Tangoing Solo

Tangoing Solo
30th March 2002

It's finally here. The last post of season one. In the next few days, I will start uploading season two. Watch this space.

It’s spring. And, as the metaphor goes, young men’s (and women’s) fancies have turned to love.

The disease began with Minty. The guy she’s had a crush on for a while now called her and the two of them confessed to ‘having feelings’ for each other. So she runs down to Bombay to meet him and everything is hunky-dory.

Did I mention that the only reason she told him about her emotions was because I’ve been drilling it into her ears for months now?

And now – the shocker. It seems that Senorita and Mallu have been seeing each other – for a month! Holy Smoking Mackerels, Batman! The people who knew – obviously – were Bunny and Minty. The news was delivered to me this morning by Senorita – and it’s taken me till now to get over my astonishment.

It seems I’m always the last to know.

I guess that’s why I’m feeling so low these days. For the last week or so I have been longing to return home. The two people I’m missing the most in the world right now are Legs and my sweetheart. I haven’t met Legs in six months – and I haven’t spent as much time with my sweetheart as I’d have liked to.

It’s an awful feeling of loneliness that seems to have gripped me right now. The reasons are manifold. A few weeks ago the gang showed that they could ditch me without a second thought, as they took off for The Lord of the Rings without me. After I had decided not to go the previous day because Mallu was ill. They’ve since apologised, we’ve kissed and made up – but…

Groper’s my best friend here. But it seems that whenever we’re together I’m consoling her about her problems with her boyfriend – whom I’ll call Fat Breasted Woman (FBW). She’s got him and that seems to be top priority.

Senorita and Mallu. Bunny, Ads, Minty, Guzzler, Evil Man and the rest of the gang. Excluding me. It seems I never know what, where, when and why they do something. Part of the reason is that I live at a considerable distance from them – but they don’t seem to make an effort either.

My best friend is busy working and trying to sort out her problems with DJ. Consequently she has no time. As I said earlier, Legs is basically out of touch. And my sweetheart is extremely busy at work and being futilely pursued by a lovelorn man.

While I’m very happy for the couples, there’s always a twinge of sadness when I hear about two people getting together. It sort of reminds me that nobody has ever felt that way about me. When I was in love with Legs, she never reciprocated. I don’t think I’ll ever fully get over that. And now, with my sweetheart, she’s blissfully ignoring the idea that I might have fallen for her charms.

The closest I came was with Smelly and it turned out she’s sleeping with our Deputy Director. That’s why things ended the way they did. Our entire relationship was based on falsehood – a puff of smoke.

I don’t know when my number will come up in the game of romance. They say that good things come to those who wait. Hello up there! 21 years without anyone falling in love with me – wassup, dude?

And only my sweetheart knows something of what I’m feeling – and that’s only because I called her. Groper doesn’t know – I don’t want to saddle her with my illogical problems. Bunny doesn’t know either. Shivvy Dee has been incommunicado, aside from the occasional hello. My best friends in this Godforsaken place are out of my loop – for the moment at least.

I’m tangoing solo. Waltzing, dancing in the dark, waiting for someone to join me. It’s not a good feeling. I know I’ve been a loner all my life, but I have changed in the last four years.

Time for my situation to change. Mera number kab aayega?

Lingo Lafdas

Lingo Lafdas
19th January 2002

The past six months have constituted my first experience amidst a truly wide spectrum of people. I have as my classmates people from all over India – Bangalore, Mumbai, Chennai, Hyderabad, Kolkata, Delhi, to name a few. And while things have been going great with all of them – barring a few exceptions – there is one thing that sets us apart.

It’s the lingo. The difference is brought out every time two people with something in common get together, as the following examples will tell.

Consider Bunny and Lispy. The only thing they have in common (besides the fact that they are both girls) is that they are Gujaratis. What follows is a sample conversation.

Bunny: Kem chho?
Lispy: Arrey, did you hear about the guetht faculty? Etlo bado aadmi, kem karthe?
Bunny: Soo karechh?
Lispy: What thoo karechh?
And so on and so forth.

The scene repeats with the Southies or the Calcuttans. Just wait till they get together. And God help you if you happen to be around.

