It was barely twilight but there I was, sitting at the bus stop just near the Lajpat Nagar flyover. I was working in a BPO company then and I had to wake up everyday around 4 am to be in time for the company cab. Owls, vampires, and BPO employees - creatures of the night.

I used to smoke then. Sitting there, smoking a cigarette I saw something on the road. It was a dog, very much dead and lying in the middle of the street. Something huge must have struck it when it was crossing the road because there were small body pieces lying all around. The blood must have dried up too, a long time ago.

And as I waited for the cab, I saw all these vehicles zooming down the road, and hitting and/or running over the carcass one after the other. The sound of each impact was sickening and as the dead dog crumbled into smaller and smaller pieces right in front of my eyes, I watched it all - sad, revolting and fascinating but I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

"Kutta hai na?" I turned around and saw this kid who worked at one of the small Punjabi/Chinese hotels near my rented flat. I nodded my head and we both kept on watching. And for a few minutes, we saw the same thing and felt exactly the same feelings. So this is how we all end, man and dog and everything else – ash to ash, dust to dust.

The cab finally came and I got in. The kid was still standing by the road, lost in his own thoughts.

On the kitchen table, along with the cups and saucers is a long steel glass, the type that is usually used in hostels for serving and drinking milk. S’s father had bought it when he was with us for a few weeks. He doesn’t like to drink water from Mineral Water bottles like us, or from any other type of cups or glasses.

He is not much different from my father or any old person I know. Call it idiosyncrasies or eccentricities, we tend to acquire it more as we grow older. I sometimes see it as plain old stubbornness judging from the way old people want to have everything their way. Their inability to see, hear or feel others’ point of view, and their refusal to accept anything or anyone that don’t agree with them.

Perfectly understandable when they are senile, very old people; but what about those able bodied senior people who are still working or who have just retired? Age and experience teaches us patience and empathy. So where does it all go when the sunset approaches? S’s visits to old age homes always bring me tales of old people sulking, crying, screaming, and stomping their feet until the other people around give in to their demands. They also do the same thing when they don’t get the attention they want.

Not much different from babies if you consider the fact that a lot of old people come to that stage where they can’t clothe, eat, piss or shit by themselves. There’s nothing cool or romantic about dying young but the shame and indignity one goes through in old age makes me wish for an early death.


There are some songs that send a thrill down your body whenever you hear it, no matter how many times you have heard them.

Audioslaves's "Like A Stone", Alter Bridge's "Open Your Eyes", Steel Dragon's "We All Die Young", Skid Row's "I Remember You"..... - not the songs in their entireties but there's a part in all these songs where the guitar wails or the vocal shoots up to new unscaled heights. And that's exactly where I stop everything to listen and savor that exact moment.

And folk songs, I just love them. I remember that time just after I saw King Arthur. Spent hours on the net to find and download that song "We Will Go Home", and when I finally heard it in full, it was pure bliss. Hotel Rwanda has a lot of African folk songs/music which are just unforgettable.

There's this very popular Irish folk song called "The Fields Of Athenry", and it has been sung by countless number of bands/artistes. But as far as I’m concerned, the best rendition has to be the one sung by a street singer called Brian O’Donnell for the OST of "Veronica Guerin." He was 11 years old when he sang that song. Listen. And don't miss the movie either.


Eastern Promises is one hell of a movie. The fight scene in the bath house is one of the best, bloodiest, most realistic and brutal fights I’ve ever seen in a movie. No stuntmen were used, and according to IMDB, it took 2 days to film that scene alone. Guess Hollywood actors and our own Bollywood actors will always remain poles apart. Hollywood actors took rigorous training, visit and stay in foreign countries to develop accents, spent time in prison and other institutions, learn new hobbies and skills to prepare themselves for their roles. And here we have someone as big and rich as SRK or Sushmita Sen killing me every time they play rock stars in some of their movies without even bothering to spend 5 minutes to learn how to hold the guitar properly, forget about playing. Monkeys with coconuts, that’s what they remind me of.

Rendition, American Gangster, Charlie Wilson’s War, Atonement, and Juno were other great movies I saw recently.

No Country For Old Men was not that great but Javier Bardem was awesome, brilliant, evil and very very scarry!!!

I reached Imphal on the 16th of February. I didn’t realize it on that day of my arrival but my brother who came later, told me that he felt like he had arrived in a ghost town. The roads were bad, and the whole stretch from the airport to our new house looked very deserted.

All the roads in the main shopping market had been dug up in the name of a renovation, expansion and beautification drive. Vehicles were blocked in many of the roads and people had to walk for all their shopping. Mom told me the CM wanted everything to be done in one go instead of doing it step by step because he wanted to take his cut before his term gets over. Everybody calls him the 10% CM.

I sometimes wonder whether we are the most optimistic people or the most stupid and cowardly ones. You rarely see the army in any of the Indian cities but in Imphal, the army is everywhere. The Assam Rifles, CRPF, BSF, the commandos…everyone is there. There are no civilian areas, and the army patrols don’t stop. On the main roads, they patrol in their armored cars that look like tanks. All you can see is this huge vehicle, and on top of it, right in the center is a dark face under a helmet and a big machine gun that means business. The commandos are the most fearsome ones because they are mostly poor, angry frustrated matriculates with no respect for anyone. They are rude, and trigger-happy. And the fact that they are armed with mean looking machine guns doesn’t help either.

