Category Archives: Lonely Monkey

Hundredth Post!!!

by Shashwat D.C. | 2 Comments

Any batsmen worth his salt will tell you, that the most disconcerting and nerve-wrecking time at the crease is not when one opens the innings, but when the personal score is in the edgy 90s. More so, if it is 99; just a single required to cross over into the triple digit club of 100. Usually most falter that this very edge, even the mighty and so do the lowly. That’s the power of 100, it can daunt anyone. But, if you do manage to cross into the club. It is a indeed a very exhilarating experience. The feeling of being a centurion!

Thus, eversince I saw my WordPress Dashboard tell me that I had 99 posts on this blog, I was stumped. It was a great a feeling to know that in spite of all the odds, the biggest one being my own laziness and tardiness, I have indeed managed to somehow keep this one venture of mine alive, when so many others have vanished in the realms of time.

So, when it dawned on me that, I too will be a centurion blogger, namely, who has written 100 odd posts, I was all caught up in thought. It took me many many days to decide on what would be that 100th post. Since, it was to be special, I thought that I’d indeed make it very special. So, I begin thinking over it, should it be my favorite published article – but then there aren’t many of them, or should it be an unpublished one – there are just so many of them. Should it be a feature, comment, short story, interview, etc. I just kept ruminating over it.

Every passing day, whenever I would find some free time on my hand I would think on that special 100th post. It almost took me a month before I realised that in the process of trying to make my post special, I was steadily returning to my old self, wherein there is much thought and little action. Like a bolt it hit me that the 100th post will not be special because of its structure or form, but simply because it is 100th. Nothing more and little else.

So this is my 100th post, and it kind of is an announcement of my committment to shashwatdc.com. Continue reading …

Ek Boond…..

by Shashwat D.C. | Leave a comment

‘Ek Boond’ is a poem in Hindi that has stuck with me since my schooldays. Even in those days, I liked it though I never properly could have understood its poignant subtext. The whole imagery of an unsure, nervous and jittery raindrop caught in self doubt while leaving her home in the clouds, was and is still one of the most evocative texts I have chanced upon. Little wonder then that the ‘Ek Boond’ not only found home in a waiting pearl shell but also in my heart and mind.

And as I age and increasingly have to uncomfortable decisions in my life that engineer the flutter of butterflies in my tummy, I keep returning to the lines etched by Ayodhya Singh Upadhyaya ‘Hariaudh’. His ‘Ek Boond’ gives me hope and assurance that in spite of all the odds and the quirks of fate, there is someone up out there, probably up above, looking after us and helping us out, like sending a gust of wind to push our Boond into the shell, where she eventually turned into a pearl.

Today, again as I venture out of my comfort zone and into the world unknown, I can’t help but remember the nervous and jittery raindrop that too had ventured out of her comfy home in the clouds. Hopefully, there is a shell out there waiting for me, like it was for her. Hopefully!!!

Here is the text of poem: Continue reading …

How does it feel to be a Father?

by Shashwat D.C. | 3 Comments

For the past two months, there is this one question that am constantly dogged me as friends, colleagues and even strangers keeping jabbing the same at me ever since I became a father. Any conversation these days starts with the cursory exchange of pleasantries, the talk of the birds, the bees, the recession and so on till the query is lobbed at me like a stun grenade, “Ohh..Leave all that. So how does it feel to be a father?”

Stumped, is how I feel. Believe you me, it is not everyday that I am at loss of words or unable to articulate my thoughts; but as much as I have thought over the issue, I am still hard pressed to give a honest, coherent and simple answer to the same.

Tutul in Lala Land!!!
Tutul in Lala Land!!

Looking into the person’s eye asking me the question, I feel the burden of expectation on me. The person, apparently, wants me to break into raptures using esoteric terms and inane adjectives like ‘heavenly’, ‘wondrous’, ‘out of this world’, etc. to describe the whole gamut of emotions. And yet, there I stand trying to figure out what exactly to say, and then finally after some 30 seconds of awkward silence, I do oblige, and mumble something like, “On top of the world, the greatest I have felt, etc. etc.”

