An Irrelevant Para from my book

Patrons of beer would not care about the weather. They won’t make way for a warmer drink even if the nature conjures upon a dreary mix of chilled gusty wind and a steady continual rain. Thus, Ashish and Khushwant took lively steps to reach out for their ‘drink of choice’ at the Mansions Tavern; a popular hang-out zone on the Pulteney Street – 10 minutes’ walk from their present place of presence. Khushwant had become an admirer of famous Cooper’s Australian ale – a hearty, robust and fruity drink which matched his temperament. Ashish’s taste had matured over the years as he was now more picky in selecting stuffs that impacted his life. He preferred lager beer for its characteristically smooth, elegant, crisp, and clean flavour. It’s amazing how people finally find out alcohol that matches their properties.

Introducing Deepak Sikdar

Over the past few months, Deepak Sikdar, CEO of People Network had not slept a wink. The Network’s flagship channel, TopNews, was continuously witnessing a decline in viewership. For his news channel, the day-to-day costs were still higher than day-to-day revenues. This meant that his harsh steps on reducing headcount, cutting free meals and pruning discretionary expenditure had not yielded desired results. Till last year, advertisers from sectors such as automobiles, financial services and real estate gobbled-up the prime-time news slot. This was not the case anymore; more so these advertisers wanted TopNews to extend the credit period from three months to six months. Today, he had just closed a chicken and egg situation. He had reneged on a 25 crores placement deal with cable operators’ association. As these cable operators will now downgrade TopNews’ frequency, the channel’s reach will become increasingly limited thus impacting the ad-revenues. Tough times call for tough measures...
Deepak’s main concern though was not surviving but leading. He had repeatedly got the news calls wrong. He never expected that Obama’s swearing-in ceremony would be a big hit. He took news feeds from agencies rather than sending a foreign correspondent. His big bet on the Indian Premier League’s coverage proved a damp squib. This South African Safari proved a bit too costly. In the just concluded Indian General Elections, the channel conducted exit polls in only a few important states. Further it tied-up with regional channels for live feeds instead of sending its own team. The channel turned out to be the Joker in the Great Indian Circus as poor and inadequate coverage made it slip on the TRP charts. Deepak always believed that identifying a potentially inflationary event and providing quality coverage before the competitors results in market leadership. His bets have gone wrong this year and he was pondering over the happenings over the world for which his channel should provide wide coverage; though keeping the purse strings intact.
In an expansive corner office with a backside view of the Arabian Sea, Deepak pressed the intercom button to call his personal assistant. Surbhi came in faster than the speed of Deepak’s thought. Who would not like to wrap-up the day faster for a monsoon prone Mumbai evening.
‘Surbhi, Call Aparna and ask her to report to duty. She has to cover the protests’ dictated Deepak while inhaling a good amount of tangy nicotine in a single breath. He was the only person in the office who was allowed to smoke in his room; after all for Board of Directors, he was still their best bet.
‘But Deepak, it was only today that she left for her week-long honeymoon. Won’t it be improper? ’ asked Surbhi softly as if trying to instil a sense of decision making. ‘I would give her a long break later. She has to cover these protests. This racism has suddenly become a hot potato and anyhow I am not asking her to come back’ Deepak reacted coldly. Surbhi plucked the curls off her eyes as she hesitantly dialled Aparna at Dresddom Hotel in Adelaide. She never wanted to make the connection. She understood the dreams that go into making for such an occasion. Deepak never bothered.

Pre-read - Novel Excerpt

It has been long since I shared an excerpt from my rather snail paced book writing. Have a read and do let me know your suggestions.
.........................................................................................................................................................................
“Hey Ashu,
3 more sapphire profiles. You have to choose one of them.
Dad
P.S. Take care of your health. It’s getting colder in Australia”
Ashish reluctantly yet engagingly browsed through the profiles of Shweta, Megha and Diana. As usual, all the profiles followed the same old order – age, caste and ever fascinating ‘height’ of the would-be bride. He wondered why the names of most of the girls ended with an ‘a’ and sounded so similar. He wanted someone refreshing as Café Boston’s XXX to extinguish his old flame. He was also disquieted that a senior lawyer like his dad was usually checking matrimonial sites during the working hours of the bar association.
...........................................................................................................................................................................

Koshish

When I said to my better half that I can still write songs and poetry, she sensed a chance. She gave me a scene and wanted me to compose something. The scene was that the protagonist is on the beach, mulling whether to say 'yes' to a proposal from his/her love interest. Here is what I came up with. To say the least, I feel good and mushy again...