Your options in such situations are simple. Fall asleep and snore loudly; pretend to fall asleep and snore loudly; start cursing them for their lack of manners and breeding; read a book until they say your name; abuse them in your mother-tongue until they stop their jabbering.

The last option is to be exercised at one’s own risk. If your mother-tongue happens to be understood by either of the offending persons, just hope your mother paid your insurance premiums.

I have only one solace here. I can (and do) converse fairly fluently in Sindhi with Guzzler.

Another particular point of difference is the disparity in terminology. Take this case. Ads and I were working on the prospectus and decided to take a break and go for a walk. Ads mentioned that he needed "coolers". These I presumed were the relaxant eye drops. So we proceeded along F C Road.
We entered the well-known Hong Kong Lane, where Ads promptly bought a pair of sunglasses worth Rs. 80. When I asked him about the coolers, he simply pointed to the sunglasses.

For the record, we call sunglasses "glares", "shades" or "gogs".

And there is that innocent phrase, "Come tomorrow." Say it in Telugu to an English speaker and he will interpret it as "non-consenting carnal knowledge of a commercial sex worker."

Duh?

The exclamations differ as well! A South Indian would say, "Aiyyo!" Whereas we Bombayites use the phrases "Oh (my)God", "Oh no", "Oh damn", "Damn it", "Oh shit", "Oh fuck" or combinations thereof.

I don’t think I should go further, else this will end up as a huge and probably bestselling dictionary. Hmm…that may not be a bad idea after all.

Language! It can’t get worse than this.

Experiments With My Hair

Experiments With My Hair
12th January 2002

It’s the only thing about me that I wish I could change. My hair. The wild mop of hair that adorns the top of my gorgeous head.

Let’s get a few facts straight about my hair. The only time it’s straight is when I’ve just emerged from my shower without towelling it dry. The only time it’s curly is when – never - actually.

The best way to describe it is a mop of, well, hair. It’s wavy, it’s knotted, it’s definitely tangled. And there’s no way I can style it permanently.

When I was in school I used to part it, as per the instructions of my female parent. Mom used to watch me every morning as I painstakingly used a fine-tooth comb to part my hair on the right. It was a skill that took me years to accomplish – but one that was totally useless.

What would happen is simple. The hair would be firmly in place till I got off the school bus in the morning. By then it had been ruffled, blown, tangled or otherwise disfigured. And it would sit there all day long until I reached home and painstakingly parted it again.

Then there were the problems I faced when my hair would overgrow its natural length, which was quite often. My sideburns would stick in my ear. My hair would fall all over my forehead. And then my friends would promptly and immaturely tease and criticise me for looking like a descendent of the Abominable Snowman.

The day after I finished my SSC exams, I decided that I had had enough. So I went in to this posh, upmarket hairstyling saloon for a change. After taking one look at my anterior follicle growth, the sexily plump female hairstylist threw up her hands and remarked, "What can I do? There isn’t much hair to work with!"

However, she persevered and imparted to me the basic style that has been with me since then. There is no parting any more (parting is such sweet sorrow, eh?). Instead, I comb my hair back using a multi-pronged hairbrush.

This was the look that lasted for a long while. However, I feel very uncomfortable when my hair grows back more than an inch or so. Then I’d go back to the barber and ask him to cut it short. And promptly be mistaken for some sort of Buddhist monk.

The variations in my hairstyle have followed thusly.

• The Spike: This is actually an Elvis puff. It involves leaving only a part of my hair (i.e. the part right over my forehead) a little longer than the rest of the hair. The puff is then curled and straightened upwards. Suitable application of hair gel completes the look.
• The Emperor: Long sideburns and an almost completely shaved scalp complete the look. I first tried it out a few days after my LASIK surgery. Frankly, it suits the Romans or Sachin Tendulkar more than it suits me.
• The Short and the Straight: Short hair. Really short hair. Need I say more?
• The Lid: The top of my hair is cut a little longer than the sides or the back, making it look like something’s sitting on my hair. Not too bad, actually.
• The Simpson: Bartman – do the Bartman. A Bart Simpson cut where my hair protrudes extensively from all sides. This is my current style. The only problem is that it requires extensive applications of hair gel. So my expenses have increased slightly.

I’ve only been talking about the hair on my head, so it’s time to switch to the follicle growth on the other parts of my anatomy.