Profundity is the issue out here, being a father is not like winning a race or netting a babe, which evoke a single-dimensional happiness based on a sense of achievement. There are so many emotions that sweep over you in a matter of minutes and days, that it is impossible not to get numb. In fact, right after Idhant’s birth I was beset by numbness and really did not know what to feel. In fact, every time I saw the little guy, it was hard to believe that this fragile, delicate, pinkish tiny tot possessed 23 of my chromosomes in his DNA. Right from the hospital to the in-laws place and finally to mine, there were just so many thoughts running through my mind that it was hard for me to pick one out, package it with words and then dish it out as what I was feeling.

Even now, when I sit back and reflect on the days gone by and the ones that lie ahead, I feel flustered, thankful, happy, concerned, confident, worried, proud, scared, superstitious, etc. all at the same time. Hence, whenever someone poses the “how does it feel to be a father” query at me, I honestly wish I could make him/her understand how the feeling is.

Jai ho!! (even in sleep)

Jai ho!! (even in sleep)

My Eureka! moment happened some days back, when a method popped up in my head. The answer lay with Socrates. Using Socratian  counter-argumentative approach, I have structured a brief “How does it feel” questionnaire, that needs to be answered by the curious subject. Once that is candidly done, the subject needs to now amalgamate all the different views and that should more or less correlate to my own feelings. So, in case you want to know how it feels, why don’t you simply answer the following ‘How does it feel’ quiz below:

I) How does it feel – to suddenly realize that you are merely a penny-earner who can’t really afford anything? Continue reading …

A HOMO-sapienic ruling

by Shashwat DC | Leave a comment

People who belabour homosexuality in the society, terming it to be a disease (of the mind & soul) suffer themselves from an affliction: Homophobia. Homophobia, described as fear and contempt of gay and lesbians, is pretty much prevalent in our society. Through our literature, films and religious sermons, the caretakers of morality have repeatedly emphasised that homosexuals were different and dangerous; labelled as queer.
Indeed that stereotype built up over the ages still enshrouds our mind, so much so that if we were to know a friend or a colleague is a gay, snide comments will be passed and in all probability he or she would be socially segregated. Till sometime back it was believed that AIDs was borne out of same-sex relations. And the biggest opposition to same-sex relations came from organized religion be it Catholic, Hindu or Islamic.
The prejudice is so strong that if a man accidently brushes his hand against our crotch even in a crowded train; we immediately react with alacrity and would stare down at the man as if he is infested with worms and maggots. In fact, consider the terms that are used to refer to a gay or a lesbian; terms like faggots, queer, etc. In Mumbai we refer to them as ‘Gud’ (adding ‘Saala’ as an appendage) or Bombay Dost (based on the gay magazine published by Ashok Row Kavi).
Ironically, Homosexuality or the rather scientific term LGBT has been pretty common in the ancient times. Even the gods of yore frequently tipped the scale on both the ends, Zeus could not resist Ganymede or even rather strange inference by many of how Ganesha was born(e) by Parvati and Malini. I suggest that you do a Google on “god and homosexuality” and you will be surprised by the results thrown up.
And yet, for all the broadmindedness of the ancients like Greek pederasty, we the modern Homosapiens have been much intolerant of the sexual orientation of individuals. The worst instance of discrimination that I can think about was the incarceration of Oscar Wilde for his alleged affair with Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde was made to suffer for “the love that dare not speak its name”.
Sadly, the same provisions that were applied and used against Wilde in 1895 continued to be used in India thanks to the colonial legacy. But thankfully, that changed today as the Delhi High Court came out with a landmark judgement by quashing the provisions of IPC 377 that applied to consensual sex between gays and lesbians. With one swipe, the court removed an unjust and unfair act that compelled individuals to hide behind curtains and be ashamed of their sexuality.
Nonetheless, the brouhaha around the issue as hyped up by the media is fairly disconcerting, since the term “legalizing homosexuality” is quite confusing, it almost seems like “legalizing rape” or “legalizing burglary”. Semantically speaking, it is more like “decriminalizing homosexuality” than anything else. The other day, my dad was watching all those gay parades on the news channels and the argument on “legalizing homosexuality”; and there was shock, anguish and anger writ on his face. As if now, we all will be forced by law to make out with gays and lesbians. The frown on his upper-story disappeared only when I explained to him the real picture, and what legalizing actually meant. I firmly believe that the media right now doing a grave disservice by improper usage of terminology and thus in a way promoting homophobia.
Meanwhile, let’s all hail the modern or as I termed Homo-sapienic ruling by the Delhi HC. And let’s hope that revulsion and fear associated with same sex love will vanish with time as more and more couples step out from the closet. Wonder, when will Shahrukh Khan (SRK) and Karan Johar admit it all over Koffee? Or are they really just ‘good buddies’?

