oh, you are changing house?” I had laughed it off, “No, I am changing my landlord!” It was a good joke then, but it backfired quite soon. Looking back, I regret not making my own offer to the owner. The property prices were relatively low, and the house went off in what now retrospectively everyone sagely tells me in an unbelievably superb deal’. I was a fool. And more than that, scared. Buying a house in Mumbai is a Herculean task, and the thought of all those exorbitant installments & paperwork paralyzed me.

Ever since the house I lived in sold off, it was just a matter of counting days. While the new owner was magnanimous to allow lease extension, he had categorically stated that he ‘would need it back shortly’. The countdown had begun. But as the days went by, I slipped into a comfort zone.

[...]

Number Plate

My car’s front number plate has become a joke. If it had been a chain mail, it would have got forwarded the world over several times over. And perhaps (like all chain mails) return to me.

Some two-three months back, the number plate decided to loosen all its ties, and hang out adventurously. Rather, hang down. Like a good car-owner, I reprimanded it and took it to the repair-shop (one decrepit one, near my place) and replaced its screws (at an exorbitant price for the job that size). Obviously, the number plate didn’t like to get screwed. Next day, when I reached Lonavla (for a review, darlings, not for holiday – just in case you start off on how lucky I am, which I am not) I found that the number plate had again broken free, and was gleefully swinging like a trapeze artiste in a circus.

I thought I’d just leave it. Let the poor kid enjoy it’s living on the edge. (Well, procrastination and laziness were two other reasons, but I am not really going to confess that up, no m’dahlings? )

[...]

Wishing all readers a Very Happy & Prosperous Diwali. As the Bisleri advt went…please play safe (and I mean in all respects).

The Parsis celebrated Navroze on Wednesday 19th August this year. Till a few years back, I was quite oblivious of this festival, until I wrote a story which fleetingly had its mention. Then, I had done a bit of research to incorporate in the narrative. In Delhi, where Parsis are less than a handful, one never learns of this festival. Here, in Bombay, it is quite well celebrated, and we observe a holiday. Anyways, getting a mid-week off is always a welcome manna.

On this auspicious day, I embarked on the second phase of my Holy Grail’s quest – buying a record player. Having failed to find a good (and reasonably priced) three-speed player, I have finally settled to buy a Denon two-speed one, and had also learnt that the only shop that I could purchase it from is at Atria Mall, Worli – quite a distance from my residence (and a major reason for damning procrastrination). In between, I had bought a stand-alone Philips player, from a used-goods seller, but the sound quality turned out to be woefully pathetic, and I just packed it up, hoping to return it for whatever price I get to the same seller.

Before going to the shop on second floor, I parked the car at Atria Mall, and hailed a cab to check the shops at Heera Panna Shopping Center (near Haji Ali Dargah). I had heard much about it, but never could get time to pay a visit. The airconditioned market is a veritable maze of closely packed little shops selling electronics and leather goods and other trivia. In essence, it is much like Delhi’s underground Palika Bazaar – similar to the extent that both markets are known for their ‘gray market’ stuff, and were hugely popular in India’s pre-liberalizaton era. I walked the market’s criss-cross alleys taking in multifarious sights and smells, but I could discover nothing that held my interest.

[...]

We all know what it means. And I am sure no one can say they haven’t had their own small embarrassing moments – you know, the kind where you dash off a quick email stating ‘heartiest condolences’ at your friend’s uncle’s demise! Or, where you wish a person ‘Happy’ festival, when it is actually a martyr’s day of some prophet or guru!

In one classic instance, my ex-colleague G started to extol on the dumbness of a lady in front of an important official. As soon as he opened his mouth, I knew we were in serious trouble and kicked him hard on his shin below the table, and hurriedly broke in firmly stating that the lady was truly very hard working. She was now the wife of the official we were sitting with!

In another incident, a colleague called out to an abundant-attitude-charged peon as ‘Oye Vice President, come here’ – only to see our company’s Vice President alighting from the elevator from the opposite end!

[...]

It’s like a wave – the water recedes, seemingly never to return, and yet, the very next instant the deluge rushes forward, callously erasing away any footprints imprinted in the soggy sand.

I had thought I’d almost given up this space (not literally, but definitely figuratively). Perhaps, the biggest sign being I visited London and Scotland this year, and did not even once feel writing about the trip. Yes, I had kept the space ‘artificially alive’, for no other reason than nostalgic value – the way one keeps a momento cleaned and polished atop a showcase. But clearly, I hadn’t meant to keep it a well oiled machinery, the way it was in 2004-2005 and for some parts of 2007.

