Showing posts with label delhi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label delhi. Show all posts

A day in the life of a Salesman...



[Long post with lot of Hindi references]

When I was in engineering, the only time I would touch a foreign author book was in the first week of the semester. Preferably someone with a German sounding name like 'Weiss', 'Scharf', 'Kuchen'.. Okay the last one I made up, it means 'cake' in German. Ah, how I miss German bakeries, which they just called 'bakery' in Germany.

As the sem progressed we would shift to local authors, with a preferably rural sounding name like 'Waghmare', 'Gaitonde' etc. Their English sucked but they managed to send the theories across. As the sem came to an end, with our professors realising there was so much to be done in such little time, we were given 1204 pages of assignments. I still havent figured out how come sem after sem, our professors managed to mismanage everything. During the exams, one book, maybe calling it a book is an overstatement, it was just a few pages stapled together with the words 'Jigar's Last years papers' on it. I still havent figured out who this 'Jigar' guy was, but by God, kya Jigar paya tha ussne...

Things changed at MDI. I remember the nights I spent reading Marketing Management by Kotler. I like that book. I just couldnt shift to an Indian author. That was how awesome it was.

I dreamt of drafting out marketing strategies. I would have a bunch of guys under me whom I would bark out orders to.. I would be loved by kids and women and respected by the men. (Yeah, I can be silly like tht..) But that never happened.

I am not good with networking. I was never the guy who would make friends with seniors and ask them what to expect from a corporate job. I didnt see it coming.

In my interview, the interviewer obviously impressed by my CV asked me to review my decision to join the company. "You might be too soft for this..." were his exact words. We were only 2 minutes into the interview. I said I was super confident and signed the papers. My interview took 3 minutes. Probably the shortest interview of all time.

There is a reason it’s called Sales & Marketing and not the other way round. It is an indication to how your career is going to pan out. And then it started. I had to be a salesman to be a good marketer. My previous boss, a marketing guru himself, had told me this. How difficult could this be? I remember thinking.

I was given the biggest territory in India to sell stuff to. It happened to be in the heart of India. Old Delhi. Ajmeri gate, Delhi gate (which is not the same as India Gate as you ignorant Mumbaikars might think), Chawri Bazar, Chandni Chowk... These areas had been glorified in Yash Raj type movies. I know the readers who have never been to these areas are thinking Parathas and kachoris, pretty girls in shiny salwar suits and white doves doing a masakali... But no, that’s not how these areas are. There are no pretty girls to be found, parathas and kachoris are too greasy for one’s taste and no doves to be found here either.

It's 10 in the morning. I stand in the middle of the road, looking at the expanse of shops on both sides of the road. One can stand in the middle of the road here, it is Delhi, you see! I see the cycle rickshaws packed with cartons of hardware tools, paints, silicon sealants, saw-blades. I look at young boys carry these cartons into impossibly narrow sublanes, where rickshaws cant enter.

I enter the first shop. Shopkeepers are such characters. Talking to them can be fun at times. They come in all shapes and sizes. All levels of education, knowledge and wisdom or the utter lack of it.

“Namaste” I say. I like this greeting. Our generation has forgotten this basic Indian way of greeting someone.
“Arre sirrr! Namaste. Kaise hain. Aaao Aao, baithiye...” He says.

I like to start with the most welcoming shopkeepers.

“Colours saare hain?” Says another shopkeeper whom I visit. He is referring to the colours of the steelgrip tape my company sells. This is his way of greeting. A cup of tea is placed before me and we drink tea while discussing colours, pricing, competition etc.

I move on to the next shop and pass by a foreigner couple. They have a book with the title “Indien” on it. They are Germans. I feel a sense of belonging for some reason. I wonder if I should go talk to them in broken German, say hi!. I decide against it. Men all around catch 360 degree stares of the girl, esp her legs. She’s wearing shorts, a grave mistake.

I catch two street urchins, rag pickers really, eye the girl. No, not her legs, but the kit-kat that she’s having. The younger one looks at the older one. The older one says-

“Abbey koi nahi, bachpan mein bahut khaya hai.” (I have had lots when I was young.)

He is no more than 10 years old. It makes a dent in me somewhere.

There are all kinds of shopkeepers. Some of them are innocent, some have half cooked knowledge, some are plain horny. Most of them know what places I have lived in, and almost always have questions about it. Every week, there is a new question.

“Aaj-kal bahut thand ho rahi hai Delhi mein.” He says.
“Haan.” I say.
“Germany mein bhi thand hoti hai?”
“Haan”
“Matlab Delhi jitni hoti hai?”
“Nahi. Aur zyada. Barf padti hai.”
“Kya baat kar rahe hain sir!”
“Haan. Minus 15 tak temperature jaata hai.”
“KYA?” He almost jumps out of his chair.
“Haan.”
“Sir,” I can sense the mischief in his voice, “Fir itne thand mein unki ladkiyaan itni chote kapde kaise pehenti hain?”
“Unke body mein auto heater hota hai...”

Hahahaaa... we laugh...




I visit a shop with owned by a sardar. One of them 50 years old, and his son around my age.

“Paaji, Fevibond le lo. Scheme chalu hai.” I say. Fevibond is an adhesive we make. It is, like most products we make, a market leader in its segment.
“Chaloji, 2 peti behjdo.”
“Nahi nahi, 4 peti le lo. 2 aapki 2 meri.”
“Chal yaar, 4 bhejde bas.”
Now greed takes over me.
“Nahi paaji, 5 hi karlo na, round figure.”
“Oye, chad yaar... Itna fevibond bechke mujhe kya James Bond banana hai...”

Hahaha... we laugh. The son leaves the counter to pick up something from the godown at the back. A pretty foreigner in a pink Indian kurta walks by. Paaji, all of 50 years, cranks his neck to watch her. I look at him. He smiles. I smile.

He looks around to check if his son is around, he’s still in the godown.
“Sirji, kinni soni lagdi hain gori kundiyaan Indian dresses mein, nahi?”
“Haan. Woh toh hai.”
“Aacha, sirji, ek baat batao, yeh gori ladkiyan patate kaise hain?”
“Arre bahut easy hota hai. Aur ek baat bataun paaji? Unko Sardar bahut pasand hote hain.”
“Kya sacchi?” He asks wide-eyed, almost sorry that he hasn’t tried his luck yet.

I take advantage and write down an order of 5 Fevibond cases.




Most of these shops are run by Father-sons, I visit a Haryanvi father-son.

