I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
Comin’ down on a sunny day?

- Have you ever seen the rain? by Creedence Clearwater Revival

I love the rains but for some mysterious reason, it rains almost everyday around 6 in the evening. And that is the exact time when I’m walking out of the office, on my way back home. I would enjoy it if I were walking in the rain for 10-15 minutes, or if it’s just a drizzle.

But when you get drenched to your undies while walking in the rain for an hour or so, it’s not funny. And once I get wet, I don’t stop or look for shelter for the entire 4 kms. I just take off my glasses, roll up my jeans a bit, and walk. The rains can go to hell.

I remember my schooldays. There’s this stage in every boy’s life when his mother sees him as the cutest kid in the whole wide world, and dresses him up accordingly. I had just started going to school on a bicycle and it was the rainy season. Mom had bought this bright red raincoat for me, one-piece and with a hood. When I saw it for the first time, I flatly refused to wear it. Mom and dad used all the tricks, and one day I found myself wearing that stupid sissy looking thing.

I thought I was being good, I thought I was being brave. But once I was outside the gate, away from my house and all that was familiar, all the embarrassment came back. I took off the raincoat, put it in my schoolbag, and rode in the rain, all the way to school. And I followed that same routine until I outgrew that bloody red raincoat, and dad bought me a new decent looking brown one.

Just the other day, we had this cubicle day in the office. As usual, everyone was over excited with the HR people leading the pack. I finished my work, had an early lunch and came back home. Whenever this cake-cutting, we-are-a-happy-family, birthday-ethnic day thing comes up, I disappear.

There was this company in south Delhi where I used to work around 2003-2004. It’s the only company where socials and fun events mean just one thing – a trip to the pub. The girls and/or the teetotalers were asked to go take a fucking hike if they made any noise. Miss that good ol’ spirit and honesty these days.

munnar

Cooking tuna with cauliflower, listening to Dream Theater, and thinking of the mountains and freedom…

I’m hitting the highways tomorrow with S, and a very good friend of mine SS, along with her husband. The last time I saw SS was at the New Year’s party in 2003. I was working at a BPO in Gurgaon then.

There were two friends with me that night – SS, and the only sardar I’ve ever known who’s thin, mad about Metallica and plays the electric guitar. And we three were pissed off because no booze was served, and to make matters worse the whole crowd was shaking to some shitty indi-pop or remixed numbers.

I had come prepared anyway and had brought a Pepsi bottle filled with rum. There were no spare/empty glasses, and nothing good to mix the rum with. So I filled whatever tiny space was there in the bottle with water. We three then went to the parking lot and shared that bottle of rum on that cold windy December night. Sipping the strong warm rum, and with a million stars above us we talked about our dreams and lovers – old and new.

After that, the night passed in a blur. We three refused to do overtime the next day (January 1) because a holiday had been promised by the management. When the Operations Manager came early morning and asked again who all were not willing to do overtime, we three were the only ones who stood up in our team. We learned later that we were the only three out of the total 800 in that SBU/process. The OM wanted to fire us but when she learned that all three of us were the best performers in our respective teams, she quietly arranged a cab for us and sent us home for the day.

It’s almost 5 years now; I’m going to meet her tomorrow, and we’ll all be going to Munnar (Kerela) in their car. I have burned a few CDs, the thermo flask is cleaned for hot tea/coffee all along the way, and one mineral water bottle has been filled with vodka (I’d have preferred rum but to hide it at the numerous check posts, I need an empty Pepsi or Coke bottle).

I just can’t wait for tomorrow.

Sometimes a “Where are you from?” or “Which place do you belong to?” leaves me speechless. I can however deal with questions that ask me where I was born, where I studied this and that, and the city where I worked and lived at a particular time.

I’m right now in Bangalore but I would prefer Pune any day as far as my working years are concerned. I just need a good job offer to relocate and settle down in that city. But after retirement, Himachal is definitely where I want to be. A small house made mostly of wood and stones, my woman, a big German shepherd, books, music and guitars are all I need for my post-retirement days. Having tea/coffee in the warm sun, breathing the mountain air, reading a good book, long leisurely walks, and guitars and rum in the evening – yeah, that’s what I want and that’s what I’m gonna do when the time comes.

And this means that I’m never going back to that place where I was born, to that place which used to be “my home” once upon a time. It has always been a cause of great concern for my family and relatives as to why I rarely go home during vacations or any holiday break. In 14-15 years, I have gone home 7 times – the longest gap was 7 years.

I have got a million answers for not going home, but it would be a sheer waste of time to say anything about these co-called reasons of mine. The biggest losers have the biggest egos, that’s what I have seen and learnt.


Went inside a church about a month back, for the first time in my life. After all the fascination I had with the whole idea and concept of Christianity during my teenage years, the experience that Sunday was a bit of a disappointment. I love some of the hymns, and the silences in between. I hate it when the people knelt, with hands joined, heads bowed, and knees on the floor.

Why do all religions adopt this unctuous, servile attitude in front of their respective Gods and Goddesses? All the so-called holy books say that God is our father/mother and people don’t kneel or bow down when they talk to their parents. Do they?

Or maybe, people kneel or bow down because they fear God. But why? God listens to you or turns a deaf ear whenever he wants. God protects or kills your loved ones whenever he wants. God rewards or punishes whoever he wants, no matter what we did, do or decide to do. And God will take your life whenever he wishes, and it really doesn’t matter whether you are on your knees or you are walking tall and straight.