Many old friends have moved on. Many blogs have slipped into a numbing silence. Many links are invalid. The comments have dried. The visitors have thinned. The thoughts have perished. In short, the wave had retreated. Or, so I thought.

Yet, it never does.

A few days back, like a shocking jolt, out of nowhere and catching me absurdly unaware, the entire deluge came gushing and hurtling and howling down; deafening me in its thunderous roar, sweeping me in its force and hurting me with its impellent impact.

The wave had returned. And how! I spent the entire Independence Day weekend browsing through my own writings – amused at some, ashamed at others, and proud of quite a bulk (especially the stories). And like a wave, it brought back its own residues – twigs and dirt and pearls and seashells…those memories! The posts (both on this site and my previous one) are virtual age-lines on a tree-trunk; through them I could chronologically trace my life’s past five years. The happiness, the sadness, the silliness, the intelligence, the highness, the lowness of all those years are so firmly etched in this supposedly nebulous cyber-space (and what a range! From a routine walk through Kathmandu rains to an oh-so-intelligent discourse on living alone, these pages carry them all). And, it brought back that recurring dream. A dream I knew I had strangulated. A dream I thought I had rested. A dream I believed I had buried.

I read these pages with happiness. I read them with sadness. I read them – and I hate to admit this – with regret. Because, the trace ends two years back, when I shifted to Bombay. Woefully, the past two years are practically lost from these pages (other than a few odd posts here and there).

The wave had also washed off the resolute resolution of keeping creativity in check, and concentrating on life/work in its mundane form, the way the majority do. My imprints in the sand. No longer there.

I should have seen it coming. I should have immediately built a dam around it. After all, I had mentioned this space, not to one, but to two people in a span of few days. That triggered the return. Suddenly, once more, yesterday I was looking at words the way an artiste does his pallette. I saw them dancing impishly, waiting to be created into intelligible sentences. I watched them playfully tickle me to arrange them to form a page of thoughts. I noticed them mirroring my emotions and feelings. As I have often mentioned earlier, It’s that urge to write. That irrepressible bug within me. It’s awakening. It’s alive. It’s not that (in past two years) I haven’t tried to write. Truthfully speaking, there are a few unfinished posts lying on my master word file. However, the fact is, the impulse never exceeded its defined limit, and I always managed to curb and hold it at bay. Till a few days back. Till this wave.

But…but…can I afford to carry on? Can I allow the bug to take control again? Can I permit that dream to be exhumed and still expect it to breathe and provide fragrance?

Questions, to which I have no answers as yet. I will allow them to rest awhile.

It was an innocuous little sneeze.

Just below my house, while walking towards the car, a tingle in the mucous membranes within the nasal confines brought out a noisy spurt. Just a measly little chheenk. Yet, when I looked up, I could see time frozen. The doodhwala-shop owner glared in disdain; the lady across the road gasped and pulled her pallu over her nose; the children crossing my path rapidly steered away; and an autorickshaw-wallah, idling around, speeded off. I looked at them apologetically, but their collective stares were dirtier than what the swines love to roll in. Just a measly little chheenk. And such a huge reaction. Sigh…indeed, times are bad. I promised not to sneeze again, not in public, not on the roads, till the time this whole swine flu (or H1N1, as the scientists have formally named it) scare blows away.

Oh, with due respects to RGV, for the title of this teeny-weeny post. (I hope RGV takes a clue, and makes a watchable film on this ‘known terror’ than inflicting the audience with agyaat ones. I have already provided him with a title).

In the past month or two, cutting through hectic work schedules, maneuvering hefty month-end targets and sinking into an ennui (impossible to shrug off), I carved out time for two main activities- one, search and buy a good music system (hi-end, assembled and absolutely a delight) and two, catch up on reading. Thankfully, April served a plethora of holidays to enjoy both. In any case, the sultry and humid weather that swamped Bombay disallowed any activity beyond home. And both IPL & the current on-going tussle between multi-plex owners & producers ensured no release worth watching hit the theaters.

I saw two flicks I had missed earlier – on DVD. 13B was engrossing and entertaining. Though not overtly scary, it carried enough drama to hold viewer’s interest; however, the director failed minutes before the climax. Jai Veeru was absolutely disgusting – the premise was so kiddish, I am sure it couldn’t have even looked good on paper. Why did they even waste time & money filming it?