Kya baat hai bhai, last time scheme cutke nahi aayi?” says the father in a way that I found threatening at the start, only to learn that this is his “loving voice” when I heard him get angry at one of his workers. There was no female in the worker’s family tree who wasn’t brought into conversation.
“Kyun, kya hua?”
“Arre maal aaya hi nahi toh scheme kategi key?” says the son, probably slightly more educated than the father, but equally crude.
“Ruko, mein call karke poochta hoon distributor ko...” I say.
“Haan, phone lagao uss bhen ke ****, mad****, uski bho@#$%” says the father.
“Poocho usko, maal kyun nahi bheja maa ke %%^^ ne, Bhe$%%# uski, $$%@!” says the son, as if the adjectives used by the father weren’t enough.

This, when the distributor and the Harvanyvi shopkeeper are best friends!! The ways these guys express love, I tell you! I make sure things are in place. And I leave, my vocabulary now richer.

On my way to another shop, I get stuck in a human traffic jam!!! There are so many men all around, I cant move for a good 20 seconds. I manage to wiggle my way out of the lane. My shirt by now is not as crisp as it was in the morning. My face is covered with a layer of dust. I wipe my face with a handkerchief.

The next shop I visit has a rate error in one of the bills for something he ordered last week. The rate is different only by 3 paise. But because of the sheer volume he ordered, it makes a difference of 3000 rupees to the final bill. Swords are unleashed. I take a step back. He pushes me a little, I push him back harder. Verbal volleys, fingers wagged, business sense brought into conversation, logic and rationality discussed. He settles down. I settle down. Tea is ordered.

Real men are animals inside a suit. The better the man, the better hid the animal. The better the man, the fiercer the animal. Mediocre men, who fail to recognise real men, suddenly settle down scared, once the real man unleashes the animal within.

I walk back, tired from all the talking, walking. I sit on a bench outside a tea stall, sipping my fifth tea of the day. Evening has set in, but there is no visible reduction on the hustle and bustle. Suppliers, rickshaws stacked with cartons, runners, customers who have parked their Mercedes at Ajmeri gate moving from shop to shop to get the best price. Such different people all working in the same market. From someone who earns 3000 rupees a month to someone who earns 500 times that. All of them fighting for their place in the market.

Then I see them stop, or at least slow down and gaze up at the telephone wires above. I see them smile. I crank my neck. A baby monkey is playing with his mother. He jumps on her tail, pulls her hair, hangs from the wire, all under the watchful eye of his mother. Everything slows down. Everyone has a smile on their faces.

His mother soon realises the undue attention her baby is attracting towards them. She picks him up, much to the chagrin of the baby, who protests like a kid who has to leave the playground when his mother comes calling. Soon they get hidden behind a crevice in an old building. Sanity or insanity, depending on how you see it, returns. People join other people flowing in the river of humans. But the smile refuses to leave. Both theirs and mine.

I wonder what am I doing here. All the degrees, all the hardwork, the talent... what does it boil down to?

Then it hits me –
What is life but a scrapbook whose pages you are trying to fill with photographs of memories? At the end, if you have a photograph each day that will stick in the scrapbook of life, you, my friend, have lived...


A day in the life of a Salesman...SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend
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In 2008, when I was working for Siemens, a friend from college asked me why my blogposts had become so irregular, if I was overworked and that stopped me from blogging? The truth was I wasn’t overworked. In fact I was one of those lucky people who would always take the office bus back home. Everyday. For 8 months that I worked here. So what had changed?


I write only when something bothers me, or I get a chance to think about something which I think is path breaking or something. Yes, go through my past posts, most of them are life altering :P. No, seriously, I would rather not write at all than write substandard stuff. There is something about a 9 to 5 job that I sincerely believe, kills creativity.


I wonder if I should get a job that pays me to only think. I wonder if there are any jobs like that. I wonder if they are even called jobs. Also, would I want to be paid a monthly salary for thinking? I mean, I understand the pressures of a job that needs me to come up with ideas on a regular basis. And I hate deadlines. I like freedom. I would suck at blogging if I had to write a column in a newspaper or something.


But thankfully I don’t get paid for writing this, you don’t get paid to read, but this system works, and beautifully so! :)


When I was young, a couple of times my father took me to buy shirts for me, he usually ended up buying really sober shirts. I am talking shades of grey, navy blue, bottle green and other such pastels. I hated not having a chance to wear sky blues, bright reds, yellows, light greens and other such attractive colours. I wasn’t a fair kid. I was dark and such colours didn’t suit me. Or so I was told. Yes, back then, dark didn’t signify sexy as it does today. I think it was around the 9th standard when I realised how attractive some women found tall, dark boys. I haven’t looked back since. Yes Yes.


Anyway, the point being, somewhere down the line, I became my father. My taste in things became defined by subtle. I remember when a friend of mine took us Sweater shopping (He had a car and he was tired hearing us non-Delhities complain about Delhi ki Sardi… Btw, it’s a serious issue and should not be used to write songs and such). While my friends tried on different sweaters, stylish ones, the ones with brand names on them, the ones with weird punch lines on them, I bought the simplest one available in the store. My friends exclaimed – Dude this is something your father would buy! They didn’t know my father’s taste. What they meant was, my taste in clothes wasn’t in line with a 24 year olds… It was more in line with a 55 year olds’
First I thought it was only clothes, only later I learnt, slowly but surely I was turning into my Dad. It wasn’t such a bad thing. Initially it was the clothes, then came the kind of car I wanted, the kind of friends I wanted to hang out with, then the kind of woman I wanted in my life…


Then I saw it – I had started appreciating CLASS.
CLASS. What is class? And what makes something classy?


I have spent hours thinking on this topic and this is what I have come up with – Class – If you don’t get excited by it the first time you see it, but are interested the right amount, if you don’t get bored by it the thousandth time you see it, but are still interested the right amount, it, my friend, has CLASS…


Yes, there. I know. Genius. You can sit down now. Yes, all of you. Please stop clapping. I don’t deserve it. Okay. Seriously.


I can extend it to anything and everything.


Let’s start with cricketers. Ladies, don’t stop reading you might like the guy I am talking about. The first time we saw Dravid back in 1996-97, we were interested. I was only 10 back then and since we had no cable TV at our place, had no idea of any series played outside India. There was this series being played in England if I remember correctly and Dravid had hit a century. I saw that match late in the night at my cousins’ place. Dravid had become my cousin’s favourite overnight. His exact words were – “dravid ki place pakki ho gayi next 10 saal ke liye.” Yeah, big words coming from a 10 year old. I couldn’t see it. He was good, but good wasn’t enough. My favourite was Mohd. Azaruddin. He was the captain. I figured the best player became the captain.


