Girls and Dancing

If you want girls to be crazy for you, learn to dance  ~my learning from the 9th standard

There was this boy in our standard in a different division. I don't remember his name, but let's call him S. So S was an average looker, not too good in sports, below average in studies. I didnt even know he existed till I heard one of my female friends talk about him 2 weeks before the annual day event which was like, an annual thingy where boys and girls of all ages did blasphemous stuff in front of their parents, coaxed by their teachers... This was apparently done to project to the parents that the money spent by the parents on education of their kids was well spent as they had now gained skills such as dancing, singing, violin playing and other such skills that will not help them in real life.

So, my only fault was, I got involved in a conversation related to annual day. My female friend went - "Ah.. Sssss... He is so good."

I feared the worst. Could it mean, they had? I gave my 14 year old brain a rest...

"He is such a good dancerrrrr...."

Other girls in the group also swooned, or whatever girls do.

"Umm.. Who is this S guy?" I asked.

I got the dirty looks, similar to the ones I had got when in the 3rd standard I had asked my cousin who Michael Jackson was? How could I demean their dancing God. He was a free spirit, a guru, someone who made sense of life and all the... okay.. shut up, I say.

I met S in the future, and was like - "Dude, you are dumb shit" within 10 mins of talking to him. This, before I saw him dance. He didnt dance, he flew, he jumped, he flexed his rubber body, he split his... you get the point... I saw the girls go wet... in the eyes... praying to be associated with him in some way. S's confidence grew and he hit on every girl he could, while mere mortals, like me, the ones who were awesome at studying and.... umm, only that, were left with no girls to hit on. No girl wanted to be hit upon after being hit on by Shri Shri S himself!

I vowed that day. I will learn to be a good dancer which I broke after 3 mins of practising, coz it made me all sweaty. I went back to studying.

Today things have changed. Girls today, at least the saner ones, want men who have something stable in their lives, like say, a job. It is much easier for women to like men like us, coz, seriously, we are awesome. I have seen terrible guys from MDI and SPCE, get married to like really pretty girls. Girls who they know deep inside, wouldnt have talked to them back in school. This boosts my confidence - "Iska ho sakta hai, toh apna toh ho hi sakta hai yaar..."

So under this false premise, yours truly set upon the search for a pretty girl. So he ended up dating this cuteness of a girl. She was amazing in every way, which made him question his awesomeness. I mean, how could both him and his girl be awesome, when there was so much difference in awesomeness quotient between the two. So, finally he decided, he will still call himself awesome, while she can be super awesome or uber awesome... something like that.

All these days, it was cool... I could make jokes she could laugh and everything was Mr. Hunky and Mrs. Dory. Then suddenly one day - "Would you like to see me dance?" said the girl.

The me was patting his back. He must have done something good during the day, dont know what, but something. The aforementioned girl, when she walks, she's graceful... If I could see her dance, my God, how beautiful would that be.... But he had to be cool about it... "Yeah.. maybe..."

"Good, so we are going dancing to this pl..." Hold on... Did she say We? Would it be preposterous to think I had been super good all week and I was getting a show here? Something that doesnt involve me at all?

"We?"I asked. "Yes.We." She said.

And that was that. I dont remember what happened next. Everything is a blur. All I remember is driving to this place in the middle of nowhere. There were couples inside, dancing around. Men, holding their women, twirling them at will, and women not minding it. I looked around for courage. I saw a bar at one end of the hall. No beer can give me courage for this.

The girl on the other hand was all smiles fantasising that we could be one of those couples. That gave me courage. If she could be so clueless about how bad I am, and how embarrassed I am going to make all 144 people in that room, why can't I be clueless?

I thought about MDI, Gurgaon, the lineage, the classes, the professors, the friends... None of them idiots had prepared me for this. I thought about S. He must be laughing at me somewhere. Just when I had come to think I was better than him, my own girl, does this to me.

I held her right hand in my left. I put my right hand around her waist. This is the only fun part about dancing. I put my right foot ahead and it pushed against her left.

"You have to start with your left," she whispered.

"My left or yours?" I asked. Only to realise it was a dumb question.

We stood there in the middle of the room, like a missile failed to launch. I was embarrassed, she wasnt. Then I thought, maybe she was here not because she liked dancing so much, but maybe she enjoyed dancing with me. That self indulgent theory gave me much strength. I have to do this. I have to. I started with a 1-2-3, 1-2-3, and stamped my big ugly left foot on her soft, white, small right foot with red nailpaint. I had made her dress in my fav dress, made her put on the nail polish that I wanted, in other words, I had thrown my weight around because I had agreed to dance with her. George Clooney doesnt get to do that, I am sure!