Coming to books, I finished Jeffery Archer‘s latest release – Paths of Glory. It’s a fictionalized account of mountaineer George Mallory, who may or may not be the first person to set foot on Mt. Everest. Archer narrates the story in his inimitable fashion, peppering it with interesting anecdotes, starting it from the beginning, in a saga-fashion, just like many of his previous works.

[...]

Random Expressions turns five today. I accept this post should have been longer and more introspective. But time is not on my side. And sheepishly, I admit there is a bit of laziness too.

Still, like last year, I had to wish my dear blog its due wishes. I have been slow and awfully intermittent in posting here, but this place holds immense emotional value. Even when I am not writing, I often come here and read old posts and comments. They are a treasure I cherish.

So to all loyal readers – a huge Thank You. And to all new ones – Welcome Aboard.

God bless!

Monday morning, and I was ready on time. Congratulating myself, I sipped the orange juice contentedly while checking email on my mobile. I sat on a slender but comfortable cane chair, with my back to the window that opens onto the small and cute balcony, a rarity in Mumbai flats. Outside the week expanded out in its soothing routine- a raddiwala cycled past asking for old newspapers, a wife bade goodbye to her husband, a neighbor admonished the car-cleaner to wash his car first, hurried footsteps rattled down the stairs, a few birds chirped, a car honked, an auto stuttered, a couple of security guards chattered animatedly.

I glanced at my watch, exited the email menu and gulped the last of the juice. Getting up, I placed the mobile on my top pocket, picked up the empty glass and with my other free hand, I inserted the little finger in my left ear to clear an irritation I felt.

Plop!

Everything faded into silence. Or rather smothered by a dreary drone. It took a few seconds to comprehend the full impact. My left ear seemed blocked as if someone had shoved in a huge ball of cotton. The right one was fine. I would have ignored it, but the blockage’s irritation swept aside any sense of patience. I understood what had happened- ear wax must have got pushed into the canal.

Hurriedly, I dropped the empty glass into the kitchen sink, grabbed the laptop, swooped on the car keys and rushed out of home.

There is a chemist shop right below my apartment building. It usually opens early but today for some strange reason grim shutters greeted me.

I ran to my car, with the irritating blocked ear heavily feeling like a lead earring. I knew of a 24 hour chemist shop half a kilometre away.

Not trusting the volume of my own voice, I whispered for ear buds.

Back in the car, I ripped open the box, and pulled out an ear bud, while quickly reading the warning and instructions on the wrapper.

The buds provided no relief. I had to see a doctor!

While swiftly typing a ‘ I will be late ‘ sms to my boss, I tried to recall where I had seen a signage of an ENT specialist. I couldn’t remember. I slowly drove down the road, taking in all the doctor boards, ignoring the irritated horns of irate drivers behind me, the upside being I couldn’t really hear them in full blast.

Lots of dentists, a few general practitioners, a couple of gynaecs, but I couldn’t find any ENT specialist.

I stopped at another chemist and asked for one. He gave the address of a doctor, not far off, but with the Metro construction on in full swing, and the traffic at its peak hour, it took me an arduous fifteen-minutes to reach. Only to be met by a cheerless receptionist, eating sprouted dal, sitting in an eerily empty office.

‘I wish to see the doctor,’ I said.

‘He’s not in. He will come at 11.30′ she replied with a more than obvious disinterest in her job. She wouldn’t care or bother if he never came.

My heart sank.

‘Is there any other ENT doctor nearby’

Clearly this didn’t go down well with her. Curtly she said, ‘Idea nahi hai’ and went back to her sprouted dal.

Dejected, I stepped out. Opposite, there was an obesity clinic, and an eager looking youngster viewed me hopefully. Sorry buddy, I’m not your client. Not yet, at least.

Thereafter, for next one hour, my search for a suitable doctor began. Actually, not suitable. Any doctor.

Downed shutters and similar looking dour receptionists gave me similar answers.

What the hell??!? Don’t doctors wake up early here? Are they like just any other businessmen opening their shops at a leisurely pace. Mine was a small problem, but what if I had a genuinely serious emergency? I would have been dead by the time I found a medico in his shop…err, clinic. And it wasn’t that early either. It was nearing 10.30, dammit. And surely, dentist and cosmetic dentistry is damn lucrative business seeing the number of available clinics in this supposedly posh colony. I reckon, the rich have their own set of diseases. And convenient timings when they get afflicted.