People who belabour homosexuality in the society, terming it to be a disease (of the mind & soul) suffer themselves from a serious and dangerous affliction; namely, homophobia. By the way, homophobia described as fear and contempt of gay and lesbians, is pretty much prevalent in our society. Through our literature, films and religious sermons, the caretakers of morality have repeatedly emphasised that homosexuals were different and dangerous; labelled as queer.

Indeed that stereotype built up over the ages still enshrouds our mind, so much so that if we were to know a friend or a colleague is a gay, snide comments will be passed and in all probability he or she would be socially segregated. Till sometime back it was believed that AIDs was borne out of same-sex relations. And the biggest opposition to same-sex relations came from organized religion be it Catholic, Hindu or Islamic.

The prejudice is so strong that if a man accidently brushes his hand against our crotch even in a crowded train; we immediately react with alacrity and would stare down at the man as if he is infested with worms and maggots. In fact, consider the terms that are used to refer to a gay or a lesbian; terms like faggots, queer, etc. In Mumbai we refer to them as ‘Gud’ (adding ‘Saala’ as an appendage) or Bombay Dost (based on the gay magazine published by Ashok Row Kavi).

Ironically, Homosexuality or the rather scientific term LGBT has been pretty common in the ancient times. Even the gods of yore frequently tipped the scale on both the ends, Zeus could not resist Ganymede or even rather strange inference by many of how Ganesha was born(e) by Parvati and Malini. I suggest that you do a Google on “god and homosexuality” and you will be surprised by the results thrown up.

And yet, for all the broadmindedness of the ancients like Greek pederasty, we the modern Homosapiens have been much intolerant of the sexual orientation of individuals. The worst instance of discrimination that I can think about was the incarceration of Oscar Wilde for his alleged affair with Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde was made to suffer for “the love that dare not speak its name”. Continue reading …

Hail Hynkel….

by Shashwat DC | Leave a comment

“Democratia schtunk!! liberty schttunk !! free spracken schtunk!!,” thunders Adenoid Hynkel in front of the sons and daughters of the Double Cross. But even as the Hynkel bares open his dark soul and devious intentions, “strunken me de Europe, and strunken me de world,”; the personal translator on the radio station, Heinrich Stick goes about frostily reading from a prepared script and states that “in conclusion the Fuhrer remarks that for the rest of the world, he has nothing but peace in his heart.”

Burlesque is the one word that comes to mind as one is riveted watching the Great Dictator, a brilliant parody by one of the greatest comedians (and actor as well) this world has ever seen: Charles Chaplin. In fact, the opening speech by Herr Hynkel is one of my all time favourite scenes; the way Hynkel raves and rants about his greatest army and navy, the guttural noises he makes while talking about Jews and the times he breaks off remembering the struggles he had with Herring and Garbitsch (pronounced as Garbage) or the beauty of the Aryan maiden. The 5-minute long address is delivered in gibberish English, with smattering of German words.   

It is not merely Hynkel’s speech, in fact each and every scene in the movie is a masterpiece by itself and that is what makes the movie such a classic and Chaplin such a genius. I well remember about an incident the Satyajit Ray recalled about making Pather Panchali. Filming one of the sequences, he got so carried away by the visual that he continued shooting. It was only later on that he realised that while the sequence was very much visually appealing, it great-dicator-1did not really fit into the scheme of things and had to be discarded. The movie is more important than the sequences, was the implied message.