I took the name of the Polish, the jolly folk from Poland who still havent started using the Euro. We started Polka, a dance form from the aforementioned, non Euro users. The Polish might not have won a major war and never mass produced a decent car, but they do know their dance.

The 1-2-3, 1-2-3, worked and then, we were dancing, like they show in the movies. Her grace made up for my lack of it, and we were dancing. I lead her, she trusted me. I wondered if all the men there, dancing with their girls, felt what I felt. Was it pride? Self confidence? Or a heady mix coz of having a woman trust you? The first song ended. The band bowed. But the applause was ours. We danced, for hours, I made mistakes, plenty of them, she laughed them off, and then I did too. It was not about the mistakes, it was about the fun we were having. The crowd slowly faded away. And then it was just us dancing on the floor. The lights dimmed, the music volume went a couple of notches softer. The 1-2-3 in my head was gone. All that was left was she and I dancing on the wooden floor. Her eyes were locked onto mine and I didnt want to leave their gaze, such warmth in her gaze.

That night, we kept dancing. We must be the last couple to leave the floor. As we walked away, we found ladies smiling at us, sighing and reminiscing the lovely days gone by, congratulating her on getting me here and registering my sheepish grin.

I opened the door for her... We walked the long walk to the car... And I thought, Life is much like dancing. It can be done alone, but then, Life and Dancing are more fun, when you have someone with you.





Girls and DancingSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

Current Issues:
4 letters to the editor  

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

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

Current Issues: , ,
15 letters to the editor  

What is Love? Explained.

I just returned from an awesome trip to the United States. This info is of no use to you and I am not bragging. It's not brag worthy when every Tom-Dick-Natrajan from Hyderabad TCS has been to Detroit and back. This info does tell you that I have returned and have been jet-lagged to the hilt. So I am sleepy at lunchtime (unlike all you IT engineers, I am sleepy before I have had lunch) and am wide awake at 5 in the morning.

So, I was trying to get myself to sleep one of these mornings that I couldnt sleep at 5 am. Unlike normal people who deem counting sheep as a fairly effective way of falling asleep, I, from my IIT JEE prep days, know that nothing puts me to sleep better than an Organic Chemistry problem.

I gave up on Organic chemistry years ago. I don't get it. It doesnt get me. We don't get along. So, I chose other more difficult, more universal problems to tackle. I picked up a subject, I have been racking my brains over years. What is Love?

Not that I didnt have the answers to this question when I was 17, the age when I finally decided that life wasnt worth living without cable TV. But those answers werent, well, all satisfactory. They left me wanting, like a good meal without dessert. But everything changed the other day at 5 am. Things became clear. I can't explain the feeling. But it was pretty close to when I first learnt how to bowl leg-spin. Oh, I remember the fear in the eyes of 8 year old batsmen every time I came to bowl. Ah, good days those.

So, let me explain What is Love, with pictures for better understanding. You might want to take notes and all. Yes.

All love, father-son, man-wife, brother-sister, grandpa-grandchildren, girl-teddy bear, young man-fast car, nerd - Harry Potter book can be explained using Love between 4 permutations.

1. Love between a Man and another man




All men admire each other at some level. I think it was hard wired in us by nature. We had to like each other to be in groups. There is strength in numbers in the jungle. Being in groups men could protect themselves from other predators. It kept them safe.

(Notice how I have watermarked the images now that I have finally invested my time creating something?)

Men dont want to be caught dead confessing their love for another man, heck, a grown son wont even kiss his father on the cheek (unless he is Italian of, course). Even between male friends, you will never find one man appreciating another man's friendship. Words like - "You should brush your teeth everyday rather than biweekly" or "Stop being such a jackass" frequent among friends. The only way of spotting true male love is when they talk about each other. There is pride there and admiration and if the friendship is really deep, a hint of respect.

Try that between any two men, try a father and son. They might not confess loving each other, but you will find these three emotions when they talk about each other.

This theory can be further strengthened by proving the converse is exact opposite. Remember a certain politician's son was caught doping the night after the politician was killed by his own brother? Okay, search Pramod Mahajan. The world, I think was too harsh on the son. They said he didnt love his father. Yeah. True. He didnt respect his father. He didnt admire him and wasnt proud of him. In short, he didnt love him. So he didnt care.