I am still not a Dravid fan. I think he gets too much attention from the fairer sex which I think is completely unwarranted for the quality of his looks. That makes me like him even less. Yeah, I am jealous like that. Cant help it. The point being even after playing for 15 years and after numerous jokes being written about his slow strike rate (I ll share the jokes below) I still find it interesting to watch him bat. There is something about his demeanour, the calmness, the strength… His strokeplay is flawless. He has CLASS.


Now the jokes –
How to kill a Lion?
Ans. Make him bowl to Rahul Dravid. He will make 1 run in 120 balls, the Lion will die of boredom.


Next one,
Who has the strongest teeth in the Indian team?
Ans. Rahul dravid. Kyonki who bahut ball khata hai.
Hah ha ha…. Lol.. I can go on and on but it doesn’t seem right making fun of someone who I just described as having class.








Movies have class. Just how many times have you guys seen Andaz Apna Apna and not gotten bored. Can you believe it wasn’t successful at the box office? I am sure people might had been interested, just not enough. But today, it’s a cult classic. Chupke Chupke is another favourite. Dharam paaji’s best performance I feel. Paaji toh aise bol raha hoon jaise mere behen unhe rakhi bandhti hai.






Even cars have class. I have always loved Mercedes in all its models, except the estate version. I think the Germans don’t do it justice when they buy the estate version – I mean seriously, it’s like a girl has beautiful legs but chooses to wear long skirts to hide them. (Many more objectifications coming up, feminists, don’t sue me) I cant think of a car that’s more subtle still makes as powerful a statement. I thought my fascination with Mercedes would end after I spend some time in Germany. Almost every third car in Germany was a Mercedes. Even Taxis were Mercedes for crying out loud. That should have ruined the image in my head right? That is what we were taught in our Branding class at MDI, gurgaon.


But it didn’t.


Even at the end of one and a half years, I still found cranking my neck to see a Mercedes drive by. This, after I have ridden in almost all models that Mercedes has to offer. I have been driven around in a C class, an E class, heck, I have also been driven around in a S class. Yeah, most of the last statement is to brag.


The point being, class just holds your imagination. It does something to the brain cells responsible for love and respect. Most advertisers will tell you, that is an awesome combination. So will most politicians and Kings of the yesteryears. (There is no practical way to ask the kings of the yesteryears. Most of them are dead and even if they aren’t they wouldn’t be interested to talk to us common people.)






Class can be attributed to cities too. Delhi enthrals anyone who lands at the T3 at Indira Gandhi Airport. The T3 is probably prettier than Paris Airport. You then take the escalator to the Airport express. The Airport express service in Berlin, London and Paris cant match the beauty of the Delhi Airport express combined (I know because I have used the service in all three cities). Then you take a taxi on the wide roads of Delhi continuously being amazed by the stop signs and the cycle tracks. Only to be disappointed by it’s public bus transport, lack of rules, cycle rickshaws, old Delhi, litter and lack of civic sense among people. Don’t get me wrong. I am one of those few native Mumbaities who really likes delhi. I love it for the freedom it gives me. But you will get bored of it. Very soon.


Mumbai on the other hand will piss off a tourist. What is so great about this city? It’s more than crowded, also dirty because of the exact same reason. The roads are patchy, the trains crowded, don’t get me started on traffic jams, it’s humid all the time and I don’t even get to see Shah Rukh Khan in spite of spending an entire afternoon at Bandstand. But once you spend time in the city, they city grows on you. And you fall in love with it. Very soon. That’s class.







Actresses have class. Well, some of them do.


How many times, exactly how many times must you have seen that black and white Madhubala poster. I remember a girl in our building had that poster in her living room and you could see it if the main door was open. I always sneaked a peek. I used to get a few glares from her father. If only I could tell him that it was the poster and not her daughter who caught my eye. I didn’t. Didn’t wanna hurt his ego.

Sonali Bendre. She has always been a favourite. Even pre-sarfarosh when her movies didn’t work much. Look at her now, she is still beautiful. A little plump, but beautiful. Class.







My boss in my German company was rather flamboyant, high flying executive. He was roughly my father’s age and had quite a few of his qualities. To be honest, I saw a bit of myself in him and I am sure he did too. I was amazed when I first met his wife. I don’t know why, but I had assumed that she would be, well, at least half as flamboyant as he was. She was as plain as they come. Then I thought what if I didn’t know my father, what if I worked in his firm and one day had a chance to meet his wife, my mother. Wouldn’t I be amazed to see how simple she was? I would!


What was going on? How did these flamboyant men end up with such simple wives?

My boss’ wife was lovely. She was simple, her clothes, jewellery, expensive, but only to the trained eye. She was warm and in a room full of people made me feel special. She was warm and welcoming. I could see why my boss, an Australian, fell for her, a German. I could see the similarities in my mother and her. What exactly was happening here?




I was talking to a fan the other day who is now a friend. She asked me if I have a list of qualities I would want in a girl. I do! I think all men like me do. I am sure if my dad, my boss and I had to make a list of qualities, we would end up with almost the same lists. The reason why I didn’t include any of my male friends is that I don’t think any of them has reached the same level of maturity as I have. Burn! No?


There was this German colleague of mine. She was one of the very few women I have certified hot in the first 5 minutes of meeting her. She wore spects and the fact that she was blonde and light eyed and everything helped matters. But once I got to know her, she got boring. The more I got to know her, the more boring she got. I had no idea what had changed. She was complicated, troubled, shallow and demanding. She probably lacked class.


She was the complete opposite of the kinda girl I wanted. I wanted a girl who you would easily miss in a crowd, but remember forever, if you were lucky enough that she would talk to you. She would be selfless, her happiness derived from giving. She would be beautiful, the kind that it makes your day just by looking at her. She would be calm, in the stormiest of storms. She would be caring, when the world doesn’t care. She would be the kind who makes the world a better place and makes this life worth living. She would… she would have class.


And I know there are boys reading this on their computers and wondering if there are any such girls out there and I say, maybe one on each continent. That seems about fair. The definition of class : A study of cars, movies and girlsSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend
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What kind of Indian are you?

So last time I wrote this post to help you identify the European around you. Now to be fair, I am gonna help my firang friends identify us. Yes, I intend to make jokes on Indians. If you have a weak heart or your last name is Kalmadi (The poor guy has too many jokes cracked on him already), kindly leave.