And yet, if one were to see Chaplin’s films they are all made of amazing sequences that are meant to tickle us. Chaplin’s antics stay with us, even if the movie does not. Many years back, when I was much younger and in school (apparently 2nd or 3rd standard), we were all taken to Chaplin movie being screened in one of the theatres. That was my first introduction to the tramp. I don’t really recall which that movie, but there are a couple of scenes that I still remember, apparently Chaplin and the villain are caught in a blizzard and in one sequence he cooks his shoe and sits down to eat it with a fork and knife. In fact he almost relishes the shoe, as if it is come delicacy. And in another scheme, the house they seem to be living in, slides down a mountain slope ostensibly because of Chaplin’s carelessness. This is all I remember from my first Chaplin movie. Nonetheless, it is a miracle that I remember anything from that movie considering the lapse of time (over 2 decades and more). That is the power of gag, that is where Chaplin’s genius: in creating gags that tickle. Continue reading …

Good ol’ days @ USS

by Shashwat D.C. | 4 Comments

It is ironical isn’t it, that in our childhoods, the one thing we most hate (discount the thrashing from parents) is going to school, it is a pain, burden, torture somewhat akin to slavery to a despotic teachers who are bent on making another brick in the wall. Imagine, getting up even before the sun lights up the stratosphere, having a bath (skipping it, if none around), getting dressed, burdened by a sack full of text-books, notebooks and a calendar, leaving home as the rather sad tune of Vande Mataram is heard on a neighbours radio set, trudging to the bus stop hoping and praying that the bus doesn’t arrive (tyre puncture, accident, or anything else), dragging inside it when it arrives, smiling at the teachers that get in the bus hoping that they will be a wee-bit more lenient but alas! Morose prayers, deep breathing to classical music and then the real torture starts: Class-teacher taking attendance, followed by stock taking on homework, punishment, remark on the calendar, a rap on the knuckles, kneeling outside the class, etc. etc. The torture only stemmed for some 15 minutes, when the school broke for recess, in which one has to first rush to the canteen when one hears the bell, grab a bite by standing in a long queue, eat and enjoy, sip at water from a few faucets outside the loos on every floor, empty the bladder and rush back to class by the second ring of the bell indicating the culmination of recess and resumption of persecution.

When they are not trying to cram our brains with information and knowledge which is of little value in real world (for instance, I have never had the use of the most famous algebraic equation (a+b)² = a² + b² + 2ab, ever in my life except for those gloomy days in school), they would drag us to the open ground and force us to move our body in rather rectangular fashion at the count of numbers, namely, 1,2,3,4…5,6,7,8 and then for some very inane reason the count will continue backward and we are expected to it match it by doing the reverse of what we were earlier doing. The only saving grace was that last bell at around 1 pm that resulted in a near stampede as everyone wants to rush out of the school with immediacy. Anyone still in doubt over how children feel about school should look at their demeanour when they enter the school, sad, downcast and glum and contrast it with the way they exit the school, boisterous, raucous and happy.

And yet, as the years pass by and grey abounds on our scalp, we recall those ‘tortuous’ days with fond remembrance. School days weren’t bad after all; in fact, they were one of the best times in our lives. The wiles of the world had not yet defiled our minds and the one and only motive we had was to escape studies and have fun, doing precious nothing, playing war with small figurines, deliberately trying to find a puzzle and solve it, hanging out of tree branches, climbing walls only to jump off them, sneaking into gardens and stealing mangoes or black berries, letting air out of tyres with a thin stick and enjoying the sound that it makes. Oh yes! School was fun, only because we were children and at that time anything and everything was fun. 

I too have fond much remembrance of my school, Utpal Shanghvi School or USS. Located in Juhu, right next to Amitabh Bachchan’s bungalow and near Chandan Talkies, USS started in early 80’s. It mainly catered to rich Gujju kids in the vicinity who did not get admission in Jamnabai or Maneckji. Within a few years of coming into being, USS established itself as a premier choice school, in fact, at around the time I left, the donation required for admission was rumoured to have crossed Rs. 1 lakh, which was a big big amount in those days.

Nonetheless, I was lucky to have got admission in USS thanks to my dad’s acquaintance with the Principal Abha Dharampal’s husband. Prior to USS, I was studying at a rather cosy school in Santacruz (W), named as Little Angels High School. Since, my sister who too was with me at Little Angels and had got admission in Mount Marys Convent in Bandra, my parents decided to shift me to a bigger school, so that I don’t suffer from a complex with my sister (and these were the days before psychiatrist and psychologist existed). Thus, in the month of August, I was sitting in princi’s (hereafter I will refer to Ms. Dharampal as princi as I still don’t have the courage to refer to her by name) office and after a short and snappy interview I was in. It was year 1987.