कोशिश
इक बोझ था सीने पर
समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया
कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
जन्मों की हामी भर, मैं निखरा आया

दिल के तारों की उलझती गाँठ
नींदों से परे बेसुकुनी भरी रात
मिलने से पहले की गुदगुदी
मिलने के बाद का इन्तेज़ार
यार संग मुट्ठी भर आसमाँ बटोर आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

लहरों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
समंदर के पार नये ठिकानों पे पहुँचने की
किरणों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
मधिम्म सूरज से टूट कर, लहरों पे नहाने की
रेत की कोशिश ज़ारी है
सैलानियों की चित्रकारी बचाने की
पवन की कोशिश ज़ारी है
तैरते मचलते बादलों को हराने की
ये कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
मैं कोशिशों का दौर बिखरा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

मुमकिंन नही लहरों का समंदर से खफा होना
मुमकिंन नही सितारों का आसमाँ से जुदा होना
ना किरणें अलग हो सकती हैं, ना रेत कामयाब
ना वो अलग हो सकती है, ना उसके साथ मेरे ख्वाब
इन्ही चन्द नॅज़ारो में, उनकी यादों में भीग सा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

July 28, 2009

Celebrating Kargil

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Tomorrow, we celebrate our victory in Kargil. It happened a decade back but I must confess, the war still shakes me up. I must say that this has been a prominent incident where I have been disturbed without being impacted. Heavy artillery, piercing gunshots and blaring media coverage brought war to our drawing rooms during the summers of ninety nine. I was disturbed by the people (and media) raising questions on Army’s inability to guard the borders at the outset, people hero-worshipping them despite being a failed unit and real politic over the dead bodies.

Initially, there was lot of negative news around blaming the political leadership, the army (not the air force) and our neighbor. I just had an appeal. I pay my ode to those brave hearts today.

An Appeal

The panorama of gory wars
Signatures unconcerning scars on one’s forehead
The soldier fighting valiantly
Scripts his role verily in the bloodshed

For the pristine glory of the motherland
And the demanding duties of national services
He stood there, firm on the Border
Reckoning the need of the crises
Wounded albeit, He fought, gunning down malicious enemy intruders
Brave He fought, then enlisting himself among ‘Characteristic Indian Supreme Sacrifices’

Arrived the martyr’s coffin
Draped in majestic tricolor
Gallantly, He had laid down his life
To cause the Indian Flag flutter

The moving vignettes of sufferings
Along the hostile battlefield fires
Creates deep clamour to dumb chagrins
But everything annuls at soldier’s burning pyres

The crazy heartbeat of the unborn child
Salutes the father’s indefatigable courage
The pregnant newly widowed young mother
Pledges her son for yet another sacrificial page

Not everybody keeps dry eyes
Not everybody courageously sights into skies
The dashed dreams and crushed hopes bring tears
The felt emptiness and gloomy future brings fears
The father feels weak on the knees
The mother seems to have lost life’s keys
The wife’s somber solitude abnegates to cease
But don’t feel piteous, demeaning their honour, their pride –‘PLEASE’

Yes, rightly ‘Not everybody can be at war’
But a true patriot leads himself someway to the national altar
Bid carping with august conscience
And express your solidarity with utmost gratitude
‘We need them’ and ‘We are with them’
Show the concerning approach with right attitude

July 11, 1999

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Banking on Rajma Chawal

‘It can’t happen to me’ – My stubborn and proverbial ostrich like ‘bury head in sand’ behavior refuses to allow my mind the thought of being laid–off at the work place. Many of us will continue to live in this denial mode till the time lightening strikes; and rightly so as the options now are like a needle in a haystack. A few will have to face it head-on; either leaving it to the ‘wicket-keeper’ for the next suited delivery or hook it over the shoulders for a six. I have a classic ‘head-on’ case.

Avinash (name changed), a manager at one of the largest housing finance company realized surprisingly late that his cordial stay during low interest rate era has become increasingly burdening for the organization in this higher interest rate environment. He was shown the door. His savings could have sufficed the interminable house rent, pruned monthly expenses and undesirable LIC premiums for a few months but were insufficient for his vehicle IMIs (Inflated Monthly Installments). Keeping his Shining Red Dream ‘Swift’ would involve defaulting on children’s tuition fees; thereby leaving them clueless in the unforeseen future.

Two days out of job, Avinash rubbishes the idea of selling his ‘Dream’. He drives out his Swift and parks it outside a large ‘Shared Services’ firm; the rear luggage cabin of the car facing the gate of the firm. The traffic through the gate is still high these days; with ‘worried’ employees probing cheaper food options and taking shortened yet fulfilling ‘sutta breaks’ for a next error free session at the office. At around 6 PM, when the sunlight is not glaring and hunger reigns supreme among ‘graveyard shift’ employees, Avinash turns on his beloved, the Kenwood DVD player, lifts the rear hood of the car and plays out loudly the party hip-hop songs. Three silver bright drums at the rear seat of the car, carrying Rajma, Kadhi and Chawal, throb at the play of the music, as if trying to deliver sales pitch of their own. Avinash puts on his matching bandana, takes out two thermacol plates and writes ‘Rajma Chawal’ and ‘Kadhi Chawal’ on them; with the same handwriting stroke which he used to while signing cheques at his erstwhile bank. The first day results in a few enquiries and even fewer consumers. ‘Word of Mouth’ however starts adding pennies to his ‘Hand to Mouth’ existence; second day onwards.