God doesn’t just play a six-sided dice; he plays a million-faced dice with you and me, and everyone else. And God makes all the fucking rules.

I'm becoming an atheist, and my belief in the non-existence of God increases with each passing day. The universe is random; you and me, and everything else are just probabilities.

sometimes i just wanna show off

They say blood is thicker than water. Amongst all the blood relations, the relation between a mother and her son has to be the strongest one. And most often, a relation of blind faith and loyalty, and absolute denial of the cold facts and the hard truths of the world.

The mother of the Glasgow bomber; her son burned himself in trying to kill innocents and what was her first reaction - that her son is totally innocent. Some other people who worked with him, or had links to him were also caught. All the mothers said the same thing - that their sons are innocent harmless human beings.

Now, the mother of the bomber is saying that she knew sometime back that something was not right with her son. She also knew then, that he was going on the wrong path.

Why didn’t she say that before? Did she ever talk to her son and try to change his sick and stupid beliefs and opinions? Did she ever talk about her son to the police? Something tells me that the parents knew all about him. Maybe not the bombing itself, but everything else.

Whenever I read about some shooting or extortion in my state, I always ask mom why the mothers of all those terrorists are not reporting their sons to the army or police. These mothers know very well about their sons’ whereabouts and what they all do. These mothers know very well that their sons are extorting money from everyone in the state, and killing and terrorizing innocent people. The family can disown a terrorist, a whole neighborhood/locality can denounce him but a mother will never do that. Behind everyone’s back, she will always have a link with her son.

Mom never has an answer for me. But I know she has the answers deep inside her heart. How can the mothers do that? They are their own sons, their own flesh and blood.

There is my 2nd brother, the black sheep of the family. Though he hasn't joined any terrorist outfit, I and everyone in the family hold him responsible for our transition from an upper middle-class family to a poor family. The fact that advice and threats, money for business and money for further education, love and hate, empathy and pity, trust and distrust haven’t changed him at all doesn’t concern mother. The fact that he’s almost 35 and all those years haven’t touched him and made him a better person, has always escaped mother.

So for her, like every other mother in the world, her son is actually innocent and harmless. It’s his lazy evil friends, it’s the neighborhood he grew up, it’s the schools he studied, and sometimes, it’s her husband – our father.

How people turn blind, deaf and mute when the accused is their mother, father, son, daughter, brother or sister? When I was 12-13, there was this friend in our group. I remember the day his mother was caught with an auto driver. There was all this commotion in his house, relatives and neighbors were coming and giving advice to his father. Some were telling him to divorce his wife; some were asking him to think about his kids.

That’s when we turned to this friend in our group. We wanted him to say the word; we wanted him to shout that his mother was a prostitute and that he will never talk to her or call her ‘mother’ anymore. We wanted him to say the words so very badly. As kids, we were cruel and stupid. If I remember correctly, he screamed angrily that his mother could never be a prostitute. And he never ever said a word about his mother after that day.

A decade and some years later, I know he still loves her but I also know that the love has been mixed with buckets of hate and hurt. And that concoction has been hidden and locked away in his heart, perhaps forever.

I went home last year for one day, after staying away for 7 continuous years. I met him and he arranged for a driver’s license for me. His family is still so poor, he was never able to finish his education, and he’s unemployed but he survives by running around and arranging driving licenses, passports, domicile, birth and date certificates for other people. I heard later from elder sister back home, that sometimes he works as a laborer when there’s no other work.

His mother died a long time ago, within a year after the incident. Fainted one fine day and she was gone forever. His father remarried and they got back a family. I also had a long talk with him, he was happy though the hint of some forgotten sadness flashed occasionally in his eyes. Still, I could have saluted him right then and there, saluted and bowed to his fighting spirit. My 2nd brother wouldn’t have survived a day if he were put in that friend’s place. And with mother to hold him in her lap instead of letting him walk, my 2nd brother wouldn’t have lasted a fucking minute.

A mother’s love can be the strongest and most nurturing love we’ll ever know in our lives. But it also can turn into a very dangerous thing when it becomes an over-protective, encompassing roof over our heads. And if it ever happens, take a walk outside and let a little rain and sun wash over you.

It’s fun to know languages other than your own. There is no language in this world that I don’t want to learn. But sadly, I know just a few.

Today, in the cafeteria, three other guys were sitting at my table. And all of them were speaking in Tami. And the best part was that they absolutely have no idea that I can understand a little bit of Tamil. One was cribbing about the food in general, and another one was pissed off with some dish comparing it with their original beloved Tamil dish. That’s when the third guy pitched in, calling the other 2 guys assholes and asking them to shut up. I almost choked on the food, trying to stifle a laugh.

I just know some words and phrases but my Tamilian friends used to tell me that I know more bad/swear words in Tamil than they do.

Speaking of languages, why do some people force down their language down other people’s throats? One of the first things I learned after leaving home, is that when you are in a group, switch to a common language that everyone in the group is familiar with. It doesn’t matter how many persons from your own state/community are there in the group. If there is one single person who doesn’t know or speak your language, switch. That’s it.

But no matter what you do or where you are, you’ll always come across people who break this simple rule. If you ask or remind them, they will look at you as if you have abused their mothers. And their most common answer is, “Why?? Ours is such a beautiful and sweet sounding language.“ The second most common answer is that they are speaking with a brother/sister from their own community/state.

Anyone will tell you that if you don’t know a particular language, it all sounds the same – just noise. So even if your language can invoke the rain gods and make flowers bloom, kindly switch.