The reason why I am suddenly indulging in nostalgia is because some days back my mother shared with me a box that I used to maintain as a kid, in which to my great excitement I found yearly class pictures from USS. Looking at those pictures, schooldays memories just kept gushing on like swooning Brahmaputra. I tried to assign names to all those in the photos and to my surprise, I remembered quite a few of them. Since, I was an introvert and somewhat scared of girls, I don’t remember quite many of their names. Fortunately and quite fortuitously, I was present during all these classroom snaps. Looking at all those kids smiling, bored, yawning, posing, stiff, relaxed, etc, I could not help but wonder where all they must be. Probably, married and well-settled like me. Somehow, except for a very few friends, I haven’t been in touch with any of them and even with the ones I did, it was very infrequent. Quite a few years back, I remember going to a reunion at USS and had met a few of them, somehow it did not work out and haven’t been in touch with any of them.

Thus, when my dad got the pics scanned, I decided immediately to put them on a blog as an advert for all my classmates from USS class 1987-1992, to get in touch and get together and share and extend each other memories. Here below I am posting the photos on a yearly basis with a few incidents culled from the neurons that are still storing the memories. It’s better to list them down before they fail or fade or both. Continue reading …

Changing times, changing tech

by Shashwat D.C. | Leave a comment

“Aunt is no more. Ask Dineshji to come urgently” was the terse message on my cell quite late into the night. My dad’s sister had been unwell for sometime now, and two heart-attacks in quick succession were very fatal. Once the grim news had settled, another task awaited me. I had to make travel arrangements for dad, as he had to travel to Kanpur, the opposite end of India. It was midnight and Mumbai was sleeping tight.

Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t carrying my laptop either, on which I could access the Web and make the requisite arrangements. I was cursing myself at leaving my laptop back at home and wondering what to do next.

Suddenly, out there in the grim environ, a small 20-watt bulb lit over my head, dispelling the confusion that had cloaked my mind. My E61 turned out to be the Excalibur that I was hunting for. Due to the erratic travel schedules, I have subscribed to GPRS service on my cell. I use it to surf, check mails and send my articles. Agree, the data speeds are pathetic and it takes ages even to mail a simple word document. But that is a small price one has to pay for convenience.

In a jiffy, the Internet explorer was open on my cell and I keyed in ‘Makemytrip.com’. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Makemytrip was WAP enabled and had been optimised for the cell screen. The best thing was the layout was a bit intuitive keeping in mind the small screen and few clicks that go with it. Within, five minutes, I had whittled down the search to an early morning flight to Kanpur, punched in the details, made the payment through the credit card and presto, the work was done.

In another five minutes or so, I checked my Gmail on my cell again to find the confirmation mail from Makemytrip with all the requisite details. Within a few hours, we were at the airport, armed with the printed copy of the airticket in our hands. Continue reading …

Kanda Bhajiya, Cutting Chai and Mumbai Monsoons

by Shashwat D.C. | Leave a comment

For the past few months the city is under siege. The enemy has taken complete control. The populace is tortured from daybreak to dusk and from dusk to dawn. Adults, women, children, infants, no one was spared. There was nothing one could do.

The foe was keeping a watch on every road, every lane, every rooftop, and every junction. There was no escaping, not anywhere and not anyhow. For over three months now, my fellow citizens and me endured; hoping, waiting and praying for deliverance.

Something changed over the past few days. There were some reconnaissance sentinels from the allied camp, spurring hopes in our hearts. These black behemoths roamed across the city probably trying to evaluate the scale of invasion required. Relief seemed well on the way.

And today, it finally happened! I could see the relief forces amassing on the horizon. The grey legions were everywhere. The oppressors are no match for these mighty hordes. The mood was sombre, the hearts jolly. It is just a matter of time, before these infidels are driven away from precincts of Mumbai, driven away for 8 or 9 months, before they return to amount a fresh assault.

Pavas aala re!