2. Love by a man for a woman



All men have an inherent need to protect the women they love. A father is always protective of his girl, a brother is protective of his sister, a boy of the girl he loves... There is something very primal in this type of love too.

Along with protective instincts comes ownership. Men were so obsessed with ownership that the society world over decided to make the woman change her surname when she gets married to a man.

I don't know which of these emotions came first. Is a man protective of a woman because he owns her, or does he feel he owns her because he's been protective of her?

My theory can be verified by testing it for love between a man and an inanimate female object, like say, a car. The love that a man has for his car (provided he loves the car in the first place) can be categorised by ownership and protective instincts.

The makers of Rolls Royce were so protective for their car that they sold it to only those people who they felt could take care of the car. Now, that's love. Some parsi men are known to spend more time with their cars than their wives. (That might also be one reason why their numbers are dwindling.)


3. Love of a Woman for a Man






A woman starts loving a man once she starts respecting him for what he is. A daughter loves her father because she respects what he does for her and her family, the fact that he protects her from all evil, that he is her shield. A wife (not surprisingly) has the exact same reasons why she respects her husband.

Pride is another trait of a woman's love for a man. Ask a woman where her fiance studied - the pride that brims over when she says -IIM Ahmedabad. Never before has the name of the city "Ahmedabad" been pronounced with so much pride. Ask woman about his less educated man's education and she would go - He is the MD. MD of what company, you ask? MD of his father's company. You later learn that his father owns a stationery shop and the MD is actually the shopkeeper.

Like men, women have a few inherent needs too. Women find that the men they love are incomplete without them. A mother feels that about her son, so she ends up ironing the clothes of her son who lives in the hostel, does such stuff on his own back there, every time he comes home. A wife feels the need to pack the bags for her husband's South Asia trip, because "he can't do a good job on his own", forget that fact that he has been around the world before getting married, and has been pretty much packing his own bags.

Men, obviously like the attention. It is a kind of love they are incapable of. Love that is blatantly obvious.

The only problem with the "incomplete without me" emotion is, that when there is more than one woman vouching for the love of a man, it can get catty. Like when - the wife joins the beta-ma club. True story.


4. Love of a woman for another woman:






There always exists a subtle hatred between women. I think it is evolutionary too. When stone age man used to go around in groups so would their women. Inherent in human beings is the need to protect it's young. Now, a man would have relations with more than one woman, every woman would want him to care for her offspring more than the child of another woman in the harem. Hence the hatred.

But this subtle hatred is important for love between women. This tells them that they are related in some way. Indifference is worse than hatred. Indifference is what you dont want someone to feel for you.

Women, when they start understanding each other, they fall in love. It might be easier said than done. Go sit in a ladies compartment in a mumbai local to learn more.

Caring comes naturally to women. But they extend this only to the women who they deem worthy of it. Once they do, they do love each other.

Now, when a woman says she loves another woman, that shouldnt be taken seriously. Observe two girls when they first become friends. The rainbowy talk, the sweet secrets being shared, you think it will go on for ever, only to find them go their seperate ways in two weeks for something as silly as "she likes Ranbir Kapoor. He's mine." I say why fight over Ranbir Kapoor. He's gonna get fat one day anyway.


So there. That is my complete understaning of love and I have explained it with pictures. In case there are any questions, I am always available in the comments section.

Till the next time, keep falling in love.







What is Love? Explained.SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

Current Issues: , , , , ,
11 letters to the editor  

The definition of class : A study of cars, movies and girls

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

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

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8 letters to the editor  

Such a good girl...





He sat on the first bench. It was a special day. He wore a white shirt with big flowers on them. He hated that shirt. It made him look girlie. He wanted to buy a black shirt, but his mother thought he looked cute in white. To salvage his manliness, he wore black jeans. He thought it made him look grown up.

It was that age when guys want to look grown up. Girls can remain girls all their lives. Boys, they want to be men, the first chance they get.

The students looked at him in anticipation, for they knew, any moment now, he would be called in front of the class, the customary song will be sung and then, will come the best part of celebrating a friend's birthday.

"What chocolate will you give?" asked a bespectacled kid sitting behind him, clearly salivating at the idea.
"Melody." He said.