So like I promised, I am back with "What kind of Indian are you?"



Now if you have been a regular reader of my blog (which you should be going by the amazingly awesome content that I write on this blog) you would know me by now. So, you know how I am gonna go about this -

I am going to sort Indians into different groups based on what region they are from. Obviously, I am not aiming at a PhD, so I take no guarantee of the data I throw here.

Having spent enough time in Germany, I have learnt to do stuff in an orderly manner (they are killing my indiscipline, I tell you). So, this is how we go about finding what Indian you are. We ll talk about - 1.Looks: 2. life: 3.Food: 4.Motto:

I could have thrown in a few Pie-charts and graphs, but in my last 2 years of MBA, I have learnt not to work for anything I am not getting graded on.
So here my dear firang friends, here we go -

Indians:
As the firangs must have identified from the Exhibit A (myself), Indians are a cool breed. We come in varying degrees of browness unlike the others from the sub-continent (read Pakis, Lankans etc.). We like to be in groups. Esp when we are in Europe. You see, we are so used to seeing crowds, the European streets make us uneasy. So we always leave the house in groups of 3, you know what they say - 2 is company, 3 is a crowd! (hehe, small joke).

We are extremely helpful. We might not know a word of German, but if you are a German from a small town in Austria (which implies you dont know English), we will make sure you reach your destination.

There is only one cuisine in the world my dear firang friends, and it's Indian. And there are around 15 types of Indian cuisine!
We dont like learning new languages -- not that we arent good at it --if you have met me, you should know we are good at practically everything. :P Also, note that we have 27 languages in our country. And 1800 dialects. Most countries in Europe have 1800 people!

We are all about numbers. Not only are we good at it (As you might have noticed here), we use it to crack jokes --For eg- There are more "Guptas" in India than "people" in Europe.

Now we move to identifying different Indians from different places in India. This part of the post is addressed to everyone in the world (and out of it too). Indians, non-Indians, Scarlett Johansson (what? she's out of this world!)
If you know me, I will start from the region which according to me has the hottest women.

1. Pallakad:

Everyone whose not associated with the South is wondering where this place is. Well, it lies on the border of Tamil nadu and Kerala. There is something in the waters here which makes the women super hot.

Looks: Women hot. Guys not. Seriously, watch south Indian movies if you want. The heros look really bad. Not that I am complaining...

Life: Children know tables from 2 to 30, by the time they leave kindergarden. 'B' is considered to be a bad grade. Second rank is for losers. They have an algorithm for everything. Money saved is Money earned.

Food: If the women are so dishy, the food has to be tasty too... There are around 37 types of dosas. If you are a northie wondering - "Oye paaji, yeh dosa-shosha bhi koi khaane ki cheej hai...". I say, when a hot girl in a Kaanjeevaram saree serves you, you dont say no! :)

Motto: If you have a brain, use it to make an algorithm!


2. Gujrati:

I have spent most my life in Mulund (a suburb in Mumbai). The colourful nature of the suburb is largely coz of the gujju poplulation living here. In fact, this might come as a surprise, by the most suburbs worth living in Mumbai are gujju populated... this, despite the loud Navratris garbas.

Looks: The only community in India where the men dress up more than women. The women are good to look at but talk only about SRK, Indian Idol and Khichdi... So, if you arent in touch with one of these subjects, you are at a loss. Gujju men are the reson why even Arrow shirts has to come out with floral prints in their formal shirts line.

Life: You dont buy anything that isnt flashy enough. The flash should be directly proportional to the price. If the kid is good, he can study, if he's not, he ll work in Praful mama's jewelery shop in Ghatkopar. Dandiya is the greatest gift to man kind and should be used at every occasion possible.

Motto: Why work for others when you can have your own shop?


3. Delhi-ites/Punjabis:


Well, if it offends the Delhiwalas reading this blog, well... toh ho jau bhai offend... the thing is the Punjus own Delhi...

Looks: Girls look the same - Short, straight hair, slightly plump... it has somehing to do with the butter in the diet...They are kinda cute till they get married. Within three years of marriage however, they start looking like their mothers... Men in Delhi single handedly drive the sales of Amul butter. Hyundai sells 70% of their Santros here! Every body owns a santro! And everybody in Delhi has two cars. If you have just one car you are poor and no one will talk to you, except other poor people.

Life: What good are you if you dont have a gaddi? And what good is your gaddi if it doesnt have a 6000 Watt speaker? And what good is your speaker if you dont roll down your windows and let it blast? If you are a good kid, you will end up in IIT Delhi, if not, toh bhai pappu ko Pulsar le denge.. ghumaya karna masti mein!

Motto: What is life without some show shining?

4. Bengalis

The torchbearers of India... They usually bring in Nobel prize, Booker prize and other such prizes which dont really help the Indian economy in any way...

Looks: The girls are pretty. The guys are not. If you happen to visit Shantiniketan, things might be exact opposite...

Life: If there is no kid in the family who's either a Author, Economist or such, the parents have failed miserably at bringing up the child... Children learn to write peotry in the 2nd standard. By the time they reach the 4th standard, they get nominated for the Man Booker...

Motto: Jai Bangla! Jai Sourav Dada!

5. Mumbaikars

Now that I have covered all 4 parts of the country, let me take you to the oh-so-awesome part of the country. Well, my firang friends, if you have visited India and went to places like Varanasi, Cochin and such, dont come back and tell me you have seen India... Coz my dear friend, if you havent seen Mumbai, you havent seen the best of India (or the World!)

You might have spent your best years in New York, London, Paris or Berlin, but if you havent been here, it's time u booked a ticket. Well, there is only one city my friends, the rest are just trying hard.

Looks: The girls come from all corners of the country. So lets just say they get prettier and more self confident when they come here. The guys gets more self disciplined if they have been wild, and wild if they have been self disciplined.

If you have a day to live, go stand at Dadar station, coz the end of the day my friend, you would have lived a lifetime.. ~Arshat Chaudhary

Life: If the kid bats well, he ll become Sachin Tendulkar... if not, he ll still make enough money by selling vada pavs outside CST. Kids are taught to run since kindergarden... There are special classes for running.. This training is later used to run behind buses, trains...

Motto: Time is money

So, this is my way to payback to Europe. You gave me a place to stay and I educated you guys about our awesome culture and our awesome people - their looks, life and motto....

Well, after all this awesomery, I am tired and should go get some rest.