The monsoon is at the gates, just a matter of time before the heavens open up. It is the time that every Mumbaikar looks forward too every year. The past few months have been agonisingly painful. Summer seems different in this city. Like any other coastal place in peninsular India, the humidity kills you if the heat doesn’t. You will be sweating, irritable and hot all over. But it is quite common. Mumbai’s uniqueness lies elsewhere; in it’s darn crowds. Continue reading …

Welcoming Tutul!!!

by Shashwat D.C. | 2 Comments

Day before yesterday (May 16th. 16:47 hrs), I was visited by the lady Stork carrying a small bundle of joy, hope and excitement; a bundle that has been named Tutul (pet name, nick name, home name). The visit was not really a surprise for me and wifey, as we had prepared our self for it in the past 9 odd months. And yet when it finally happened, we realised that no amount of preparation or expectation can be enough for child birth.  When, the “ohhhh..waahhh, ooohh…wahhh” moment arrives, you are just as raw, nervous and excited as if this is not happening to you. “Is that delicate, frail, whimpering new-born ours and HOWW!!” is probably the only thought that crosses the mind. In fact, I was quite numbed when I heard the cries and there are still som

baby_storke vestiges of that numbness. But it is wearing off quite steadily, especially when Tutul simply refuses to do as I wish and seem to merely wish as he does.

Tutul, which means soft and supple in Bengali, is an extension of the “UL” series of nick-names in my family, the four of us siblings are named Gugul, Parul, Putul, and Shishul by our parents and now the tradition extends further with Tutul. And yet, while Tutul might be a tiny addition to the vast sea of humanity, for us (me & wifey), he is already one of the biggest event (if not the biggest one) in our lives.

The past few days have been very hectic and quite understandably; when I am not admiring the face of the little angel, which many opine is quite similar to my own, I am running errands, escorting visitors, interacting with the doctor & nurses, learning to handle a tiny doll who seems to be prone to high-pitched shrieks and cries that almost shakes the whole place up, getting advices, doling out some, etc.

In all this, my greatest travesty has been that I have been blacked out and unable to share this amazing news with all my friends, colleagues and well-wishers. It so happens that my cell is conked off, and while I was supposed to get it a week back, I still haven’t. The result has been pretty disastrous, since all my contacts were in that cell, I have not been able to spread the message far and wide, as I would have ideally liked. Over the past few weeks, I had strung together a couple of short messages that would not only inform all and sundry about the new addition to the Chaturvedi clan, but also seek blessings and good wishes for the kiddo. Alas, I have been denied the right to puff up my chest and preen a wee bit. Continue reading …

Dummy’s guide to Shoeing

by Shashwat DC | Leave a comment

It took some 4 odd months, but finally the international sport of ‘shoeing politicians’ has arrived in India.  At a press conference today, Indian home minister (P Chidamdaram aka PC) quite effortlessly missed a shoe that was hurled at him by a Sikh journalist named Jarnail Singh. The white shoe flipped over his right side and it never seemed to threaten him at all. The hurler also looked frail and not intimidating enough, he never raised a hue and cry, pre or post the act. He even walked away with the plainclothes policemen quite willingly. As if it was something that he was happy to get over with. On the other hand, PC had a benign smile on his face, and asked the security guys to escort the hurler ‘gently’.

This isn’t the first time that someone decided to hurl a projectile at someone else. Through the ages, humans have been hurling things at each other, it started with pebbles, stones, branches, abuses, arrows, sticks, blames, projectiles, spears, knives, rockets, missiles, boomerangs, flowers, eggs, tomatoes, dishes, cellphones, and so many other things imaginable and unimaginable. Yet, the shoeing business is a rather recent invention.

December 14, is the red letter day in the history of shoeing, when a journalist with Al-Baghdadia Channel, Muntazer-al-Zaidi, hurled his footwear at President George Bush in Iraq. In fact, he hurled two of his shoes and but for the agility and reflex action of Jr. Bush, at least one would have hit him for sure. Zaidi was also smart enough to denigrate Bush, even while taking aim and releasing the shoes, ensuring that the world at large knew his reasons even if it did not agree.

Fortunately for Zaidi, Bush was at the nadir of his popularity and became a butt of ridicule, even though he ducked the shoes magnificently. Bush even joked about the incident in his characteristic bushy way. Sadly, for Bush, it was Zaidi who became the hero overnight, especially in the Islamic world. There were protests across different countries for him to be released from prison, some one offered him a car, one person his daughter and a Libyan channel offered him a job. Shoeing was not all that bad, after all.

Zaidi had many emulators, sometime back a disgruntled German student Martin Jahnke hurled an old sneaker at Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao.  Shoes have also been chucked at the US consulate in Edinburgh and at the gates of Prime Minister Gordon Brown’s Downing Street office. There was another one hurled at Israel’s ambassador to Sweden as he gave a speech at Stockholm University. And now PC’s name is added to the illustrious list, thanks to a frail Sikh with a bad aim.