Angry and frustrated, I started for office, with the faint hope of stopping en route at a newly inaugurated (by Amitabh Bachchan, no less) multi-speciality hospital and finding an ENT surgeon there at least. If not, any doctor would do who could fish out the damn wax obstinately stuck in the ear and giving immense discomfort.

I had shot this picture sometime last year, perhaps on my first visit to the monument since shifting to Mumbai. (Currently it is undergoing renovations)

Somehow, after all that has happened, it seems an apt picture to put up – of Mumbai’s most famous monument standing tall and proud, despite being witness to a brutally painful attack last week.

Yes, Mumbai is back to normal. As much as it can be.

Like the film by a similar title (incidentally, a brilliant one on terrorism) Mumbai witnessed a terrifying Wednesday as ten of its most prominent locations came under terrorist seige.

Unlike the film, this was for real. And it didn’t end on that day. Even as I type this, nearly thirty two hours later, the drama continues – which shows the thorough and shrewd planning and preparedness the attackers had.

My heart cries for the criminal waste of innocent lives, as it bleeds for the unnecessary desecration of Taj Hotel’s beauty.

Frankly, I am quite at loss for words and feelings. I had expressed my anguish over the Delhi blasts. The same anguish is manifold now.

When will this mayhem end?

And I don’t mean just this one particular operation. I mean this alarming regularity of terror attacks.

I am not a gadget freak – though when I get one I love to explore all its functions- but the point I want to make is that usually I don’t crave to own the new machine that hits the electronic store.

For months my mobile phone has been an object for derisive jokes amongst friends than one that Mr. Bell actually intended when he conceptualised the cell phone’s grandfather. One, the instrument was considerably worn out, and extremely old by tech-standards. I learnt recently that the hot model I had purchased three years back (in Nepal) was not only obsolete but also a discontinued series by the manufacturer. Two, it showed classic signs of old age – work at an excruciatingly painful pace and regularly go off into an amnesiatic dose, which in computer and mobile phone lingo is called ‘hanging’.

Despite the silly jokes I held on to that piece pretty loyally. That’s because I used it for my personal connection and I hardly get any calls on that number. On a rough estimate, I can confidently vouch the ratio of telemarketing calls to actual calls would be 80:20. So why pour money into buying an asset that would hardly justify its existence, especially in these tough recessionary times?  

[...]

They ravaged Delhi – arguably one of India’s most beautiful cities and also my hometown – once again in a deadly deathly manner. Five blasts ripped asunder a quiet Saturday evening, two of which incised through its throbbing heart – Connaught Place and its breathtakingly beauteous (newly opened) Central Park.

These are not mere names. For me, Barakhamba Road, Connaught Place, Central Park, Karol Bagh et al, are not far off places read about in the papers or stories. Every inch, every pavement, every side-walk there contains my life’s indelible memories. In Gopaldass Bhawan (Barakhamba Road, the site near which one of the bomb’s blasted) I did my first job. Ghaffar Market (Karol Bagh, the second site) is where my friend and I bought those cheap imitation designer shirts, when money was tight but ambition was loose. In fact, in his house there have spent many a drunken reverly filled evenings. My parents and I spent a lovely new year’s eve last year at the Central Park.

[...]

If there is one woe common in India (and extended to Nepal since I have stayed there too) it’s that of the maids – especially those who work for bachelors, staying alone. I know the NRI’s will snigger that at least we get them pretty inexpensive here (unlike abroad, where they skim off your wallet by the hour!). But given the fact that labor is cheap here, and home-help is indeed abundant, let’s not deviate too much, and accept that hiring a maid is a necessary evil than luxury.

But their irregularity irritates & irks. And when they work for bachelors the excuse for not turning up is uncannily similar and non-innovative all across (at least it has been through the three cities that I have stayed) – ‘ we came but you had left by then!’ Simple! Who’s going to check whether they actually came or not! I don’t really keep a time-guard or attendance register outside my home.

[...]

It is the comeback season. Not mine. That is still time away. (I will continue to visit this space off and on for some more time).

But two of my favorites have come back with a proverbial bang – Director duo Abbas- Mustan and author Jeffrey Archer.

Isn’t it curious how much a fan accepts his loved artiste’s failure as his own, and then tries to defend it weakly or pompously (as his character is wont be)? Well, this post is not to dwell on a fan-artiste relationship. That would need to much of input and time, and more concentration that what this cyber cafe offers (with the lady at the desk happily viewing sobbing bahus in variety of soaps spread over multifarious channels).

[...]