For people whom I have offended through this post, well, I say it was fun, should do it again... :P
If I havent mentioned the people from your area, well, if you write about it, I promise I ll carry the link on my site and make your blog famous... :P What kind of Indian are you?SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend
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Marigold : A short story

Firstly, sorry for my absence from the blogworld. It has been a hectic time for me. Sleep deprivation has been rampant. In this cold, going to take a bath has been like going to war. Times flies here, yet, at the end of the day if you ask me - aaj kya kiya? I would be at loss of words. These are my last days at MDI, before I leave for Germany so I want to enjoy these days fully. Will let you know more about these adventures.
Anyway, my friends have been wanting me to write a romantic story, so here goes. For all you people out there...

Note: I am deviating from the usual love stories and entering into a much serious domain. Hope I do justice to the story.

Short Story


It was quite a time to be born... India was being born, breaking the shackles of 150 years of British rule.

The year was 1945. I used to stay in Multan with my parents. I was 20 years old then, studying in the local Arts college. I was majoring in English. My father was of the opinion that the British are successful because they know English. My father was a zamindar, which is an euphemism for calling him a British puppet who took money from poor Indians and forwarded it to the Government, the English government that is, in the process getting a hefty commission...My grandfather gave up zamindari when he saw how exploitative the practice was.

I never wanted to study B.A. , in fact I didnt want to study at all... I wanted to be a painter.

The reason why I stayed in college was because of Tasleen. Tasleen was this girl who lived in the house next to my house. We didnt have a flat system then, every family owned a house, one with a courtyard, backyard and a terrace... Her terrace had a small garden in which grew lovely Marigolds.

In the winters, it would get very cold. In Delhi, winter is a lot less harsh compared to Multan. In the mornings, I would study on the terrace to soak in the sunlight... She would come on her terrace with a pitcher of water to water the plants.

Her beauty was unparalleled. I had never seen anything as beautiful as her... Her long hair, her slender frame, the way she gracefully bent to water the plants... Only the marigolds in her Garden could try to match her beauty... but would still fail...

I would hide behind the book I was reading/pretending to read and would catch a glimpse or two. Those days we could not leer at girls (though we wanted to). It was considered impolite.

She would never even look at me. She was 2 years younger to me, I had been to a boys school next to her school, I was now her senior in college, I had been her neighbour since ages now, but I had never got an opportunity to talk to her. Whenever I had to go to her house to get some curd or sugar, her mother would open the door and usher me into the house. She would treat me to samosas and jalebis but there would be no sign of Tasleen. Come to think of it, Tasleen's mother was beautiful too. You could see where Tasleen got her looks from...
And now here we were, just 50 meters away from each other, separated only by a terrace wall and she wouldn't even acknowledge my presence.

Those days these local goons would wait outside the college gates to tease girls. Most of us, that included me, were scared of them. One day, she was walking back home from college. She was probably the prettiest girl in college and quite naturally a target for the thugs to tease. I was walking behind her at a distance. At first, the teasing was only verbal. Then one of the guys touched her dupatta. I was furious. I ran towards her and held her hand and stood as a shield in front of her. I told them that the girl was my neighbor's daughter and it was my duty to escort her to her house. My voice was shaky, trembling... but the words and my intent were clear. They let us go.

All the time that we were walking, her eyes were transfixed on the ground. Mine were transfixed on her. I was walking withing three feet of Tasleen. It was a dream come true. She left without without even saying a thank you. Come to think of it, why should she, she was doing me a favour walking with me...

I kept thinking about her all day. Books, studies, groceries, bicycles... they all seemed so unimportant right now.. I went to the terrace to clear my thoughts and there she was, drying her long hair. There is something lovely about a girl's wet hair... I kept staring at her... She looked at me... and smiled...

I graduated in the summer of 1946. My father got me a job in a college in Amritsar. I didnt want to go. But his decision was final. At least that is what I had been told ever since I was a kid. Though he always wanted the best for me, then, I couldnt help think that he was any different from those thugs outside college who impose their will.

That hot afternoon, when everyone was asleep, she came to the door of my house and said,
"Are you going to leave for Amritsar?"
That was the first full sentence I had heard from her mouth. I kept looking at her.
"Are you?" She asked again.
"Yes." I answered.
"Don't."
I kept quiet. I didnt know what to say.
"Please don't leave." She said.
She had tears in her eyes. She didnt get an answer.



It was 45 degrees outside. I kept my suitcase on the cycle rickshaw. I was supposed to catch the train at the station to Amritsar. I looked at her terrace, she wasnt there... The cyclewala started to pedal the rickety rickshaw... I looked behind at her door, for the last time... The rickshaw set into motion.. Her door opened... She walked out.. barefoot, in that scorching heat... She kept looking at me, like she would never see me again...

It turned out to be true... I never did see her again.

Her family left Multan, which became a part of Pakistan after the partition of 1947. Someone told me that they sold off the house in Multan. Where did they go, nobody knew.

I knew, if I found marigolds in a garden, trying to be more beautiful than they actually are, as if competing with someone, that would be her garden...

That story...

In 1994, my Grandson, Surabh, completed his M.S. from the US. He found the love of his life there. They wanted to get married...

While raising up my son, I had been very liberal. I tried hard to be not like my father. My son became a scientist. He now heads the ISDRO for the Government of India. I think he got Sheila's brains.

I got married to Sheila in 1950. I searched for Tasleen in Delhi, Amritsar and Chandigarh for 3 years. Eventually I had to concede to the demands of my mother. She wanted me to get married.

Sheila was lovely. She was intelligent, elegant and kind. She was everything that a man would want in a woman. I lost her 5 years ago. A huge void was left in my heart.

I still couldnt help feeling that I had wronged Tasleen. Her "Please don't leave." would echo in my head. Maybe I didnt search for her right, or maybe I didnt give it enough time. I should have had searched more...

When Surabh came back from the US, I could see he was lovestruck.
"You really love her, huh?" I asked.
The frank and friendly relationship that I shared with him allowed me to be that intrusive.
"Yeah baba. I really do." He said.
"So wont you show your baba her photo?" I said jokingly.
But I forgot he was my grandson and equally jocular.

He pulled out an old photo of a small girl of 3 or 4 years old out of his wallet.
"See, this is my girl, her name is Pritha" he said pointing to her.
I removed my spects from my shirt pocket to see.
"And this, is her grandma." He pointed to a old lady who was playing with the girl in the photo.

I looked closely at the woman in the photo...

