The best gift a man could give...

This is a true story.

For the last one year I have been working in an Organisation known for its wacky advertisements. For some reason we associate the awesomeness of the ads with the awesomeness of the company. So when I got placed for this firm, I envisaged long discussions with the CEO over cups of coffee in an air-conditioned office about how I, an MBA from one of the top colleges in the country, could make the brand better.

There is a reason why they call it Sales and Marketing and not the other way around. It is supposed to tell you how your career is going to shape up. So it is going to be sales first.

Sales. My women friends liked the sound of it, probably coz it has the word 'sale' in it. Now who doesnt like a real good sale? But a sales job, as I found out soon, was very different from what I had expected. There were no air conditioned rooms, and there was only thele-ki-chai, and no coffee. The only discussions I had were with shopkeepers and Sales officers.

So, while Sales Officer as a job title sounds swanky, it is not. It essentially involves taking orders from each shop in a market. They earn only a fraction of an MBA would earn. In fact, even 5 years ago, my first salary at an Engineering firm was higher than what these guys make today. These guys are usually graduates with a degree in arts or something, that too, through distance education. Most of them are in their 30s and have a family to support. You ask them why didnt they study and you get different answers...

Paise nahi the ammi-abba ke pass... (Mom and Dad didnt have money)
Do baar fail hogaya tab ghar walon ne padhai chudwa di... (I failed twice, my folks asked to give up studies and work)
Behen ki shaadi ke liye job join kiya, aage nahi padha... (I started working to pay for my sisters wedding.  )

Some of them are intelligent, you feel bad for them. You wish you could help them in some way, maybe lend them some money every month. But then there are so many of them. In Mumbai alone I work with 8 different Sales Officers. There is no way I can lend money to each of them.

With time, you learn to accept the status quo. Maybe you studied hard and so you are here. Maybe it is not all because of being born into a family who knew the importance of education. You soothe yourself. For the time being.

Below the Sales Officers work the Sales Representatives (SR). Sales Representatives are the scum of the earth, or so they are treated. They are essentially courier boys, only worse. They work the hardest. There are times when I get tired walking in the market. I take a rickshaw. The SR walks 4 times as much as I do and cant afford a rickshaw. Heck, even a bus ticket costs 10% of his daily wage. I have had a bottle wine in Paris that cost more than what a SR makes in a month.

One such SR is Ramesh. I just realised, I dont even know his last name. That is how unimportant he is.

I have worked with Ramesh. He carries billboards, posters and then pastes them wherever I ask him to. The first thing I ask him, as a rule, is if he has had something to eat in the morning. He always says yes and when I offer to take him to a restaurant, shyly accepts.

He is shy, timid. He has sudden bursts of anger, frustration actually, over long work hours, over low pay, but like the sweat on his brow on a hot summer afternoon, he quickly wipes it off and puts on a cheerful face. Ramesh is short. He barely comes up to my shoulder. I walk quickly from shop to shop, my sports shoes dont let my soles get tired. He barely manages to keep up with me, his all season shoes, tattered in places, make me think how uncomfortable they might be. I slow down...

On that particular day, we had a plumbers' meet. It is what you think it is. It is a meet where plumbers come, we get a chance to tell them about our new products in the plumbing range and then we feed the plumbers dinner, everyone's happy, everyone except Ramesh. It was 8.30 in the night and the meeting that was supposed to start at 7.30 has yet not begun. Say hello to Indian Strechable Time.

"Yeh Deshmukh sir (Deshmukh is Ramesh's boss) ko yeh meet aaj hi rakhna tha...(Why did Deshmukh sir have to hold the meeting today?)" Ramesh said to me taking me to a corner.

"Kyun, aaj kya hai? (What is special about today?)" I asked.

"Aaj jaldi jaana hai na... (I have to leave early today)" He said, the worry lines on his forehead became more prominent.

"Kyun? Why?" I asked.

He smiled shyly.

"Aaj humari anniversary hai na... (Today is my anniversary)"

I don't know what I found cute, the fact that he actually wanted to go home early to his bride or the way he said it.

I asked him how long they had been married. "17 years," he said. He had a daughter who was in the tenth standard. He said he was going to make sure she does not turn out like him and goes to college. She is very intelligent he told me. He told me about his son. His son wants to be a cricketer. Cricket bats are expensive, he said.

I wondered how he manages a family on that salary. He must live in a slum. My mind wandered. Does he have water supply or do they have to collect water from a common tap? Are the toilets shared too? I felt bad. Sure, I knew how people lived in Mumbai, only, I never thought I would be working so closely with one of them.

I wondered what special he would do on his anniversary. Will he take his wife to a restaurant, a small one of course? Or will they watch a movie in a single screen theatre? Or will they just walk down a quiet road, just talking?

I asked him - "Toh aaj plan kya hai?"
"Mandir jaake aayenge...(We will visit the temple)" He said.

It seemed so pure. I had never thought one could do that on an anniversary. I had always thought of it as a western concept. But this was so Indian and so very beautiful.