Firstly, I seem to have some sort of hormonal disorder. My cheeks are almost as smooth (and bare) as a baby’s bottom. I have yet to grow a beard. My attempts at a French beard or a goatee have all come to naught. Even the single strip of hair running down the cleft of my chin refuses to grow properly.

Secondly, I’ll discuss the problems with my chest hair. Or rather, the soft tufts of springy black material emanating from the pores of my skin. Nope. No new developments in that region either.
However, the hair under my armpits, legs and other places seems to be flourishing to the maximum.

Returning to the subject of my head, I have developed a case of Mutatus Dandrufii. Head & Shoulders doesn’t seem to work. The only shampoo that gave me relief was a sulphuric one that I used prior to my LASIK, but that stinks. Dettol and Himalaya seem to work a little better, but the problem persists.

Actually, I doubt I’ll have these problems for long. So I’m going to stop cribbing. Looking at my Dad’s receding hairline, I’ll doubt I’ll have too much hair after the age of 50. I’m going to enjoy the limited time I have left with my hair.

It’s a case of hair today, gone tomorrow.

Super Selector

Super Selector
18th November 2001

The new game show on ESPN-Star Sports has caught everybody’s fancy. Being the slowish, lazy piece of shit that I am, I haven’t registered – yet.

Now – why don’t they think of something like this for the Indian cricket team?

It’s a rather simple system I have devised. All of my own doing. The selectors start by hiring some rather impressive statisticians. The latter should be thorough experts at their jobs. Ideally, they should be able to comprehend the Samsung cricket ratings formulae.

Then these statisticians should travel all around the country, compiling information on all cricket matches. Based on points awarded, the team should be selected.

It won’t work. This article is being written in a pique, as I have been watching the Indian cricket team being mauled by the South Africans for three days now.

The attitude of our ghaatis continues to amaze me. Till they went out to bat it was uncertain who’d open. Ganguly, in a fit of bravado, declares that he is considering the job. Then he throws young Dasgupta into the arena and sits back watching the fun.

Add to this uncertainty and criticism of the team selection before the game.

Multiply some negative attitude, uncertain captaincy and poor umpiring and you get the formula for another debacle by the cricketers.

I tell you now – as I have been telling anybody who’d listen – that I should be selecting this side. Unfortunately, there are not many who do listen. Those few include my hapless family and a few friends. None of them is in the position to push me in as a selector.

I plan to bring in some more Bombayites. Guys like Pawar and Jaffer. Persevere with Agarkar. Drop Dasgupta and return to Dighe or blood Ratra. Keep Tendulkar as captain, with all the freedom he wants. And then watch the fun.

This article shall be forwarded the BCCI as a letter affirming my candidature as a selector.

I’ve been fairly good at selecting people for jobs. As can be seen from my prowess at SIMC. First with the convocation and then with the organisation of Footprints.

Which brings me to an interesting point. Smelly’s behaviour – weird once again. She’s been behaving like nothing ever happened. She’s even been desperate for me to join her at her place for lunch – with the rest of the gang of course.

However, being the sort of unforgiving person that I am, I refused.

That’s okay. I think I’m in line for a new girlfriend soon. Srimati and I have been getting very close for a while now, graduating to flirting online and hugs in person. I think I’m in for a very interesting time upon my return.

My other current obsession is Douglas Adams’ immortal trilogy in four parts (now five). Which has inspired me to take off on J K Rowling’s Harry Potter series.

Rejoice, cruel world! Hari Poddar is on his way.

As you can see, I select the right things to spoof. The question is whether I should go into partnership with Legs or DJ. Legs and I have done Titanic. DJ and I are keedas of the first magnitude.

Or should I team up with my pal Ads? Or go in one my own.

Forget what I said earlier. This selector is stumped for the moment.

It's A Mad, Ad World

It’s A Mad, Ad World
18th October 2001

One week into my first internship and life has taken one more meandering twist.

It started on 9th October, when I visited the advertising agency to meet the Creative Director of the agency, whom I shall call Ms Tuff. There I was, dressed up in shirt, trousers and formal shoes, in an environment where a t-shirt and jeans is considered a uniform. Already slightly nervous, I found my knees trembling as I entered her office.