The one thing that is common to all these incidents is that all the shoers (the shoe hurlers, so as to say) were unable to hit the target even though they had the benefit of surprise element. No leader expects a shoe flying across at him when he is offering platitudes to the world at large. Except for Zaidi, no one else came remotely close to hitting the target. In fact, none of the above seemed to want to hit their targets either.

Now that is a real tragedy, after all the shoer will have to pay a dear prize in spite of all the accolades or praises that he receives. Take Zaidi’s case, he has lost 3 years of his life and when he comes out people will be too distracted to bother about a Bush shoer. So is the case with Jahnke. Jarnail Singh meanwhile has been lucky, the country is going through general elections and the no politicians want to be seen as harsh and rude. Thus, PC displayed  gandhigiri by forgiving Singh. All are not so lucky.

Hence, if you are a prospective shoer and want to make a point, ensure that you do a good job of it. What is the use of wasting time behind bars and not even hitting the target? So for all at large, here is a dummy’s guide to shoeing:

A Mama am I

by Shashwat DC | Leave a comment

Yesterday, precisely at 2 pm in the afternoon, a small bundle of joy made a grand appearance on planet earth; a charming lady with a cute little nose. While the arrival was not surprising, as she had been in transition for the past 9 months and some 6 odd days, nonetheless, her grand coming was a great joy and relief to many.

The lady (nameless, as of now, since the parents are still bandying over the name) has already changed the way a lot of people are called or will be known henceforth. Like some writ from the monarch who doles out peerages and lordships, we all have been bestowed with various titles, Parul, my sister will be Ma (mother) and Anish, my bro-in-law will be Papa (or pop). My mom will be a Nani and my dad a Nana (grandparents). My little sister will be a Mausi (aunt) and best of all, I am bestowed with the title of Mama (uncle).

Now, ever since the Mama-izing news was delivered to me, I have been pondering over the matter, what are the pros and cons, what are my rights and of course the duties? Should I be an indulgent Mama, the one who keeps pampering, or a snooty one, that any child will not necessarily like to have. I have also been thinking, what is exactly expected out of me, considering the enormous responsibility on my shoulders, as I am a MA-MA (that is twice mother, as the Hindi equivalent of Ma is Mother). There has to be some grave reason why I am a Ma-Ma (mother-mother).

Sadly, the role models that are available are not really rolemodel material, for instance, there is Mama Kansa who tried to get rid of his nephew Krishna by sending heinous monsters. Then, there is of course the popular Shakuni Mama, who misguided his nephew Duryodhan and literally dragged him and his brothers to doom. Apparently, and if I am not wrong, Ravana took the help of his deceitful Mama Marich, to abduct Sita. Thankfully, it ends there in mythology, as there are no more gnomish Mamas in literature, or if there are, they aren’t all that popular.

For some strange reasons Mamas continue to be reviled in modern framework, being portrayed as scheming villains in scores of Hindi movies. The precedent set by literature is hard to get rid of.

But, there is one benevolent Mama, that looks down upon us every night, expect a couple every month. Smiling, reassuring that all will be fine. Chandamama is indeed the best Mama of the lot.

So returning to the charming-lady-with-no-name-who-has-made-me-a-Mama, I will try and be like the Mama we all love, good ol’ Chandamama, smiling, happy, and observant. I just pray that the task is at least as easy as it sounds. As of now, looking at the cute little lady, anything else is unimaginable.

Of to Bangalore

by Shashwat DC | 1 Comment

“I am packing you a shawl and two bed sheets in case you feel cold or want to rest in between the travel. There is a small inflatable pillow in the front zip of your bag, so you do not come back howling about the pain in your neck. Also I have put in two tiffin boxes, one contains the normal fare; rice, pulses and vegetables and the other contains snacks and knickknacks when you feel hungry,” said the Wife as she prepared the bags for my trip to Bangalore. “But, why do I need a bed sheet, shawl, pillow, when I am travelling by air, that too by Kingfisher and putting up at a swanky hotel, all paid by my company?” I protested.