"Aapki kya love marriage hai?" I asked.
"Nahi bhai, arranged." He said.

Deshmukh then came in, harried. He wanted Ramesh to fetch a few things from the market. One of our distributors was supposed to come to the meet. This distributor guy is one of the most annoying people I have met. But it is customary to welcome the guest with a bouquet of flowers. So, Ramesh, the all weather guy, had to fetch them from the market. Deshmukh handed Ramesh 200 rupees and asked him to get the best bouquet he can get. I wondered if it hurt Ramesh, that even a bouquet cost more than what he made in a day. How would you feel? But there was no time. It was 9 and the meeting had already started.

Ramesh ran, forgetting everything about his anniversary. He was back just in time with the flowers. I presented the flowers to the distributor. His ego was satisfied. He left the bouquet on the chair.

Once the meeting was over, Ramesh was ordered to keep the chairs back in place. All 80 of them. I started helping him, he tried to stop me, saying that I wasnt supposed to do it.

Around 11, we managed to wrap everything up. Ramesh picked up the bouquet and the three of us started walking towards the station to go back home. I was gloating in the glory of the success of the meet. I was too self absorbed to not understand why Ramesh had picked up the bouquet.

The train arrived on the platform, Deshmukh and I entered the first class compartment, while Ramesh fought his way into the second class compartment, all the while holding the bouquet close to his chest, with his trademark smile on his face.

I thought about what his wife would say when he presents her with the huge bouquet. Would he directly give it to her? Or will he shyly ask his daughter to give it to her mother? Will his wife blush, even after 17 years of marriage? Could all the diamonds, eating out in fancy places, costly gifts that rich men give their wives, ever match a bouquet of flowers and a visit to the temple? Isn't this, the best gift a man could give?




Dedicated to all the Rameshs out there... The unsung heroes of the FMCG industry...



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Arranged or love?


Short Story

"Heyyyy! Long time... What are you doing here?" Rajani yelled from across the shop.

Yelling in a saree shop is acceptable. It is like a cafe... for women... And you get to meet so many of your old friends... Rajani was a dear friend from college.

"I was buying sarees for my wedding..." I said.

"Woooowww... When are you getting married? How come you didnt tell me?" She asked.

"Umm... In two weeks... everything happened so fast..." I managed to say.

"So how is he? What does he do? Is he a Doctor? Remember how you used to say...," Rajani glanced at my mother who was going through a pile of sarees, "Is it a love marriage? Or is it arranged?"

"Umm.. It's complicated Rajani... He's an Engineer. Works with a multinational in Banglore," I said. I looked at my mother who was now getting impatient going through the pile of sarees all by herself... "I should get going Rajani. I will call you some time?"

Rajani left. She noticed I was under a lot of stress. Weddings are stressful. I thought mine will be smooth sailing. But life doesnt happen how you think it will.

I thought I will marry a Doctor someday. He will sweep me off my feet. I would be intrigued by his passion for his work. His dedication towards his patients, his ability do good for the society would attract me towards him. I looked at the sarees my mother was showing me. Peacock green with a turquoise pallu for the sangeet. Bottle red with shades of pink and a light orange pallu for the wedding day... I had a say in choosing the sarees I wanted to wear.... But what about the man I wanted to spend my life with?

Why didnt I have the right to choose him?

***

For our honeymoon, it was decided that we ll go to Ooty. It was close to Banglore. So it was decided.

Sometimes I think things would have been different had I been born and brought up in a big city... Maybe then I would get to choose the man I wanted to spend my life with. But look at Rajani... she lived in the same city... we went to the same college... and she can fall in love and marry the man she loves.

Why didnt I fall in love? I was friends with some guys. I had a crush on a guy in college. But could never fall in love with him. Should it be this difficult?

Walking down the steep inclines of Ooty with Suresh, now my husband, I couldnt stop thinking about how I had imagined my husband to be...

I thought how I imagined our afternoons to be... How we would talk about serious issues... about work... about how we wanted to do something for the poor... contribute to the society....

Suresh cracked a joke... I smiled... just enough to not hurt him... The poor guy had been trying to make me comfortable for the three days that we had been married.

He's so different than the guy I thought I will spend my life with... Suresh pointed towards the valley. He said something and laughed. I didnt hear what he said, I was too lost in myself. But his laughter was infectious. I smiled. This time, not out of mercy.

I was lost in my thoughts as we walked downhill. Just then a state transport bus came screeching down the slope and Suresh pulled me towards himself. I looked at the bus that whizzed by... too arrogant to care about a girl lost in her thoughts. I looked into the eyes of Suresh. He held me by my waist. I could feel his heaving chest, his strong hands... This was the first time I was standing this close to a man. I felt safe. I meant something to someone. There was someone who cared for me. He let his grip loose. His eyes almost apologetic for having held me so close.