"Could I meet Pritha?"
"Ofcourse, we are going there on Sunday. Mom and Dad want to meet her too..."

On Sunday, I dressed in my best suit. Carried my best cane. The woman in the photo was none other than Tasleen. I couldnt believe I had finally found her.. and how! My grandson fell in love with her granddaughter! And that too half a world away...

I bet her grand daughter was as pretty as her. No wonder Surabh fell for her.

Our car parked outside their bungalow. We walked through the garden. The garden had the loveliest marigolds I had seen in a long long time. I knew they were competing. And this house had two pretty women they had to compete with...

We entered the living room. Surabh helped me sit on the sofa. I was excited for a 70 year old and I guess, it showed.

I waited for Tasleen to come out. Would she be happy to see me after so many years? What will I say to her?

A photo on the wall caught my eye. It was Tasleen's photo...she looked so beautiful... the photo had a garland of Marigolds around it.

I had found her... I had lost her... A tear rolled down my cheek...

That story...

Dedicated to Sulabh Kakkar, a friend, whose Grandfather had to leave their hometown in Multan in the partition of 1947.


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3 Delhi guys and a Washing machine

Its been 2 full weeks in Gurgaon now. I have found this place very different compared to aamchi mumbai. Like-
Half of the batch is from saddi Delhi. Every fourth guy's surname is Gupta. Reebok is a bigger brand than nike. Amul makes 50% of its sales in this part of the country!

I have also noted a behavioural difference in the Delhi guys here(kya MBA ki tarah baat kar raha hoon na!). They are kinda dependent on their parents. And parents dont really mind it. Need a tie, call the dad, he will send a tie in his car. Need washing powder, call your mom, she sends it in her car. I sometimes envy the kinda life these guys live. In Mumbai, most kids dont live such a protective life. Though Mumbai makes us independent, it in some ways reduces the length of one's childhood. Anyway, enough gyan. The point is that this is a timepass blog and things which make us think are not allowed here.


So back to the topic- Here at MDI we have washing machines at every floor of the hostel. I wash my clothes every Sunday in the washing machine. (However, I take a bath everyday!)

This is something that I overheard near the washing machine... This is how the story goes -

http://happyhomemaker88.files.wordpress.com/2007/11/washing-machine.jpg
There were 3 Delhi guys trying to wash their clothes in the washing machine. They surrounded the machine like surgeons surround a patient on an operating table. If three delhi guys are friends, one of them has to be a sardarji... else they call it a foul!

So these guys, 2 guys and a sardarji, had surrounded the washing machine with washing powder and bucket full of clothes, wondering how to start the thing. The dialogue is given below. I have kept it in hindi to maintain the fun quotient of the whole thing.

The funny thing here is that, all of these guys had washing machines at their homes but had never operated it!! I mean how lazy can you get? My brother Aroop is the laziest guy I know and even he knows how to operate the washing machine! (Taking digs at your cousin through your blog : Priceless!)


Delhi guy 1: Oye yeh chalti kaise hai?

Delhi guy 2: Arre yaar.. Mumma ko fone karke poochna padega...

Delhi guy 3: (with supreme confidence) Arre bahut aasan cheez hai bey yeh.. load na le..

DG1: aacha? Kya karna hota hai?

DG3: Bas machine khol ke kapde ghused do!

DG2: (Pointing to the knobs on the washing machine) Abbey yeh knobs ka kya karen? Kaunsa ghumana hota hai?

DG3: Abbe woh nahi patah. Mumma ko sirf kapde ghusedte hue dekha tha..

DG1: Abbe wohi toh important hai!

Chal mumma ko call karta hoon...

Hello mumma? Yeh washing machine kaise chalate hain? Aacha? Knob ghuma doon? Light load? Delicate? Haan haan.. Yahan likha hai! Thik hai.. Thik.. Thik.. Okay.. OOokay..

(With a sigh of relief and a proud smile on his face) Chalo bhai, kaam ho gaya. Yeh knob ghumana hai.

Lo, ghuma diya..

Abbe chalu kyun nahi ho rahi?

Yeh doosra knob bhi toh hai?

Yeh toh temperature hai... Pani garam karta hai...

Garam pani? Kyun?

Patah nahi yaar.. Kapde aache saaf hote honge.

Chalo garam kardo bilkul.. 70 pe chala do..

Yaar ab bhi chalu nahi ho rahi..

Phir se call lagaon?

Hello mumma? Chalo nahi ho rahi hai? Haan? kiya. Haan? Woh bhi kiya. Nahi chalu ho rahi hai.. Accha phuphi(Aunt) ko conference mein le le?(Seems like Phuphiji was more tech savvy than mom) Hello phuphiji? Washing machine nahi chalu ho rahi... Haan.. Haan.. Mumma ek second, phuphi ko bol lene do na.. Haan kiya.. phir bhi chalu nahi ho rahi.. Accha thik hai dekh leta hoon...

Kya hua? Kuch patah chala?

Nahi yaar. Sab kuch toh theek kiya hai. Phir bhi chalu nahi ho rahi.

Oye teri koi girlfriend hai? Usko call karke pooch liyo yaar...

Abbe? Washing machine chalane ke liye girlfriend ko call karun? Thik hai karta hoon.. Marwaoge tum log..
Hello sweetie, ki haal chal? Haan bas thik hai.. haan bas chal raha hai.. yahan ki bandiyan(girls) utne aachi nahi hai yaar.. arre nahi karunga flirt.. haan.. promise.. arre woh sab chod, mujhe bata tujhe washing machine chalane aati hai? Arre yaar engineer toh hoon, lekin washing machine kabhi chalayi nahi na.. Mazak mat kar yaar, batana, aati hai? haan.. haan.. okay.. okay.. thik hai.. chal try karke dekhta hoon... haan haan.. me too...me too.. friends hai yaar paas mein... haan yaar, flirt nahi karunga.. bye.

Kya boli?

Arre wohi jo teri phuphi boli..

Toh saale itni der kya baat kar raha tha?

Abbe ab tere kapdon ke chakkar mein kudi se bhi baat na karun?

Arre gussa na ho yaar, mazak kar raha tha...

Yahan pe machine chal nahi rahi hai aur tum log pagalpanti kar rahe ho yaar..

Arre aise kaise nahi chalegi.. Kuch toh gadbad hai..

Oye, yeh button kis liye hai? Daba ke dekhun?

Haan haan.. dabade

Sambhaliyo..

Oye teri.. yeh toh batti jal gayi...