The bespectacled kid sniffed his nose. Karan Mehta, his father had a paper mill in south Mumbai. His birthday was last week. He gave one 5 star to everyone. In comparison, melody seemed, well, pedestrian. But he didnt care. He knew melody was her favourite. She had told him once. He looked at her. Was she looking? Did she think he looked handsome? She wasnt looking.

"Happy birthday," she said as he gave her the chocolate and shook her hand. "How old are you now?"

"Ten." He lied. He was only 9. He wanted to grow up soon, do grownup things. She looked so pretty. Her pink lips seemed so soft. People think boys are innocent when they are young. The truth is, boys are never really innocent. They always know their thoughts are dirty for their age. As they grow older, the thoughts keep getting dirtier.

He looked at her soft cheeks. He wanted to kiss her on her cheeks, like they show in old movies. But will she get pregnant if he kissed her? That's what happened in those movies. He checked his thoughts.

Such dirty thoughts. She was such a good girl.






Then they were 14. Boys wanted to go to Water Kingdom. They opposed the idea of Essel World. They went there as kids, they said. Water Kingdom was unseen, exciting. What was exciting was the opportunity to see their respective girlfriends in wet shirts. Those were simpler times. Being boyfriend-girlfriend meant you asked the girl if she wanted to be your girlfriend, and then spend the next year getting teased by your friends and avoiding each other.

She wouldnt go. She didnt like water much, or the idea of hormonal 14 year old boys staring at her body. What followed was the first lesson in bribery. He convinced her best friend to go. It wasnt easy. She wanted a SRK poster she had set her eyes on. It was overpriced considering SRK's looks and his acting prowess. She was in. And then he waited for the day.

She came out of the water in a black shirt and grey slacks. Those were simpler times, girls hadnt graduated to wearing anything that showed more than 35% of their skin. It gave passing percentage a whole new meaning. The shirt stuck to her newly developed bosom. The strap of her bra showed. It left a huge impression on his mind and somewhere else. Dirty thoughts.

"You look very pretty." He said. Thank God for testosterone. It does great things to a guy's confidence.

She smiled. She looked away. She hunched her back, trying to hide her assets. But the shirt hugged on to her wet boy. Thankfully.

Such dirty thoughts. She was such a good girl.








Then they were 19. The sea lashed on to the rocks. The sea mirrored what he felt for her. The unrest.

He wanted her. How much longer could he wait. He put his arm across her. Gently, pulled her to him. Her body was soft, soft but stiff. Her body wasnt in sync with her mind. They wanted different things. His grip firmed, and he pulled her gently towards him. She gave in. She placed her head on his shoulder. There was a nip in the air. She wore the green sweater he had gifted her. Green was her favourite colour.

She was so pure. So uncorrupt of all the things wrong in this world. She was so right.

He whispered in her ear-
"I will do bad things to you."

She smiled, only to realise it was wrong. It sounded wrong, bad, dangerous. But for some reason, it left her with a tingling feeling somewhere inside her. She looked away. If only she could fly away from him. If only he wasnt able to make her blush like that. If only he would kiss her.

He looked at her, then at the sea, lashing out on the rocks.

Such dirty thoughts. She was such a good girl.






Then it was that day after what seemed like ages. Where did she start and where did he end as they lay next to each other, sharing dreams, bodies and sweat. He played with her curls. She closed her eyes. He kissed her, playfully biting her.

"I told you I was going to do bad things to you."

"Yes. You did. You are a bad boy."

"And you are such a good girl"

"I love you."

This was the first time she had said it. Not that he had waited for her to say it. He had said it months ago, because thats how he felt about her. How did it matter if she was there yet or not?But it did. If it didnt, why would he feel richer today?

"You love me?" He asked. He wanted her say it again.

"Ever since the first time I saw you in that white floral shirt of yours. You were such a cute kid. And a liar, by the way."

"Liar?"

"Yeah. You werent 10. You were born in the same year as me."

"Why didnt you tell me all these years that you liked me?"

"And miss all the wooing you have done for me?"

"Excuse me! According to my records, it was you who was head over heels in love with me."

"Yeah. Right. That is why I had to distribute melody, bribe my friend with a SRK poster and gift me a green sweater."

"You knew?"

She nodded. Her eyes twinkling with mischief.

And he wanted to do bad things to her again.

Such dirty thoughts. She was such a good girl.





Such a good girl...SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

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17 letters to the editor  

A city called Mysore

I had the good fortune of living in Mysore for sometime. After a year and a half in Berlin, I was homesick, and in spite of Mysore not being my home, I felt like home here.