He was back to his jocular self after a while. This time, I was lost in his talks. He was so intelligent.. so witty... We came across a park where there were school kids playing with balloons. He kept looking at them, a smile playing on his lips... The smile faded when he saw a poor boy in tattered clothes looking at those school kids. He went ahead a bought a balloon for him. The eyes of the little boy lit up. He ran off with the balloon jumping with joy. There was a smile on my husband's lips...

I fell in love with my husband.

***

Back home, once we were out shopping...

"Heyyy.. long time... How are you?" It was Shreya. We were friends from school... "And when did you get married?"She asked looking at my mangalsutra and the sindhoor on my forehead...

"Last month." I said.

"Woooowww... that is so amazing... Love marriage or arranged?" She asked.

"Arranged." I smiled.

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An open letter to Pritish Nandy


I read this last week I guess and I obviously oppose most of what Nandy says. He has in fact, never managed to impress me. I fail to understand the audacity with which jots down his opinion most of which can be debated by someone as novice as me.
You can read his article here http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/extraordinaryissue/entry/why-i-love-mumbai


An Open Letter to Pritish Nandy


Dear Mr. Nandy,

Welcome to the freest city in the world. Welcome to Mumbai. I simply love it.

You can't smoke in public places. I understand how that might be an inconvenience to you. I don't like the rule too. After all, why would I want to miss my second hand smoke of the day? I cant buy alcohol below the age of 18. Ah, how I wish my son manages to get his hands on a bottle of Absolut Vodka on his 13th bday. Yes, their are no strip clubs here. I would like to pay the cover charge for every man who turns up to watch girls dance Kathakali (you and your buddies included)

Yes, we would like to let our chefs sleep after 11 (do you mind?) Arent you the same people who talk about quality of life? And yes, if you are 17, you are not an adult, so it is technically rape. I think you can marry at 14 in one of those Eastern European countries. You are free to find your soulmate there.

Our Ministers do get preferential treatment at the queue. Why is that wrong again? Arent you the same people who got pissed off when APJ kalam was frisked at a US airport? You had a problem with even SRK being frisked, like he was some kinda God. And now, you want stricter rules for ministers just coz its too much waiting time for you?

Gun licences? Really? What is Mumbai? A black neighbourhood in New York? How many times have you been threatened with a Gun? Zero? That is coz we dont give out gun licences to idiots like you.

Yes, we are a socialist country. We charge the rich and have the NREGA for the poor. The idea is, if you have enough money to spend 5000 rupees on a meal (most people in Mumbai earn less than that a month), you should have no problem with giving 1000 to the Government, so that on they can work on more schemes for the poor. We are probably the best example of socialism (on paper, at least)

Yes, there is a Hindu-Muslim thing. Remember 1992, asshole? That kinda thing leaves scars that can't be healed even with time. And the next time on your trip to one of the western countries, leave the confines of your corporate sponsored 5 star stay and visit one of the ghettos. Only White trash lives in black/turkish populated areas. And only the best of the black community can afford to live in the white areas (Rem Chris Rock, anyone?)

Yes, all dirty stuff is off the air. I know, you must miss the programming on F TV but such is life.. grow up, okay? Customs will demand duty on goods more than 26k. If you want to have a dollar based limit, how about you smuggle goods in the US? I would like to see what they do to your sorry ass there...

And stop cribbing about some sorry cop who interrupted your party once. You were having coke or some other drug there anyway. Good for you. You do need some policing. If you think otherwise, stop being such a wuss and don't run to you friends in media to help you with a bully. Be a man and stand up to him the next time you meet him.

Footpaths havent vanished. Only, we have 5 times more people than NY does, and that is like the so-called busiest city on the planet. NOT. With so many people around, you just cant see it.

Yes, we don't have open air cafes. The fact that there is a whole beach line where you can walk any time of the night, obviously doesnt cut it... The stars can't be seen because your head is too far up your ass. The sparrows are gone? If you live in the cozy confines of Kurla, yes they are... If you ever happen to come north of Powai, I will show you a bird sanctuary. That is, if you snobbish bastards have started calling the best part of your city as your city yet.

Now, let a real Mumbaikar, someone who hasnt lived south of Mahim, someone who has travelled by trains, hanging on for dear life, someone who walked 22 kms to get home on the night of 26th July, someone who sweats in the heat and rejoices when the first rains hit the city, tell you why this is the awesomest place in the world.

You can leave at 3 in the night and you won't be mugged. You can walk/drive/take a train to wherever you want and get something to eat. People will try to maintain lane discipline (relative concept to India). People dont honk unnecessarily. (again, relative to all eastern countries). The traffic policeman will leave you even if you break the signal, if you try to speak in Marathi, even if you are a north India. You can get a chai for Rs.5 at the tea stall, and at Rs. 500 at the Taj President. You choose where you want to go.

Life is nothing is it's not freedom. But don't ask freedom to drink at 15 or smoke or piss on the wall. Grow up and grow a pair.

Mumbai is a lot more than you make it sound to be.

Welcome to Mumbai. I simply love it.

yours humbly,
A Mumbaikar
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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.





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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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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
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11 letters to the editor  

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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8 letters to the editor