Abbe yaar.. yeh toh start button tha.. gadhe pehle nahi daba sakta tha...

Abbe phuphi ne yeh nahi bataya tujhe, ki start bhi karni hoti hai?

Teri girlfriend ne nahi bataya tujhe? Wahan toh - me too.. me too.. chal raha tha..

Abbe kyun jhagad rahe ho yaar! Shuru ho gayi na machine. Bas.

Haan yaar.. shuru toh ho gayi.. Dekh kaise ghum rahi hai!

Haan yaar... badhiya saaf ho jaayenge kapde...

chalo ab kuch parathe-sharathe khatein hain..


They returned back after an hour to see that the machine was still on. They came back after one and a half and the machine was still working. I dunno what setting had they set the machine on, but it kept working for 6 hours! Last heard, they were calling the women of the house to ask how to turn off the Washing machine!!


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MDI, Gurgaon : Military training

Hello ji!
So you might have noticed the temperature has gone down in Mumbai. If you are wondering why is that, well, thats coz I have now left Mumbai. I am now in Gurgaon (which explains the heat wave here). Btw, for Mumbaikars who think everything to the north of Mumbai is UP-Bihar, well, Gurgaon is near Delhi.
So last week was my induction week at MDI, gurgaon. More on that later, but first, let me make fun of Delhi guys. Like for instance, they even talk English with a Punjabi accent- Thank you becomes Thank you ji, Sorry becomes Sorryji and Hello becomes Hello ji! Hence the change in my way of greeting you guys.
I have begun soaking the Delhi atmosphere in me. Like I have developed a special liking for Gobi ka paratha. Did you know Gobi ka paratha constitutes 2 % of Delhi's GDP? And you should see how much butter they eat here. Its almost like butter is the main dish, parathe toh galti se plate mein aa gaye.
Now back to the induction week. I will not discuss the details of the induction week else the coming batches wont enjoy it that much. The past week has been, er.. like a military camp, only worse.. guys usually sleep around 2-3 hours everynight. In order to give you a rough idea about things, let me ask you - Have you seen that Nana Patekar movie - Prahar, where he plays a commando? Dekhi hai? accha hai.. accha hai..
Know how he tortures the interns? Well, that is cakewalk in front of what we do! I say, if we continue doing this for 3 more weeks, I will be well prepared to take down the Al-quaeda or whtever is the most dangerous terrorist organisation in the world.

Coming to less dangerous stuff, I got my room, as in, at the hostel. The IDPL hostel that I am at are beautiful. There are two hostels, the on campus and the idpl cma, which is around 5 kms from the MDI campus. The idpl cma hostels are bunglows each having 7 rooms each. I have a lovely single room, with an attached bathroom and the door of my room opens directly on to the terrace. That however isnt necessarily a good thing. Its super hot here (you know why) and my room heats up like a furnace sometimes. I hope the heat reduces in days to come.
Anyway, coming to the sweeter aspects of my hostel, we have monkeys here(dunno why that is sweet). No no, I dont mean the students, I mean ReaL monkeys, with tails and red asses and stuff... And we have peacocks here! You can get real close to them, trust me mate, there are fewer sights prettier than watching a peacock up close.
I am in love with the MDI campus btw. Its 40 acres of pure bliss. Manicured lawns, pretty red buildings, the works, you know. Sometimes I wish I was a campus too and I would woo MDI and she would fall in love with me and then we would give birth to 4-5 small small campuses... Ah.. such a beautiful thought... Okay, this got out of hand here.

Anyway, moving to the topic why my desperate engineering friends are here. Girls.
This is what my friends had to tell me about Delhi girls before I departed for MDI.
Male Friend 1: Abbe wahan ladkiyaan sahi hoti hai yaar...
Male Friend 2: Haan be.. all gori-gori..
Me: Tumlogko ke khandan mein koi Dahisar ke aage nahi gaya, delhi ki ladkiyon ke bare mein tumlogon ko kaise malum saalon?
Male Friend 1: Abbe mera roomie hai na, uske best friend ke friend ki girl friend Delhi ki hai..
Male friend 2: Arre haan.. sahi hai woh..
Male friend 1: (to MF2) tereko kaise malum bey, tu kab mila usse?
Male Friend 2: nahi mila, lekin tere bolne se lagta hai sahi hogi..

This is what my female friends had to say about them.
Female friend 1: Delhi jaa raha hai unke Ladkiyon se bach ke rehna.
Female friend 2: Haan. Keep away from them haan.
Me: Dont worry ladies, I will come back untouched and then you can have me.
Punches thrown in for good measure.

Anyway, talking about the Delhi girls (the guys are waiting with bated breath). Well, they are good looking. No two ways about it. Everytime I look at them, I wonder - Where does all that butter go?! Another point noted is that they are quite free, they are in essence no different than Delhi boys, only they are better looking.
We had a freshers party the night before, I dont drink and also wasnt well, so I went to sleep around 11. There is a bus that takes us from MDI to IDPL, it was scheduled to leave around 3 in the morning, so I went to sleep in a friend's room. By 3 I came down to the party scene, the party was still alive. The DJ was real good, the only problem being he would play songs with the words - "soniye" "tainu" "mainu", you know, the usual panju stuff...
As I entered the dance floor, I saw all this girls dancing in 6 inch heels or whatever they call them. I swear to God, if I tried, I wont be able to walk in them, and these girls were dancing! We have quite a few firangs on the campus and there was this girl with blonde hair who seemed to be suffering from an overdose of Bollywood and movies like Singh is king. She had all the steps in place. I have never felt more sorry for my inability to dance.
I wanted to have a look at how a professional bar looks like so I came up to the bar where there was this huge haryanvi bartender who was drinking himself than serving others. I came to the bar and started looking around, reading the contents written on the bottle.

Haryanvi bartender : Nahi nahi.. tujhe nahi peeni.. tu abhi aaya hai(he must have guessed looking at my relatively sweatless face) tu pehle dance ker ke aa phir milegi..
Me: Lekin..
HB: Oyeee.. bhains nahi karni... chal ja..
What the? Who was this guy? But I didnt want the drink, and I was kinda sleepy so dancing was out of question. But I had a gulp of pepsi, since I didnt want to come out saying tht I didnt "drink".
One thing that I notice about Delhi girls is that how much they are ease with their sexuality. Sometimes, to someguy from outside this place, these girls might come across as bold. Though I find them extremely cute and colourful, I will always fall for the subtle sexuality of a Bombay girl. The balance that she achieves, coupling class and style, will always be the draw for me.
So the good news is, all you Bombay girls who have been secretly falling in love with me, hiding behind trees to get a glimpse of me, watching mere mortals like Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig on Dvd since I am gone, have heart, I will be back!