The first thing that I think about when I think Mysore, is pleasant weather.

I have a system to rank cities' worth living index. Let's call it the Arshatian City Life Index (I know, I can be more creative, but I am happy as long it has my name in it.)

After living in Berlin, 'living' in this context, means more than just going to college in the morning and parties in the night, 'living' here means being on the street with your packed bags, not knowing where to go. (For some reason, nobody would take us as tenants in Deutschland, wonder why! ). 'Living' means having half an Euro in your pocket and finding that everything on the menu, even coca cola, costs more than 1 Euro! After 'living' in Berlin and quick visits to London and Paris, coupled with hitch hiking through Eastern Europe (I know a post is due about my Euro trip, it's gonna be awesome), I have come up with a city life index to rank cities where I want to live most of my life.

So here goes :
Arshatian City Life Index Parameters (Weightage given in the brackets)

1. Weather (35%) : Weather is one thing that God or nature as you atheist pricks call it, gave you. No amount of GDP growth, centralised AC bathrooms or centrally heated garages are going to make it better. This is where Mysore scores all its points.

2. 24x7 ness (25%): By now, you must have realised I am making up these words, but really, if you know how cool 24x7ness is, you would know why this parameter is so important. I remember going out at 2 in the morning for a glass of milkshake when I was young. Yeah, that's Mumbai for you my dearies. Mysore scores very low on this parameter, though. Everything shuts down at 9 pm. It still does better than Berlin though. Except Falafel shops and clubs which are open all night long till the afternoon next day, everything else shuts down at 8!

3. Public transport (25%) : I am spoilt. I like to be taken from one place to another in a chauffeur driven rickshaw. I dont mind the bus either. I like trains too. This is one of the reasons why most American cities don't match up to the awesomeness that are European city. I don't get it. If Europeans built the US, how come they did such a bad job?
Mysore, like most Indian cities performs dismally. But it is still better than Gurgaon and Pune.

4. Exclusivity (15%) : In Berlin, you the firang! In India, you know how fascinating firangs are to the local folk? Indians are equally fascinating, if not more in Berlin. You have pretty girls come up to you and strike up a conversation...(Or maybe it's just me who's super handsome or something... yeah, we will go with that...) In London, there are more Indians on the roads than the English. I kid you not, there was a British soldier or whatever they are, you know the ones with red uniforms and that absurdly long hat? Yeah, that one was an Indian!
With my south actor looks (and weight) and a mustache to match, I was an insider in Mysore. Clearly it lost all it's 15% here.

There's nothing to see in Mysore or Bangalore for that matter. After you visit European cities, where everything is turned into a tourist spot by the Tourist authorities, you wonder how come such a thing never happens in India.

Anyway, given below are a few observations about Mysore:

* Sweater is all season wear. You will find people wearing sweaters in mid-May! Really, it made me ask one lady why she was wearing a sweater. She said - it's coldaaa.

The extra a's I gather were because of the extra cold, but later I found out that's how people here speak. And yes it does get incredibly cold in the morning. Even in Mid-may! (Europeans reading this blog, incredibly cold means 17 degrees in this country.)

* When people speak in a language you don't know, you talk to them in a language, you yourself arent too fluent in!

No seriously, whenever people started talking to me in Kannada (can't blame them, I had a mustache and south Indian actor looks) I shift to German. Not English, Hindi or Marathi, but German. This is how the conversation went when I once wanted to hire a rickshaw.

"Jayalakshmi puram?"
"Wokay"
"How much?"
"50."
"No. 30." (I can be quite a cheapstake.)
"Jayalakshmi Puram... far madi... naan orkunnai petrol badhai ho badhai... Pranab Mukherjee... nee papa parapo"

I bet he was talking gibberish, but I was bent upon saving 20 rupees. That's 1/3rd of a Euro, my european friends. Yes, I know you guys give away 3 Euros as a tip, but then that is why your GDP is falling and ours is rising. (Did I stoop too low?)

I shifted to German, as an instinct. I didnt do it on purpose. I swear -
"Aber, du musst petrol haben. Kanst du mir lift geben? Volkswagen. Das Auto. Audi. Vorsprung durch Tecknik."

He caught my bluff. He understood I was randomly naming car companies and their tag lines.
"No. 50 mean 50." He did a little twirl with his index finger in the air. I immidiately realised this was not a guy to be messed with. I gave him 50.

