My one trek mind

I am not much of a cards guy but this particular day I was killing it. I was among seasoned seasonal gamblers and yet I had more counters than I could count. And let me tell you, I am so bad at cards that I used to think a trail of colour meant three red cards or three black ones. In all this excitement which stretched till 3 in the night, I almost forgot I had to leave in 3 hours for a trek to Kalsubai Peak - the highest natural point in Maharashtra.

So after finally encashing the counters and bidding a groggy goodbye to the people I won money off, I was off to bed, dreading the sound of the alarm I have truly come to hate. So with unmistakable six-sigma certified irritation, my alarm went off at 6. Followed by equally irritating sounds of friends who were already on their way to Dadar station. I must admit, I came really really close to calling off the trek in exchange for a few hours of sleep. But adrenalin prevailed over laziness, and so did better sense.

I met Sudeep and Nishant at Dadar station and in true mumbai fashion was greeted with well disguised inadvertent pushes and shoves at 7 am even on a Dussehra holiday. Sudeep was wearing a United jersey ( good man!) while Nishant was dressed as if he was about to hop across the whole Himalayan range just to show that he can. Anyhow, amidst commotion, confusion and lack of coordination we saw the 7:30 Local to Kasara leave the platform right before our eyes. We then had no option but to wait for the 8:50 Local now, which meant more morning mumbai maniacs to share the seats with. So we got into the train and managed to wrestle three seats from the morning mumbai maniacs. While perched on cold steel seats with our soft overfed asses, my part gujju genes helped me decode a discussion amongst a gujju group about our destination being two hours away. But I'm guessing they weren't true gujju's because in those two freaking hours they never once took out Dhokla, Khandvi or any other awesome gujju snack.

We got down at Kasara to the relief of our clenched butt cheeks. But a bigger pain in the ass awaited us in the form of taxi drivers waiting to rip us off. Which they did. We spend 550 bucks on a ride that the locals paid 80 for. That moment I felt deep sympathy for the foreign tourists who pay 250 rupees to see Qutub Minar, while our home-grown love birds pay only 10 to see the back of a 14th century medieval wall. Needless to say, we were the foreigners this time. Dresses in our touristy clothes, armed with Nishant's tripod stand, cameras and god knows how many lenses. That man was a walking photo studio willing to click anything from a dumb sleeping crab in the mud to camera friendly semi-naked men bathing in their undies. Our man with the lens saw beauty in everything except for the climb.

On our way we met a friend. A four legged one who kept following us. From now on, he( i saw his balls, plus no bitch would do what he did for us) shall be addressed as Tommy. Only because I haven't met any dog named tommy,ever since that dog name went out of fashion in the early 16th century.He walked when we walked. He ran when we ran. He eased off when we eased off. And he stopped when Nishant stopped. To be honest, our man with the photographic eye had the stamina of a chain smoking chihuahua. He stopped times to catch his breath in only the first 100 meters of the trek. Although I must say that Tommy displayed amazing patience to stick with him, for I would have just bitten the fuck out of him and carried on.
Not only was he a patient guide, Tommy was a courageous fighter as well. You know how people say that your whole life flashes before you when you are about to die? Well, its all horsepiss. When a bull comes thundering down a mud path that is big enough for only one of you, you don't see shit from the life you've been living. All you see is the bull and the fact that you will be mince meat even before you can spell it. I went through the horror of staring a rampaging bull and the only reason I am alive to tell this tale is because of Tommy. He leaped forward to my rescue by barking his guts out at the bull. The bull suddenly stopped, kicked Tommy and then changed its path. I stopped trembling after 10 minutes or so I guess, but more importantly I was alive.

One passing couple spotted the dog trailing us and very proudly boasted with their puffed up chests and sparkling eyes that the dog was a local celebrity of sorts who had even made it to a local paper for being a guide to all the non-locals.

Meanwhile me and Sudeep had already charted out pattern for our climb, which was fairly simple. Walk for 5 minutes, stop, and then bitch about Nishant while he catches up. Our plan worked well for a bit and then eventually a visibly fucked up Nishant gave up his adventurous streak in order to continue the great journey called life. Normally, we don't leave a man behind, but when the man himself wants to be left behind, its always better to scamper off before he changes his mind.