I later learnt that everything here is completely informal and people deal with each other on a first-name basis. In the meanwhile, she interviewed me briefly and introduced me to my bosses, the Bald and the Bellyful. And told them to "give me the odd jobs."

Hello? No comprendo. I thought I was going to be writing ad copy. At that moment, I had visions of myself carrying trays of coffee and tea and acting as a courier between various departments.

Nothing of the sort. I arrived at work the next morning and was promptly assigned a cubicle next to Desert, Impotent and Chilli Pickle. I was promptly commanded by my boss, the Bald, to study a book called Cutting Edge Advertising, by Jim Aitchison. I was to report to him after that.

My cubicle. Gorgeous. Beats the hell out of anybody else’s. It’s a desk, with a chest of drawers. The drawers contain ‘recycled’ paper, i.e. paper that has ad proofs printed on one side. These are to be used for rough scribbling. I have a white light tube light at my desk. There is a phone, to be shared by the four of us. A computer, also for the four of us. It’s a ‘copy machine’ – it has a printer, Ms Word, no graphics software and no Internet connection.

As I said, the best in cubicle technology. I now know how Dilbert feels.

In between the studying, I’ve been doing some odd jobs. My worst nightmare has come true. The world knows of my great love for tobacco and tobacco products. And there I was, working on a brand name for the new flavour of Click.

As I said, my day was made.

And then I’ve been working on a dummy assignment, branding and advertising for a Multi-Utility Vehicle. I’ve called it the WildCat. The Bald is suitably impressed by my creativity and I’m now formulating a press campaign.

Unlike my other friends, my work has been more or less limited to copywriting. That is the job specification, isn’t it? Not head of research, head of cut and paste or head clerk. The only research I’ve done is looking for some photographs to be used in a forthcoming Nerolac campaign. The Bald and the Bellyful want to submit this for awards, and there we were, Impotent and myself, doing their dirty work. All because the client was too stingy to pay for a photo shoot.

I am proud to announce that I now have brands like Click, Elle 18, Nerolac, Parachute and Planet M under my belt. I’ve written an ad (of course, in association with my immediate superior, Impotent) for the launch of Planet M, Bangalore. Besides that, I was working briefly on invites for an orgy. A job assigned to me on my first day by Palpatine and Shaolin.

I guess my decision to join a smaller agency has worked so far.

I feel really sorry for all my pals in other big agencies who are doing jobs like surveys, etc. in the name of client servicing or creative.

The atmosphere is really cool. The creative department seems to be full of mad perverts. Which is why I seem to fit in like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

Desert and Impotent have been really helpful. They’ve recommended books, critically analysed my ideas, corrected my copy, explained the functioning of an agency, etc. The works.

The Bald seems to have taken fair interest in me. Even though his statement of "I’ll meet you in five minutes" translates to "See you in three hours". I guess Legs has to slip to second spot – I’ve waited longer for the Bald than for Legs.

The Bellyful seems to have an attitude problem – either he doesn’t like my face or he doesn’t like interns. It has to be the latter. My face is irresistible. He seems to want to make me run from the creative department to the studio and back all the time.

And how do I explain to him that if I run so much I will disappear completely?

The best part is that I get weekends off. Unlike some of my other friends. I also get to sleep at home every night. Unlike some other friends.

I’m still waiting my for my first overnight copywriting session. I seem to excel in doing hard work overnight, as Ads will tell you all.

That’s been my first week or so at the agency. It’s been great fun – exactly what I expected from an ad agency.

As the title of this piece implies, it’s a mad ad world.

The Fresh Prince

The Fresh Prince
15th October 2001

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. Not surprisingly – there have been a lot of changes in my life.

I arrived in Bombay as planned on 18th September. The next day, I went to see my eye surgeon BB. After a quick once-over, he announced that my dandruff had caused an inflammation of my eyelids, hence surgery was impossible.

I was too stunned to react. However, BB put me on some treatment. This involved shampooing my eyelids and using another absolutely foul-smelling sulphide concoction for my hair.

I returned to his clinic on 24th September. He immediately informed me that the infection had subsided. On 25th September I went in for surgery.

The operation itself was a 25-minute affair. Painless. The only discomfort I felt was when he clamped my eyelids open. It took only a day or two for my eyesight to return to near perfect.