* Finding a place in Mysore can be tough. First you have to find a rickshaw driver who you think can speak broken hindi. Second you have to pronounce the name of the place you want to go right.

As an examples, all you north Indians reading this post, say "Kukrahalli Lake" 3 times. Do it in front of your south indian friends so that they can derive some pleasure out of it.

One you have pronounced the tounge twisiting name right, you are in for a treat as the driver tells you where it is.

"Sir, aap seedha jaana... Seedha matlab, straight-aaa. Fir dead end aana, dead end se left-aaa. Wahan pe ek bada building bolna toh, aapka building."

Go interpret.

* If you ask the locals for a place, they can be really vague.
"Anna, Gayathri Tiffin (an eatery in Mysore) kahan hai?"
"Gayathri Tiffin-aaa? Go straight-aaa, right mein ek bada tree hona. Wahan pe Gayathri Tiffin hona."

I went straight and found a big tree every 100 meters.

* The dasherra celebrations in Mysore are the best in the country. The streets are lit up, the palaces are lit up too. Due to this overspending by the Karnataga Govt. for a day, the rest of the year, the street lights are turned off to compensate.

* The filter coffee or "kapi" as they call it here, is the awesomest drink ever. Nothing pulls you up like a good cup of filter kapi. If only the Mysore govt decided to market it right, it would kick Nescafe's butt. Mysore makes Italy small. That is also because Karnataka is bigger in size.


At the end of my stay , I had begun to fall in love with the place. It was quiet, the weather was good, the food was good and the coffee, oh yeah.... It is a lovely place to retire. One part of me wants to buy a house there, the one with a front yard and a back yard. You know, some place where I could have a small garden, grow tomatoes and cauliflowers and chillies. A place where my grandkids could come visit. A place where I could spoil them rotten. Sound like I am getting old. And you know what, it's not that bad...


P.S. - I have been working on my second novel, that explains my absence... I will post an excerpt soon.. :)

A city called MysoreSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

Current Issues: , , ,
11 letters to the editor  

Top 10 things that I will miss in Germany... Top 10 things that I will miss in India


I know I have been missing from the blogosphere and guys who read me, all 3 of you, have been wondering where I am and when I will be back. Well, worry no more, your prayers have been answered.

While you have been praying for my heroic return, I had been writing my second novel. It is ready and kicking in my belly (Pregnancy metaphor!) waiting to conquer the world. So now that I am done with that, I return to what I liked doing the most. Blogging. so here goes ...

A friend's friend who just returned from the US to settle in India wrote about the top 10 things she misses about the US. That got me thinking, what do I miss about Germany. But the Indian that I am, what do I not miss about Germany too. So given below are the two lists.




What I miss about Germany:


1. German Bakery, which they call just "Bakery" in Germany.

"Bread has it's own taste, it has a special texture which depends on the grain used, the temperature of the oven, the time of the year," said a German friend of mine when I said "Bread is just Bread." She scolded me for being such a jerk and made me apologise to a loaf of bread.

Well, for Germans, bread is not just bread, it is a way of life. And I miss it more than anything else. Ah, those Mozzarella sandwiches, the Mozzarella warm from the warm bread just out of the oven, the cold lettuce, the tomato, the cucumber.... sigh....


2. Buses

So, how do you identify a over-developed country? Good roads? No homeless people? Good public transport? Right? Wrong!
All these things define only a developed country - a US, a Qatar or a Italy. An over-developed country is the one where the buses bend towards the sidewalk as you get down. Yes. They have so much money that they can make a bus BEND!


3. Extra Virgin olive oil

So what is Extra Virgin really? What are other olive oils? Just Virgin? And what about olive oils who have had sex? And what about the ones who have babies? What are they called? Mommy and Poppy Olive oil? And what if they have many babies? Extra Mommy and Poppy olive oil?
The point being, I love olive oil. In India, regardless of how much you pay to get that oil shipped, it just doesnt remain the same.


4. Red Wine.

"You-have-a-to-a-try-a-this," said my Italian friend pouring me a glass of red.
To be honest, I didnt think I would like it. I was hoping I wouldnt, considering the cost of these things. I had the first sniff, sipped it, made it cure for sometime in my oral cavity and yessss.... the thrill of strong Italian wine!!!
"How-do-you-like-a-this?" He asked.
"I-like-a-this-very-much-thank-you" I said. I had become Italian!! With just one sip!