This climb to the top was the most conflicting in terms of emotions. It made me feel great on one hand, as with each step I surprised myself for making it this far. But deeply embarrassing and shame inducing on the other, as I wtinessed women in chappals and gallivanting geriatrics going about the trek at half the distress it was causing us. Now I am no fitness freak, in fact as a punju-gujju who loves overeating I am right at other end of the fitness stick.
But seeing all those locals looking at their puffing and panting city cousins with mocking eyes was a rude wake up call. But we did it. We made it to the fucking top and I am fucking proud of it. Fucking yeah! One more time. Fucking Yeah!

We made it down in almost half the time and ass breaking as it took us to ascend. We even caught up with Nishant who looked fresh as a flower in a flower shop sprayed with water every two minutes. Tommy followed us all the way till the bus stop from where we took seat in a tempo normally used to ferry goods. We perched our aching city bottoms on a tiny little plank of wood where even a rabbit would complain of discomfort. But we slugged it out like brave people who have no other option.

After 5 hours, a congested auto trip, a relatively comfortable train journey in the general compartment we finally made it to our patch. The brightly lit up city, with no trees but buildings. With cars to replace stones we dodged on the trek. The place where the closest I come to a trek is the walk to my apartment.

The three of us then wrapped up the day with a sumptuous meal to fill up spaces vacated by all the calories we burnt on our little expedition earlier. We had plentiful servings of prawn chilli, stuffed bombil fry, tandoori chicken, mushroom tikka, palak rice and dal khichdi. Along with copious amounts of beer for the other two adrenalin junkies and orange juice for me.

One final word - this trek guarantees to rip your butt cheeks apart if you're a couch potato. Which is why I had to tape mine together to wear jeans today.

You don't get it that I get it.

' You don't have to be shot to know that a bullet kills'

The first time I uttered these words, I knew I had hit upon a fabulous insight capable of bringing down all the pointing fingers belonging to the Naysayers. It was like a neatly devised counter-attack at all claims that attempted to undermine my capability of 'getting it' just because I wasn't in the same situation as the person supposedly 'getting it'.

These words when used collectively perform admirably as one giant middle finger to every 'chuck it, you won't get it' ever thrown your way.

No, I would never know how it feels on the first day of chumming. Probably not even on the second or third. Fuck how many are there? Probably equal to the times a boyfriend needs to say sorry for doing nothing. I digress. So, coming back to the point -If girls chum then I have been kicked in the nuts. That too with several different objects of differing weight, sharpness and force. Which qualifies me to sympathise with the pain, if not the reason behind it.

I would also fail to shed a tear or two for the loss of your beloved pug, but my condolences will be real. I have lost toys too. Lost them to fires and sometimes even the depths of the commode. And they were precious to me. Precious because I have always been an above average student. Something my folks never quite came to terms with. For them I was Einstein reincarnated with a callous approach and normal hair. So basically, with grades like mine, new toys were as rare to come by as spotting a semi naked lady with a broken down car on a rainy afternoon, while you good sir are her only hope. Not only of a ride but also accommodation for the night.

So don't look at me with soggy eyes, a lump in the throat and mildly suppressed anger if I don't understand your loss just because I haven't picked up dog poop in parks, or in some cases secretly kicked it in the bushes after the business was done.

Because I can't take a bullet to prove that it kills. But hand me a gun and I will be more than willing to prove my theory.

Sitting Ducks

So its been three months since I shifted to Mumbai. Before I came here, I got a lot of advises like - be safe, avoid crowded areas, don't take the locals.

I merely smirked and feigned gratitude at their concerns, for I was driven by logic and stats. My analytic yet gullible mind thought that post 26/11 the city of Mumbai would be a fortress, as promised by the government. You know how you protect what is more vulnerable. I thought that was the agenda after the horrific 26/11 or the train blasts or the several bomb blasts that now seem passable. I thought tough measures were being taken, as promised by the government.

My belief was driven by the simple fact that no other city in India has been a bigger target for terror than Mumbai. So according to common sense it should now be the safest city in India given the deployment of security forces in their fancy new tank like vehicles.