The surgery also completed Phase 1 of the image-makeover exercises described in Image Ready.
Before all that, however, I’d caught up with most of the gang. Dated my sweetheart and had a ball. Met up with my best friend and talked for some time. This was further repeated one day when I was low. There had been some friction between my Mom and Amma. I desperately needed to let it out.

My problems with my best friend are basically gone. Except for the fact that I’m always treated as a secondary when we go out in a large group. It’s not something I like. She’s recently celebrated her birthday and things were the same. She hasn’t even seen the e-cards I’ve sent her.

I take comfort, however, in the fact that she turns to me for comfort.

Now let me enumerate upon the reactions to my new look.

My best friend thinks I look better. As do Ads, Groper, Mallu, Bunny, Srimati and Shivvy Dee. Also the rest of the SIMC gang. As I found out when I returned to Pune for my presentation and exam.

It’s great to see the class so bonded together after the Panchgani trip. I’ve had no problems with anyone – Smelly apart – and fitted right in. I was pleasantly surprised when Lispy ran up and gave me a big hug in way of greeting. A procedure repeated by so many others.

The week was great fun. The amount of keedas we did had to be seen to be believed.

Smelly had no reaction for me. Just a cordial, "Hi," a few questions and that was all. Her best friend Slutmuffin was more exuberant. She and I have always gotten along well and it was nice to see her again.

The last day was spent in an orgy of farewell hugs. Srimati stayed with me all day. She and I have become very close. Groper saw us off at the station – her train was later that night. She was behaving straight out of a Hindi film. Running on the platform, walking along with the moving train, big hugs, tears, the works. Very funny and great fun.

I am home now and have begun my internship. However, I have yet to meet Legs. Our plans were scrapped because she suddenly fell ill. She’s always felt that I look better without my glasses. Maybe now she will lose all control and fall in love with me.

You see, I’m still in love with her. As I’ve found out in the last few weeks.

My sweetheart, however, looked rather disdainfully at me at my best friend’s bash. She’s openly told me she preferred my spectacles. I guess that’s the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. It’s all over. Time for me to jump off a water tower?

Nah. I don’t think so. I’ll let myself believe that she’s saying that so that she can restrain herself from kissing me when we’re together in public. Secretly she finds me irresistible.

Work has begun on Footprints. The Director hosted us for dinner at New York, New York last week when he came down to Bombay. Probably chose that place in memory of that once beautiful city.

Life goes on. The magazine is out and looks good. Despite all the efforts of our printer and ex-Chairperson to destroy it. Ha. We – I – have the last laugh.

I’m looking different and new. I’m behaving differently – I’ve cut down on my flirting. The ploy is to wait for the gals to fall for me without much encouragement.

At this rate I’ll be a bachelor for life.

Postscript. My best friend has now clearly admitted to me what I’ve seen coming for the last two months. She and DJ are in love. I’m glad to say that it doesn’t bother me at all – I’m happy for the two of them, our 5-year pact notwithstanding. It’s just starting off for them, though, and anything could happen. My only fear is that she will have no time for me when I need her. What will happen? Only time can tell.

Burning Out

Burning Out
12th September 2001

I don’t think it’s ever happened to me before. Not as far as I can remember, at least. I’m hoping that it’s just a passing phase, one that I’ll snap out of soon.

What’s happened is that I’m feeling absolutely burnt out. Since I returned from Bombay last week, I don’t seem to have the will to work. The motivation, the desire, the determination – all seem to have vanished into thin air.

Some of it may be due to the slackening of the pace at SIMC. College started with a bang as students were set a frenetic pace and challenged to cope. I believe that I was able to cope. More than just cope with the pace, I revelled in it.

Now things are dull. As trainees rush around in fits of nervous panic trying to confirm their internships, I try my best to keep awake in class. I’ve missed more 8 am classes these last two weeks than I’ve missed through these three months. No projects and very few assignments. Can I be wholly blamed?

I’ve tried to get back into the pace. I’ve taken over the Cyber Club (to be renamed, I assure you) and have been appointed Coordinator for Nationwide Footprints, Mumbai. However, it hasn’t helped much.

Now all I want to do is go back to Bombay and begin my internship with Ambience d’Arcy. I shall return home next Tuesday for my surgery, scheduled for Thursday. After which I’ll be studying for the mid-term exam and preparing for my syllabus presentation. I return to Pune on the 2nd of October and come home once and for all on 7th October.