I dont dig alcohol, and I dont understand why people go so crazy over it. Blessed with some phenomenal alcohol breaking genes, I have never gotten really drunk, I have never had a hangover and have always repented spending on booze the other day.

I have had some really exquisite wines in my life. Some of the bottles have cost more than 70 Euros, and all of them have changed me as a person. Okay, maybe not. But you get the point.

Whatever you do, dont spend money on French wine. I told a French friend of mine that french women might be pretty, but your wine is nothing to write home about. She got terribly angry with me. Don't say anything about french wine to a french person. They get mad.

If you are Indian your taste buds are used to a certain amount of tingling which the mild french wine just doesnt offer. There. I said it.

The smell of that Italian wine stayed with me forever. I have forgotten the taste, but I swear I can sometimes smell it when I think about it.


5. Blonde babies

God, they are cute. They are good enough to eat. I should know. Burp.


6. Berlin Summer

If you need any evidence that there is a God, and he is a man, you have to visit Berlin in the summer. The country has a winter that lasts 6 months and there are days when you look out of the window and it's like the end of the world. So any presence of Sun is an invitation for the women to show their legs. I have never seen so many near perfect legs together.


7. Wissen Bier

It is wheat beer. It is made out of wheat grain. It is smoooooooth. Beer is an acquired taste. I still havent fully acquired it and I dont think I ever will but Wissen Beer my friend, that is something different.


8. Falafel

If I had a Euro for every time I said - "Ein falafel bitte"
I had so many falafels in Berlin that I became 22% Falafel. I knew the names of the Falafel joints in the city and they knew my name. The Falafel servers were the best German teachers ever. Maybe that is why I speak with a turkish accent! Ah!


9. On-time travel

Okay, so I might be an Indian, but I am more of a Mumbaikar. India is nothing like Mumbai. In fact nothing is quiet like Mumbai. Trains run on time, buses are almost always on time, people dont turn up late for meetings... It is a special place. So, it's not that I am not used to on-time travel. But really, Germany's on time travel is something you could write a book on - for eg-

We were waiting for a bus.
Me: It is 3:43 and the bus is not here yet
Friend: Yeah, it is 3:46 in my watch. Kahan hai yeh bus?
Me: Teri ghadi fast hai?
Friend: No idea. Teri on time hai kya?

Just then the bus arrived and we got in. We quickly checked the timing in our watches. Mine said 3.44 and my friend's said 3.47. The bus was supposed to arrive at 3.41. So according to my watch, it was 3 mins late.

We came home and checked the time online. Turns out my watch was 3 mins fast and friend's watch was 6 mins fast. The bus was on time, our watches werent. We could have adjusted the time according to the bus! No how cruelly awesome is tht?


10. Smooth roads and Mercedes Taxis

Ah, the roads. I have written a very patriotic and moving post about a pothole in Berlin. Enough written.

The 3 pointed star... ah beauty. If I was a car, I would be a Mercedes SLR and I would marry a Mercedes C class and then we would have small Volkswagen mini kids (Dont ask me how two Mercedes give birth to a Volkswagen,it's complicated...)

***



What I missed about India in Germany:


1. Cheap food

The money I used to spend on eating out in Germany could have been used for nobler causes like feeding Rishi, Shammi and Raj Kapoor uncle ke families. Food is so cheap here. I convert everything into euros when I go out and I have a huge smile on my face when I pay the bill.


2. Cheap domestic help

Yeah, go ahead. Call me lazy. Call me a slave driver. (You shouldnt if you are white, because really, you were the slave driver!) But the truth is, doing household chores is no fun!

Now I have met women whose hobbies included cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom (thts one more thing I miss about Germany, meet interesting women!) but it's not my style. I have a simple funda - Life is about doing what u want when u want. *applause people*

I once calculated how much time I spent in a week cleaning my room. It came up to 4 hours in a week! Do you know how productive I could have been in those 4 hours? Okay, not much, but, I dont wanna do it! And I shouldnt have to spend half my salary on getting domestic help!


3. The weather (Mumbai)

This is true only for Mumbai. Okay, if you talk about the muggy weather, I ask you to name one city where you can land without checking weather.com and carrying extra sweaters! I cite, Delhi's +45 degrees of heat and Berlin's -15 degrees of cold and ask you to compare it with 25 degrees all the time in Mumbai land :)


4. Good veg food

The first week that I spent in Germany, I used to look at all foods with an eye of suspicion that comes after years of travelling in crowded trains with a full wallet (What? I have a rich dad?). Everything seemed to contain meat or fish or some other animal. And they dont even consider Fish as meat. Fish is considered vegetarian! How?