That is enough for now I guess, I am at the end of my break now. I have a French class in around 20 minutes. So Au Revoir(abhi tak itna hi seekha hai) my friends. Keep checking this space, will be posting frequently from now on. MDI, Gurgaon : Military trainingSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend
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The problem with having friends who work for software companies is that very few of them are actually placed in Mumbai.. I have close friends - one of whom is placed in pune, and this girl whos currently residing in Delhi.. Lets call them Harry and sweety, not to conceal their identity or anything, but just for fun..

So they arent jobless free souls like me.. they are pretty much 9 to 5 guys.. when my sunday evenings are spent playing cricket in the field, it comes as a surprise to me that these guys chat their hearts out on the net.. In other words they do the pretty same things on a Sunday evening what they do the rest of the days. To be honest thats what I do too during weekdays, but atleast there they are getting paid for it..

So this particular Sunday, I was winning the game for my team singlehandedly(some guys think I am Sehwag, with a really bad wig.. whtever!)


So after hitting around a dozen and a half boundaries, I checked my cell for any congratulatory messages..

There were two, but they werent congratulatory..They were what is see as FRANTIC
One was by Harry - Abbe kahan hai? You are needed here..
Second was by sweety - Kahan ho aap? Online aao na.. (Note that she uses the Delhi lingo- aap and all. If in Mumbai you call someone aap, they start laughing at your faces)

I wondered what important work these guys got with me.. I hurriedly completed my triple century (what? the boundaries were short!) and rushed into my abode.. logged in.. I sent a conference request to them.

Sweety has joined Harry has joined
Arshat(thts me btw):
here..

Sweety:
finally

Harry: all 3 here..
Arshat:
oye? kya hua? something serious?
Harry:
abbe nahi.. timepass..

Arshat:
wht the? Man.. I thought u were getting married..
Harry: who me?
Sweety:
main?

Arshat:
yeah.. both of you..
Harry: hehehe.. or worse, to each other!
Arshat: I think you guys will make a lovely pair! ;)
Sweety:
his mom wud kill me..

Arshat: harry? ur mom does that to women you marry?
Harry:
oh not now.. she has improved by miles..

Arshat:
see sweety? she doesnt kill them now.. I think you shud give this a try..
Sweety:
nahi re.. she has plans for her future daughter-in-law.. n i dnt fit in thm..

Arshat:
why? his mom feels you arent sexy enough? as in for him.. (Raunchy is my usp)
Harry:
lol..

Sweety:
God! you guys!

Harry:
hahahaha.. seriously funny.. I just imagined my mom say tht!- "sweety isnt sexy enuf fr u!"
hehehe..
Sweety:
I thout u were scared of your mother...

Harry:
And what gave u tht idea?
Sweety: Parent teacher meetings..
Harry: oh that! That was 10 years ago.. Baccha abhi bada ho gaya hai..
Arshat:
And he aint talkin metaphorically..
Harry: Infact I had a forced convo with my parents a few yrs ago, thy said i cud marry whomever i like..
Arshat:
Good.. but harry, tht sumhow has nevr been our problem.. the one whom we like never likes us back!- thts the problem..
Sweety:
hehehhe.. kuch bhi..

Arshat:
aur bolo.. hows life?
Sweety: Harry is having fun.. n will start working on a new project..
Harry:
And sweetys college is on as usual..

Arshat:
You guys knw so much bout each other.. and u say u dont wanna get married :P
Harry:
Btw, hows sally?

(Sally btw, is the 4th pillar of this..er.. table? She stays in Mumbai. Harry, sally, sweety and me are frds frm school..)

Arshat:
Shes good..
Sweety:
Phd huh?

Arshat: Yeah.. good college too..
Harry:
Sahi re..

Arshat:
But I aint calling her a doctor before she gives me a treat..
Harry:
I am lousy friend aint I?
(Trust him to come up with the silliest question, with no reference whatsoever)
Arshat:
You bet.. the worst I got.. (Trust me to come up with the silliest answer)
Sweety:
chup re arshat.. nahi u r a good frd harry.. y do u say dat?

Arshat:
yeah..whts got into u?
Harry:
No.. I mean, i dont call, scrap or mail you guys..

Arshat:
Oh.. cant comment on that.. I m a bigger defaulter there ..
Harry:
Nahi re, I have so many calls free.. and messages free..

Arshat:
u do?
Harry:
even STD is free..

Arshat:
stop bragging popat, this aint helping your status as a lousy frd :P
Harry: I dont know whats going on in sallys life.. Its been ages since I called her..
Arshat: hmm.. but your credibility isnt dependent on callin her alone.. as in, u always ask bout her when u call me, and she always asks bout u when she calls me..
Sweety: yeah, frdshp is nt all bout callin scrappin and emailing, its bout comfort..
Arshat: hmm.. we hav stuck ard for the last 10 yrs right?..and I dont think we have done tht bad.., I just want you guys to know, phone calls or no phone calls, mails or no mails, we will remain friends forever... I soooo miss u guys.. Do I sound like a girl..?
Harry: yes u do..
Sweety: yeah..like tht girl..
Arshat: wht girl?
Harry: She knows bout her mate...
Arshat: u told her? kya yaar..!!#$%
Harry: she forced it outta me!
Arshat: yeah.. right..
Sweety: ya ya.. i m very forceful :P
Arshat: oh dear..
Sweety: toh bolo bolo.. give me all the details?
Harry: look at her go.. she wants all the gossip doesnt she!
Arshat: arre thr is nuthing to say...
Sweety: u like her..
Arshat: her who?
Sweety: her.. HER! u like her..
Arshat: this is so 7th gradeish...guys, i m going home..
Harry: hey even i need to go, office tomo..
Sweety: yeah me too, coll early morn..
Harry: hmm bye then..
Sweety: byeee...
Arshat: bye.. take care.. have fun..:)

The problem with good friends is that no matter how far we stay away from each other, we are
somehow very close.. sometimes too close for comfort mrgreen
But yeah, its fun, the only time it is not fun is when the joke's on me.. which is most of the times redface
But seriously, you guys have been great.. And I risk sounding like a girl here, but I soooo miss u guys..
Take care u guys, and remember - I am just a frantic message away
smile Of friends, Conference chat and sounding like a girl..SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend
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