I’ve also been feeling very low about life. I don’t want to socialise much. I’m having mood swings. And people who know me are noticing.

It’s probably because I’m more than a little pissed off with my best friend. I’ve been feeling like this for three weeks – feeling that she’s got absolutely no time for me.

In Bombay, when I called her, she’d always tell me that she’d call back because she was talking to somebody else. If she remembered to call, she’d do so after an hour and then tell me to talk quickly because she only had five minutes to spare.

I can’t call her from Pune. She’s busy with classes in the evening, and calling her after 8.30 pm makes life difficult for her at home vis-à-vis her parents. The only recourse is to call on Wednesdays, but madam is generally busy studying. I don’t want to disturb her from that. I haven’t received an email from her in a very long time. Last week when we saw a movie in a group, I felt very left out. The only person who noticed it was my sweetheart.

If she’s got the time to go out with other others and talk to them for hours on the phone, then she’s definitely got the time to talk to me. The day Smelly tried to patch things up with me, I called my best friend. And the first thing she tells me is to make it quick. Putting me off completely.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it. I’ve emailed the gang saying I’ll be home next week. Now I’ll call her when I get there, and we’ll see what happens.

I’ve always felt that friendship has to be both ways. I can’t be the only one calling. Therein lies the crux.

The one friend who’s been in constant touch has been Legs, both via email and telephone.

Anyways, I’m looking forward to my return. And I’m singing for somebody to come on and re-light my fire.

Apologies to Jim Morrison.

Return Of The Prodigal Girlfriend

Return of the Prodigal Girlfriend
6th September 2001

Posts are now flowing thick and fast, as I try to catch up with real time and start season 2.

I used to always say that it’d take a miracle. That miracle has finally happened today – leaving me in stunned astonishment.

Today, sometime in the afternoon, Smelly came up to me and expressed her desire to patch up things between us.

It started this morning when she cornered me near the notice board and mentioned something about expressing her undying love for me. I took it as some more rubbish and escaped quickly.

The second encounter happened at the foot of the stairs, when she grabbed me by my collar. I calmly released my shirt from her rubber-like grip and strolled back to class.

Immediately after that she took me aside and asked me why I was ignoring her. I told her that we’d talk later, and we did.

I’ve told her exactly how I felt (and feel) about the entire episode. Thoughts that you may find in a previous episode of FITM. And then I asked her why she’d behaved the way she did.

It seems that she’s gone through a hellish three months, sort of isolating herself from all but a few. Problem was, I wasn’t among the few. That’s what caused the rift. She seemingly couldn’t tell me anything at the time. She talked about how she didn’t like SIMC – the crowd, to be more precise. The people, she feels, are pretentious, and she can’t be that way.

More importantly, on the verge of tears, she apologised for her behaviour. She’s now asked me if we can let that ugly episode remain a thing of the past. I’ve told her that we can try, and so things stand. We’re at a crossroads – we can either go forward in friendship or not at all.

There is just one problem that comes to mind. What sort of a friendship can I expect from her? Will we be just friends, close friends or the way we were in Bombay? Can I trust her to keep her end of the bargain? How long before she cracks again? And was she really using me? I don’t have a single answer at this moment. Only time will tell where we stand.

One thing is clear. She’s going to have to take the initiative to get our relationship back on track. I’ve done all I could, failed and bowed out of the race. The ball’s in her court now.

Legs was right, it seems. She’d predicted that something like this would happen. I’d give Smelly an attitude, she’d sense it and try to patch things up. Gosh, she seems to be almost as good as Nostradamus was. At least where matters of the heart are concerned.

Watch this space for more of this reality series. Only on FITM.

In unrelated matters, I’ve just returned from a 5-day stint in Bombay. Last Thursday, our Director announced that we had the weekend off due to the chaos of the Ganesh Festival. So the Bombayites decided to return to their roots. I planned a surprise trip – only my best friend, DJ and Legs knew I was coming in.

I took a bus at 1915 hrs on Friday and reached home around 0045 hrs. Was greeted at the door by Amma’s surprised exclamation. I then knocked on my parents’ door. Dad was stunned and Mom had her mouth hanging wide open. My sister’s surprised squawk added the icing to the cake.