The extensive hygiene routine clubbed with disposable and robust cutlery, the competitive pricing of Rs.30 per plate and profound goodness of fresh homemade food were the factors that made people experiment his ‘SWIFT’ business. What made them stay was his relationship building persona – his manner of English speaking, providing small credits, sharing cigarettes and paan masala with the employees and above all sharing his story to this place. All this added to immediate empathy and sense of hope for the 'worried' employees who started flocking in groups. Avinash now runs two shifts a day and earns more than what he used to and he is ever so thankful to his wife for expanding his three-storeyed lunch box at the bank to three drums just outside a bigger office.

It is true – ‘Tough times don't last, tough people do’. Does it really matter then if you are not called a banker by a needy few but ‘SWIFT Rajma Chawal Wallah’ by a worried yet hopeful lot? I don’t think so.

Cooking Conundrum

A Bowl of Yellow Dal, Half-a-plate of Jeera Pulao and a three eggs’ Cheese Omelette – The delicious thought of a perfect supper made my taste buds go dancing in the lush stream of saliva. For a beloved Indian male with a doting mother and an equally adoring wife, Kitchen is seldom visited. Not yesterday, when I sneaked in a chance of cooking my meal as the Wife informed me of working hard in office in this recessionary environment and the mother was at a decent distance of 50 kms. from the kitchen.

I immediately rubbished the idea of calling the Pizza guys as I wanted to satisfy myself that ‘I Have It in Me’. While going back home, I toyed with the idea of having a well cooked Omelette with fashionable brown breads. The idea fell flat as I had just ten rupees in the purse; having offered the rest to charity earlier in the day.

The Kitchen resembled a battleground and I, a lone anxious soldier with artillery in the sink. Cooking should not include washing dishes but this night it was not to be. I cleaned every iota of cooker’s configuration to make the most hygienic Dal of the world; struggling hard to locate the ‘whistle’ in the process – Why are small things (whistle) so important and get lost so easily? My engineering brain did a nightmarish calculation of Water Dal ratio (1 large cup of water will create enough vapors to pressure-cook 20 gms. of Dal). As I put the cooker on the three-stove burner, I decided to prepare the pulao next; before switching to my core competency of making edible omelettes. Since the lone cooker was still creating vapors, microwave seemed to be the quicker option. Shining glassware with 2 table spoons of rice sprinkled with Jeera and oodles of desi ghee was put in the microwave for a brief period of 120 seconds. CRACK – I never again saw the glassware intact although it kept rotating for a nice 20 seconds before I realized to stop the microwave. Had I put a little water along with the rice, it would have lasted long. The grains of rice have coagulated and stuck muscularly at the bottom of the bowl. I cursed myself of having wasted the staple diet in these times of food inflation and tidily put the glassware into the dustbin. By that time, I had heard shrill whistles and put the cooker off. Rice cooking had to start all over again; this time on the gas. I hunted down the tea pan and put the rice to boil; the small base of the pan delicately balanced on a rather large burner. Multi-tasking comes naturally to me which prompted me to use the third burner to make the omelette. CLUCK – The Cooker’s Lid fell to reveal partially cooked Dal; that too without any water left. The Dal has to be cooked more and I was prompt to add water, not suspecting, the ratio miscalculation, that I did again. Putting finely chopped onions, small crushed tomatoes, strands of chilly and a few coriander leaves on a hot butter soaked Tawa blinded my glasses and the smoke made me feel fighting in the Gaza strip for a split second. TUCK – The poised rice tea pan could not handle the heavy shelling and caved in. Hot water and rice grains spilt all around the burner. In an effort to reinstate the pan, the occupational hazard came real. I still have a baked palm and burnt fingers.

Adding water to the rice pan, preventing the omellete ingredients from burning, stirring the eggs, timing the Dal’s cooking time – Multi-tasking; my Foot! – was crimson with bites from mosquitoes who had exercised cunningness while I was in distress; cooking.

Partially cooked rice, syrupy Dal and mutilated, salt-less and cheese-free Omellete made for a struggling dinner, made better only by ‘Mother’s Recipe’ pickles.

SPLASH – After dinner, I flinged the dishes into the basin; after all I was not supposed to wash them anymore.

I liked my dinner though, after all who doesn’t like his own creation.

My Wife says that I should rather be writing than cooking and she is right. Over to you Dear…