Someone or the other calls a bandh almost everyday for something or the other. But most of the times, it’s to protest the monetary demands made by the countless terrorist groups in the name of some fucking dream called “Independent Manipur”. Even a 4 year old kid knows they are just thieves with guns. As for their so-called revolution, they can all shove it up their asses. So one day, it’s the petrol pumps shutting down in protest because of bomb threats over monetary demands not met, one day it’s the bus operators, one day it’s the schools, one day it’s the shopkeepers…but then everyone needs to eat, the protest ends and life goes back to that normal despair and frustration.

The army, police and commandoes have also started killing a lot of civilians for money. They kill civilians, and steal their money, even the jewelry on their bodies. Once the deed is done, a gun or bomb is planted on the bodies and the innocents became terrorists shot and killed on the run. During my vacation in Imphal for about 3 weeks, I read about these killings EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. On an average, 5-10 persons were found shot everyday and these are just the official published reports in Imphal area only. And then on the other side, there are the civilians killed by the terrorists EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. Guess NGOs and Human Rights organizations found Manipur too insignificant for their PR.

Everyone’s scared, angry and very frustrated. Whatever everyone thinks or says, I know nothing less than a civil war will turn the tide and bring a change in Manipur. The central & state governments don’t give a damn, the armies are reluctant to give up their power under the AFSPA, and the terrorists will never start a dialogue because they are mostly illiterates who only know how to threaten, steal and kill. The terrorists, the police, the army and the politicians all get a cut from the monthly and annual collections made from almost everyone living in Manipur.

Forget the men, most of the women in my family including relatives’ and friends’ told me that they won’t hesitate to kill the terrorists or the army if they were given a gun. Power supply’s almost not there; except for the VIP areas there’s load shedding every alternate day and when the power’s there it usually comes for 5-6 hours a day. A civil war looms on the horizon of Manipur while the national media and the nation as a whole continue to ignore everything here. Bollywood and cricket are far more important for their TRP ratings and revenues.



It was cold back home, especially in the mornings and dusks. Every morning and evening, I used to sit near a bonfire or sometimes a brazier, and talked with my parents about everything. Mom had grown her flowers in front of the new house but this time the roses were sadly missing among the marigolds. The trip brought new revelations too; I learnt that in his younger days, dad had been a lot crueler to mom than I initially thought, and mom had suddenly become very orthodox and superstitious. I also had the chance to enjoy all the vegetables and herbs that are not available anywhere outside my state.

My family and friends asked me when I will visit them again but to be honest, I don’t know. The beauty of the mountains surrounding Imphal valley, the climate, the food and sometimes an old familiar folk song reminds me of the once innocent and happy days I and everyone had in this beautiful land. But like a dream, it fades slowly day by day.

I wrote the final/certification test for the Analytics course yesterday.

Free at last. Cutting down on my usual dosage of movies, music, guitar, books and blogging for three whole months was the hardest thing.

After all those years in schools and colleges, after the experiences of working in different teams/companies, I believe that there are only two subjects that really really matter - Mathematics and English. Not an "or" but an "AND". You know these two well, you will be okay. Unless you are very sure that you are creative with a capital C, study maths till your 10+2. You can learn anything after that.

Will be going home for about 3 weeks. If I take out the 20-22 hours I was at home in 2006, I'm going home after 9 years. And this is gonna be my first winter vacation after the winter of 1993

This time I can truly say that I don't know where home is. Mom & dad had sold our house and moved to something smaller, somewhere farther from the main city area. Maybe, if I have time and the guts, I will go and have a look at the old house.

There was this small garden in front of the house. We used to call it mom's garden or mom's flowers. Her favorite was roses and there were a variety of them - red, pink, white and yellow. And she was the only one who took care of these flowers. After all these years, I wonder if she has ever received a flower from dad, or any man for that matter. Has any man ever looked at her the way she looked at all those roses?

Just after the garden, was this big door with wooden frames. The top part is a big arch made from one huge block of wood. My eldest brother wanted to join 2-3 separate parts but dad wanted the arch to be carved from a single block of wood. An expensive decision but dad was rich then, we were rich then.

One wayward son, and all the money went down in the gutters. I guess there is Karma after all, except for the financial support dad had never shown much love and care for us, it was especially bad for my two eldest brothers and one elder sister. He was just too busy with his work, drinks, and the other woman. I still say dad's one lucky guy, just one black sheep among seven children.

And on the first floor, the north side of the house was my room. I shared it with my elder bro for years. We studied, fought, played and slept in that room till both of us had to leave home for our studies. On the wall near my bed were two big posters of Deep Purple and Axl Rose. On the opposite wall, near my brother's bed were pictures of a scantily clad Kalpana something, the first woman lawyer who appeared topless in Debonair. Those were the last pictures/posters I remember before my brother left for Sanawar (Himachal Pradesh) in 1989, and I left for New Delhi in 1993.

And that small wooden cupboard next to our room where we kept all our DC, Indrajal, and Tinkle comics along with the Hardy Boys, a few Enid Blytons and various other books.

Maybe I will not go at all. Mom told me that the house has been converted into a printing press by the new owner.

Hope winter waits for me back home. I wanna wake up to cold misty mornings, sip a cup of hot lemon tea and gaze and gaze at the grass, trees and all the greenery. I wanna sit with my parents and have a conversation with them in total silence. I wanna sit near a bonfire and watch the stars in the clear night sky. You really miss the stars when you live in the big cities.

I want to feel something for the place I left 15 years back. I want a place I can call home and feel it too.

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.