I decided to return on Wednesday, and so had the time to meet all my friends. I went through traffic, a dodgy clutch and a stalled car to meet Legs on Saturday. I also met Hairy Puttar, Lefty, Clapton and my college gang.

A few hours were spent in college, accepting an invitation to host a Physics quiz later this month. On the whole, I had a ball.

The best part was that I spent a lot of time with my sister. I’ve missed her a lot, and I’m just waiting to return home on the 27th of September for my internships.

The sad part was the death of my old family servant, affectionately called Bhaiyya. He’d been ill for a while now, even hospitalised. I’d met him when I’d returned home for Raksha Bandhan and Ganesh Chaturthi. Each time he looked weaker. He’d insisted on going home, and so that’s where we sent him. I’d had a feeling that we’d never see him again. He passed away on Saturday afternoon, and we got the news on Monday. RIP – we’ll miss you.

I returned to Pune with Groper to give me company. And then arrived at college this morning to be accosted by an adamantly apologetic Smelly.

I have no clue as to what’s going to happen with that dame. Everything happens for the best, they say. I think I’ll believe in that for the moment.

At least for now, I’ve decided to turn to religion to salvage my eternal soul. Miracles do happen.

I Told You So!

I Told You So!
3rd August 2005

Once again, we go back to the future, for a topical update. Blasts from the past resume next time.

After I wrote my last FITM (Monsoon Madness) and posted it on my blog, I was deluged by hateful comments. As friends (???) tossed up sarcastic comments like, "How could you hate the monsoon?" and "You’re mad!"

Well, shortly after, my fair city of Bombay was deluged too. By rainfall of the quantity that hasn’t been seen for 100 years or so.

Prompting me to write – with utmost gloating and gleefulness – this rejoinder to those comments.

Why I hate the monsoon – an addendum.

• It floods my city. Hugely. Shutting down commerce and other forms of life completely. Stranding thousands of people. Killing hundreds others.
• It crashes mobile phone networks. Making us wonder why we pay all those bills for a service we can’t use when we most need it.
• It strands Sis between Andheri and Jogeshwari stations. Panicking her almost as much as it panicked us at home. And forcing her to wade to a cousin’s place and stay there without power for nearly two days.
• It gets gloomy. And I’ve already mentioned what gloomy does to me.
• It reminds us (once again) that politicians are inept, corrupt and highly useless in a crisis. That our tax money is going down the drain (read, into their pockets.) That we’d be better off migrating to Jhoomritalaiya.
• It gives me a cold. And fever and the chills.
• Worse, it gives Slappy a cold. And a very bad fever and very bad chills. And makes me worried about her.
• Shortages. No milk, cheese, butter and bread. No medicines, no drinking water, no electricity. One would assume that this shortage extends to condoms as well, but this remains an assumption. FITM encourages frantic, hormone-maddened, angry lovers to launch a protest.
• Boredom. How much Monopoly can you play? (Quite a bit, actually.) Or PlayStation? (Same answer.) How much TV can you watch? (A hell of a lot, it turns out.) How many episodes of FITM can you write? (None, actually. Sorry.)
• Driving is even more difficult. Especially at night, when you have to pick up stranded women while trying to weave your way through 5000 people looking for a lift to New Bombay.
• And the last, but the most important reason for me to say, "I told you so!" The rain gets me wet.

Slappy and I have argued over this. We both agree that one good thing came out of this monsoon. She was stranded – with Minty – at my place. For two whole days and two whole nights! Goody, goody.

Before any naughty thoughts happen, let me assure you that I was a thorough gentleman. At least in front of my folks...who, by the way, really seem to like her. It’s not the ideal way to introduce her to my family, but hey...all’s well that ends well.

So, like I said, we argued. And came to the conclusion that we hate the rain...but wholeheartedly love at least one of its consequences.

Two days, two nights...completely blissful, completely amazing. I thought I’d save it for another story...but then I remembered that a gentleman never kisses and tells.

So, back to the rains.

And back to my detractors.

A pox on all ye unbelievers. Or worse, a monsoon on ye. Admit it. I was right. As always.
I really don’t hate to say this. In fact, I’m enjoying this.

"I told you so!"