But it wasn't to be. It was deja-vu all over again. Like some anticipated yet dreaded yearly occurrence.

There was a blast. There were body parts strewn all over. There were horrified faces. There were faceless bodies. There was public outrage. There were police officers at the spots. There were official statements and condemnations.
There was no action taken. There was no attempt to punish the offenders. There was just an open invitation for the mercenaries of death to come and kill some more of us.

This governmental impotency aside, I don't understand the crap we are fed daily in the form of the 'spirit of Mumbai'. Its not spirit that forces people to get out of house the very next day, its need. The need to survive and provide for the family. People are used to such acts of terror that they have accepted it as a part of their daily life. Getting scared and staying at home is not an option for the regular mumbaikar, because frankly hunger kills more people than bombs do.
No one steps out in the face of a tragedy with a Rambo style bandana and wild chest thumps. People step out because that's what they have to do. Life never stops, it just ends. There is no spirit in being one of the many name in a dead list.

25 things about me

1. For me Manchester United is life - the rest are mere details. People give me all kinds of looks and opinions for my obsession towards the club I love.I just turn a blind eye, for they don't know what they do.
2. Ive been on a diet since class 8th.
3. Ive put on a lot of weight since clas 8th.
4. I have a huge ego, and have lost a lotta friends as a result. Fuck it, i don't give a damn!
5. I suffer from pancreatitis. A medical condition under whch I am only allowed to do drugs, but no alcohol.
6. I have come close to dying because of this pancreatitis, twice. This experience has taught me one thing in life...you get a lot of attention when you are close death.
7. I have a small dream to be season ticket holder for life at Old Trafford, the home of the mighty Manchester United.
8. I have a bigger dream of building an OLD AGE home. Although I would never in my life set foot inside it.
9. The reason for which is that I suffer from what I call - an attachment problem. I get attached to things/people easily and to a level that it pains when you let go.
10. I used to be a big time piss taker. Taking people's case for no reason by being extremely rude and mean. Then an angel came in my life and changed me. Thank you Akhilesh.
11. I have six pack abs.
12. I have a feeling I won't succeed in life. Even though I know what I need to do to be successful, I tend to take things lightly. My parents are right.
13. I don't believe in God. Yet, there is always a silent prayer on my lips when Manchester United is playing.
14. I scored the winning penalty in a corporate football tournament. I know what it feels like to win the world cup now.
15. For a good 10 years of my life I couldn't walk straight on the road. For I was constantly making batting and bowling actions with my hands.
16. I am the best actor at acting gay.
17. Adding to the list of my ailments is the problem of Overthinking. I can give the most useless of things the deepest thought and screw myself. I love it.
18. I love spending time at the airport. Not when I am leaving on a flight, but when I am waiting to pick up a loved one. There is no better place than an airport for me when I am sad. I can sit there 24*7 even if i have nothing to do.
19. 90% of my clothes are black in colour. I have donated the rest 10%.
20. If I could travel back in time, I would definitely not go on the trip where I gained 20kgs. I was in class 8th back then.
21. I miss my school. I miss my college. I miss IIMC. I miss Ogilvy.
22. I was at a nude beach in Barcelona once, and I was more interested in the pizza i was eating.No wonder I am fat. I deserve it.
23. People say I am stuborn. I would like to tell everyone, I AM NOT STUBBORN. You get that. Whatever you think is your problem, not mine. I am not stubborn and I shall not budge from my stance.
24. I wish I had spent more time with my dadaji and nanaji. They were the greatest men I know of.
25.I love my famiy. I wish I die before them.

a brief story

Sitting late in an advertising agency makes you do all kinds of things. Of which the most frequent activity is also the most futile. Thinking crap. Stuff that gets you frowns and glares in your boss' room, but virtual laughs on such blogging forums
Stuff that only feeds your ego and creativity, but is of no actual use to any living form. Servicing included.

So one such thought occured to me while holding a brief, while I was wearing one. There are many a common things between the two briefs.
Firstly, let me, for the benefit of those who are not from the world of advertising, explain what a brief is. It is a useless piece of paper handed over to the creatives by the servicing as a document that contains vital information for making an ad. But it is actually a quick and easy way for the servicing guys to feel as if they are part of the team and are actually making a contribution. That piece of paper is then generally used as a cover for wrapping chewing gums that have lost their taste or to make paper planes. Sadly, the thoughts never take off.