I went to a posh hotel in Paris once, ordered wine, over priced of course and French, of course, they bite if u ask for any other wine. They bit off a friend's small finger, it adorns the walls of that hotel now with a tag saying -'Attention sil vous plait, hand will be bite, if ask for other wine. French wine, best wine. C'est la vie.' So coming back to the point, the restaurant had a menu that ran into pages, but they had no vegetarian dish. Zero Veg dishes. I had to finally order odd tasting noodles with vegetables, for which i was overcharged because - "Monsieur, thees ees Chef's speciaaale noodles.."


5. Hindi movies

Downloading is illegal in Germany, okay I know it's illegal in most parts of the developed world, but there they actually enter ur apartment put you and your laptop in jail, which if u ask me, defeats the entire purpose. For all they know, i might be watching sitcoms on my laptop in jail

Now in India, I can watch Zindagi Milega Na Dobara on the big screen and feel bad about paying money for what I could have seen in Germany for free. Any movie that Farhan Akhtar acts in, should be declared tax free, and that money should be taken from Mr. Javed Akhar for giving birth to a boy who has no acting skills whatsoever and thinks he can act. (Arre, yeh toh review ban gaya!)


6. Rickshaw and taxi tht dont cost a bomb

You know how much a richshaw ride costs me in Mumbai? Rs. 11. That is 20 cents. And I reach my destination in one piece (Well, most of the times)

In Berlin, I had to think if I should take the taxi or not. Okay, agreed that all Taxis are Mercedes, but really, sometimes i just want to get from place A to place B without spending my month's salary on the travel.


7. Air conditioners

In the birth place of Mechanical engg, how come they dont have Air conditioners installed anywhere. In berlin, you can sometimes sweat to death. Fyi, Summer Max temp in Berlin is more than that in Mumbai. There are gang wars in Berlin on which gang will get to use the table fan. Many die every summer.

The thing I love about India is, every big shop has an air conditioner and they do not cost a bomb so most of your engg friends can also afford it, making it logical to remain frds with them.


8. 24x7 transport

Mumbai again. See, how this post became what I miss about Mumbai from what I miss about India? That's how cool that city is. Well, not cool as in cold, it's quite humid that way.

You can get from point A to point B in Mumbai at 3 in the morning. You dont have to book cabs on phone or anything. just walk out on to the street and hail a taxi. Trains work round the clock. They say they shut down for 1 hour sometime, I am yet to find what hour. Note: There is a fair chance you wont get a place to sit in the train, unless you board it during non-rush hours, which again I have told is for 1 hour sometime, I am yet to find what hour.


9. Sunday open

This is only for the troubled souls who have spent time in one the better European country like Germany or France, you know, countries who place a lot of importance on silly and useless things like quality of life.

Sunday, everything is closed that includes malls, departmental stores, drug stores, after all the cashiers at the counter need their rest. It can get very tiring - counting money, opening drawers, returning change, closing the drawer.

Here, in mumbai, (I have quit talking bout India, I have a awesomer place to talk about.) everything is open 24x7x364 (15th August is a holdiday)


10. Friends and Family

Yeah, the sensitive guy that I am, I had to include this. It was either this or "Desh ki mitti ki khusboo" (Which is a real thing, btw).

I missed my friends and family when I was in Germany. I remember thinking about my friends and saying to myself - 'They werent all that bad, eh?'. And I missed my sister the most. I have realised there are so many inside jokes that we share. Some of our jokes are single syllable which only we can understand among ourselves... And I am sure my friends miss me, I mean, seriously, how many awesome mes are there in India? And my sister definitely missed me - she said so once every 3 months, which going by her fake pride means she missed me every 3 days. And why not, my parents dont understand any of her jokes! They give her pity laughs! Pity laughs, my friends!


So that is that. Now that I have showed my sensitive side to you, your heart must be full and your eyes must be watery. I know you must want to pour your heart out to me, to tell me how much u missed me while I was gone. To that I say, wipe your tears, and let it pour in the comments...


Till then... Ich sagt, Gesundheit!

Top 10 things that I will miss in Germany... Top 10 things that I will miss in IndiaSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Editor in chief Arshat Chaudhary

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