Situation Report

Situation Report
29th August 2001

It’s been a long, tiring month.

Having somewhat recovered from the virus that had laid me low after my incredible work stretch, I returned to college to work on the Convocation. My fever promptly returned, and I spent the last two days working with a hundred-degree fever. However, the Convocation went off fairly well – the yearbook was well appreciated, as were the rest of the ceremonies. The launch of the media newsletter Blab!, which I designed, titled and contributed to, went off as planned at the hands of Cyrus Oshidar. Although the newsletters were left behind in college and nearly forgotten. Until Auntie and myself rescued the day. Superman and Supergirl to the rescue.

I returned late on the night of 12th August, miserably ill. Too ill, in fact, to attend Oshidar’s workshop the next morning. I did something intelligent and visited a doctor, and spent the next four days convalescing.

And then Dad and Amma landed up in Pune on the 18th. Dad needed a break from work; Amma was tagging along. It was definitely nice to see them, but there was something very strange about having other people in the house all the time. I’ve no problems readjusting when I return home, but I’ve gotten too used to the loneliness of my home in Pune.

Anyways, I needed a long break. Something that was promised to us by our Director, but never delivered. So I took off for home with my family for Ganesh Chaturthi. That was the second-best break I’ve had since coming to Pune – the best being the first time I returned home. I’ve slept like a log, watched TV and generally farted around with no pressures to worry about.

The best part was that I got to meet my best friend and my sweetheart. Not to mention Hairy Puttar and DJ. DJ and I spent over six hours at Andheri at my best friend’s house. My sweetheart also joined us, and it was a lovely evening.

I’ve been worried about my best friend. She hasn’t gotten admission as yet into an M.Sc. or Pathology course. Her last recourse is an MBA, and it’s slowly turning into her main option. The only problem is her conservative family. They want to get her married.

She’s been sounding like she’s already lost hope. Her emails read, "I’m getting married in 6 months. You are invited." I’ve been trying to boost her spirits, reminding her that it’s her life and that she’ll never be happy unless she does what she truly wants to. Things are slightly better now – she’s more relaxed and hopeful. That’s the way it should be. I just can’t bear to see her unhappy.

My sweetheart still holds that status in my life. We only had a few minutes alone that day, but we were as we’ve always been. Cuddled up, holding hands on the sofa, talking. And now she’s thrown me into confusion. I’ve just received an email from her, where she signs off saying, "Love you."

I’ve had very strong feelings for her for a while now, feelings that only my best friend knows about. Even when I was going around with Smelly my heart was divided. Last evening I went for a movie with my college pals. However, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my sweetheart since last afternoon. I guess I still have some soul-searching to do. Not for the first time I wish I could read women’s minds, a la Mel Gibson in What Women Want. I really wish I knew how she feels about me.

It’s surprising, but I’d been thinking of Smelly quite a lot before I left for Bombay. I guess it happens whenever I’m planning to return home. Bombay holds some fond memories for me about us – Pune has soured those memories now. I’ve now struck out twice with girls I’ve taken to that little lane near the NCPA – first with Jum and now with Smelly. I guess I’ll need to find another khopcha for my next affair. I’d better start exploring Kandivili well – who knows what’ll happen between my sweetheart and me.

And what about Legs? We spoke for nearly two hours the night after I returned. She was a little low and I caught it immediately, stunning her. I keep telling her that I know her better than she thinks, but her memory is like a sieve. She never remembers.

We’ve become closer since our little three-month rift. We’ve also become closer since my encounter with Smelly. She’s opened up a lot about her love life, and we’ve had some amazing conversations since then. I always tell her that we should get together as a couple – for the first time she agreed that night. On the condition that I give her a solitaire for our engagement. So I’ve started saving up.

Groper and I are having an affair – that’s what we tell everybody in class. This is what you call keedas. She spent the night at my place a few days ago – working on an assignment, nothing else, you pervert. And she threw up with food poisoning two days ago. So we’ve started spreading the rumour that she’s pregnant – but not with my child. I’m gonna become a chacha. Extra keedas, no?

We’re going for another movie this afternoon. Free passes to film festival, must take full advantage. So I’m going to sign off now, but I’ll be back. Like the Terminator. Or a bad penny.

End of situation report. Over and out.