Coming back to the topic, these two briefs ( I am guessing we all know what the other brief is. Hint: its not a synonym for short, but quite close to shorts) have a lot in common. So here is a juxtaposition( please visit http://www.dictionay.com/) analysis of the two.

Firstly, one is full of loopholes, and the other just has holes. The loopholes get us in a lot of trouble and as for the holes, we just have to get us in. In either cases, we are left with no choice.

While one brief is supposed to throw light on important parts of making an ad, the other makes sure the important parts stay in dark. Unless you choose otherwise. I shall stay clear of the details regarding this one. Children below 18 have access to net these days.

Both have many forms. Pay a visit to my workstation and come to closet, and i shall show you enough specimens of both.

And lastly, you need to look past one to get done with your JOB. Similarly you have to do away with one to...well I'll just BLOW past this one!

Closest one

Everytime I wanted to update my blog, some kind of problem would always creep up. From lack of thoughts, laziness, lack of thoughts, work to lack of thoughts, you name it.

All these roadblocks clearly pointed to just one person. The one closest to me. To whom I dedicate this post.
This person has been with me through thick and thin, despite my constant efforts to ward him off . He has always taken me for a ride and made sure it wasn't smooth at all.

Whenever I was unable to park my car right before an important meeting, he was there. Sat nicely in the cars occupying all the empty spots.
Every time the guy in front of me in the line got the last ticket for the last show, it would turn out to be him. And along with the last ticket for the last show, he would also have the last laugh.

He opens my fly before a big date. He leaves an earring that doesn't belong to the girl I am driving with, in my car, on the dashboard and makes sure I go over a pothole.
He turns green into red when I am running late for office. Something that leaves me red and green. Red for the fury and green with envy at my lack of power to undo the things he is capable of doing.

It's because of him I walk with my head turned sideways. As I am forever looking behind my shoulder. Only to find him walking beside me, as always.

He hates me I guess, but I don't. And why should I? I am constantly in his mind. He is always there for me, although I don't want him to, but that's another thing. He teaches me not be happy all the time, for I shall not enjoy happiness if it gets too much. He makes sure he is always stocked up with sorrow, so that he can shove it up my ass. Maybe that's his way of making it disappear.

This one is for you, murphy!

The Delhi Dilemma

It doesn’t happen very often, but whenever I am faced with the question, “so where are you from”, I am a little dumbfounded. I don’t know why, but I want to avoid this question. Not because I am ashamed of the place I belong to, but to put it simply, I am not sure where I belong.

Born to a Punjabi father and a Gujrati mother, I am somewhere in between. So that must mean, geographically I am from Madhya Pradesh, but generally speaking I belong nowhere. I am at home whether I am in Gujarat or Punjab, but at the same time equally lost.
Maybe I belong to a different breed called - the Delhite. We delhite’s have nothing to call our own. Put more brutally, we are like parasites sucking on the city as a host. Our territory begins in Rohini and ends with the M.G. road. We cling on to nothing but our forefathers’ long left land long and long forgotten culture. So, what is it that we delhite’s represent culturally? What do we stand for?

To a girl, a delhite stands for a lecherous creature that has no respect for women on the streets. To a south Indian we are those superior bastards who look down upon everything that is a shade darker. To a mumbaikar we are more like competition. To a Bengali we are inhabitants of a state that has no soul, no history.

But to a regular normal punju-gujju boy who now proudly wears the tag of a delhite, we are a bunch of misfits who are basically misunderstood. We have a false image that always sticks like a shadow behind us.

There is a reason a Bengali director makes movies only about Delhi. There is a reason Delhi is called Dil walon ki dilli. There is a reason that even without anything to call our own, we are attributed a lot of things.

As a song puts it perfectly – Yeh dilli hai mere yaar, bus ishq mohobbat pyaar. That’s all we stand for, that’s all we want to be known for. Nothing else.

In the end, this is for a friend who almost puked at the mention of a delhite.