“You need not tell me about what luxuries your company affords you. You forgot to add ‘First’ to the Kingfisher, which actually is your Air Deccan, the lowly low-cost airline and the swanky hotel that you stay in doesn’t even have a phone or a television, forget about an AC or a geyser. So, stop trying to pretend how important you are or how important your company takes you to be,” retorted the Wife, adding, “and all this stuff is not for your Bangalore trip but for your trip between Bangalore and the new airport.”

For a moment, I thought I did not hear clearly what she had stated and asked her to repeat what she had just stated. She readily obliged. “Oh come on, don’t you remember that there is a new airport in Bangalore, which is operational and also far far away from the city. Remember how our neighbours had gone their last month and were talking about the long ride from and to the airport. They were rich so they could afford a comfortable Mercedes Benz, unlike you who still has to travel in local buses or auto rickshaws,” she added.

Well, the Wife was right to a certain extent about the luxuries that I could and certainly not afford and since it was a first trip to the city since the new airport had become operational, I tried to go by her gut feeling. It was not because I could not confront her but simply that unlike other feelings, women feel very strongly from their gut and if perchance they are proven right, they won’ t let you forget the same through the time that you spend in this planet. So, I nodded meekly, to show that while I agreed with her on certain points, I was certainly not happy about the way she had stated them.

But the subtlety was completely lost on the Wife, as she opened the zip and showed me the book she was packing in; “Kannada easy learning course”. Now that was quite enough and before I could mouth that she came up with an explanation. “Nowadays, you are never sure about what cultural factors might instigate people. If it could happen to the Bachchans it could happen to anyone. So you better be careful and do as the Bangaloreans do, in Bangalore. Also since you have so much time on hand travelling to and from the airport, it’s better that you use it fruitfully,” she gave me an all knowing smile. “I am also packing in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, in case you get bored reading the Kannada learning guide. In front of the world you show off how much you have read Tolstoy’s work, but they only adorn your showcase not your brain. You could probably finish it between the journeys,” Wife went on.

Now this was getting more personal than I had bargained for, so I decided to put my foot down. “The book is too heavy and will give me a backache, I can do without Tolstoy this time, will brush up my Kannada skills,” I stated firmly.

“Why don’t you take the small compact tent that you had purchased from Deolali, 10 years ago? You could camp out in the open, in between the long journey to the city and probably have a campfire or something. Though, I know how lazy you are and having a campfire is certainly not your cup of tea. But you could still take the tent,” she said. “I certainly don’t need a tent or a campfire, because it will certainly not take so much time for the journey between the airport and the city. I will be travelling by a car not a cart, bullock cart,” I protested.

“You could also take that telescope with you, on which you spent so much. I am sure from the rural settings the sky would be much clearer than from the city. And why did you spend so much on the telescope, if you didn’t intend to watch the skies and the heavens,” she proceeded without even bothering to take note of my protestations.

“In fact, the best thing you could possibly do is write a small novel or a novella like thing during the time that you have with you. As it is, your earnings are barely sufficient to meet our expenses, probably if some book of yours clicks we could then afford to purchase something other than our needs. I am packing two empty notebooks and a few pens for the same. And for heaven’s sake write something that sells, even if it is an idea for a reality show or a Balaji soap,” continued the Wife. “In fact, you should have gone by the train and instead of the air, it would have taken about the same time and you could have pocketed the difference,” she wasn’t doing to stop.

That was enough for me, and I meant to say so. “Rail and air travel cannot be the same time-wise howsoever far the airport might be from the city and besides, my conscience won’t allow me to cheat,” I stated matter-of-factly.

By the time, the Wife was through with the packing I had a few extra bags with me that also contained a road guide, vitamins tablets, first aid kit, fruit juices, sweaters, soaps, tumbler, raincoat, torch, Swiss knife, screw driver, etc. besides the things listed above. I had more stuff in my bag for the journey between the new Bangalore airport and the city, than for the whole trip.

The weird aspect of it all was that almost everyone (barring the Wife) who had travelled to or from Bangalore cribbed about the location of the airport. “It is good but very very far,” seems to be the most common phrase used to describe the airport. Probably all this negative word had made the Wife a little more irrational than her usual self.

Next time, it would be good old railways, I decided. At least in that way, I would be saved from the overzealous packing done by the Wife and could probably impress the editor with my thriftiness as well.

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Lone Monkey on a dodgy mango branch