What a 'weigh' to go

Darshan is my cousin. Although younger in age by 10 years, he surpasses me in all other matters, especially those related to shape, size and weight. At 5’10” and 110 kg with a size 44 waist, he looks totally out of place in our family of ectomorphs (thin sized people). At first glance it would even seem as if his mother and brother have to starve so as to provide for his diet.

Owing to his ampleness and generosity, he is the subject of a whole lot of good-natured humor in many a social gathering, all of which he usually takes on his chin, double chin actually.

One day though, fed up by the constant ridicule, Darshan decided to change the course of his life.

Now that was like Titanic wanting to make a U-turn in Gorai creek. Sheer Disaster!

Anyway, after a short discussion – during which he gobbled up more than I can in 2 days – to find ways of getting over the problem, he reluctantly agreed to undergo a weight loss programme (combination of diet and exercise) because someone told him exercise would be useless without ‘proper’ diet. Now how do we define ‘proper’ where your diet is concerned, I wanted to ask him, but who is to argue with a guy of such stature.

So off we went, one fine evening, to get Darshan enrolled in a gym.

The gym was located on the 3rd floor of a decrepit building which had no elevator. Now, why in the world would the gym management want to discourage people who are already reluctant to join, was beyond me. I literally had to push Darshan up the 50-odd steps, which meant that by the time we reached the reception, he was grumpy and out of breath and I was feeling like I had run half the Mumbai marathon.

The girl at the reception who had a standard smile stapled on her face and looked like she herself could benefit from a weight gain programme, asked, addressing no one in particular, “How may I help you, sir?”

Help us? How about a 12-inch pepperoni pizza with garlic bread and a Coke? I wanted to ask her.

Instead, I volunteered, “I would like to enroll my cousin for a weight-loss programme.”

“Yes, of course!” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “We have quite a few different packages which you can opt for rather than going for just a weight-loss programme.First, there is the 3-month CHF, which includes the exercise, plus steam, sauna and 3massages. Of course, you have to understand that in a weight-loss programme, there is a strict diet to be followed.”

Now ‘Strict’ and ‘Diet’ are words not to be used together when Darshan is around, ever. Resultantly, no sooner had she said this than I saw from the corner of my eye Darshan shifting to the corner of his chair and was ready to bolt out of the gym if he had to suffer one more disagreeable moment. Talk about being ‘weigh’laid!

“Then there is a simple FTP or Fitness Training Program, minus the steam and sauna and the massage would be charged separately. Also, there is …” she continued.

Fearing a repeat of the drill I had gone through in getting him to climb the stairs a while back, I hastily interrupted her monologue and asked the receptionist, “But what if we are not satisfied? How can we be sure of the results?”, more to appease the giant sitting next to me rather than to get an answer from the lady sitting opposite.

But the lady was equal to the task and probably was used to such questions from clients. Because she replied, almost instantly, “You can go for a free 3-day trial, at the end of which you can decide on the package you want to select.”

“And what does the trial contain?” I asked eagerly, more out of haste to keep the guy settled in.

“Well, there will be 3 days of gym training by a personal trainer and 1 free diet consultation” she answered.

“Personal trainer, hmm...” I nodded intelligently, not knowing why they would hire a ‘person’ to train instead of the client? But it was the look on my face that gave me away I think, because she explained, ”the trainer will guide your cousin throughout the time he will be on the floor.”

Since Darshan’s position on the chair was a barometer of the lady’s response, I thought her last statement must have been reasonable because I saw him slide back into a more comfortable position.

After completing the formalities as quickly as possible before Darshan had a chance to change his mind, we departed, with a promise to land up at the gym early the next morning.

Day 1 @ Gym

As soon as we entered the gym at the unearthly hour of 5:45 a.m., we were greeted by the receptionist who was waiting along with her bodyguard. Wait a minute! Why would she require a bodyguard? That was when she said that this was the personal trainer who would look after Darshan for the 3 ‘trial’ sessions.

Looking at the trainer made me realize why the English language has a definition for the word trial that says ‘subjection to suffering or grievous experiences; a distressed or painful state’. How easy it would be for this guy to make people obey him, I wondered. He looked like the Incredible Hulk, minus the green color but all other attributes intact.

“The first task”, he said (or rather commanded), “is taking measurements.”

For a guy who wears shirt and trousers of the same size (44), Darshan’s measurements are quick and easy. One measurement is enough for the area popularly known as upper body or trunk, comprising of shoulders, chest, stomach and waist as well as hips. Any comparison with a tree trunk is only coincidental. Next, any of the neck, arms and calves needs to be measured to complete his entire body map.

Next stop was the diet consultant, who almost choked Darshan with her diet plan. Looking at the diet she had written down, I wondered whether it contained negative calories; it would definitely consume more of his calories to eat these items than the calories they originally contained.

By the time we had completed these 2 tasks Darshan was thinking why he ever got up from bed today. So was I.

The trainer then enthusiastically started a jog towards the workout section and we trudged along behind him. I was trying my best to encourage Darshan, who was feeling quite weighed down, by now.

The training section was chock-a-bloc with a whole range of machines of odd sizes and shapes. People, also in odd shapes and sizes, were sitting, standing, sleeping, kneeling on these machines and trying to get out alive. Then there was a joker at one corner who was shouting numbers to the tune of loud music and a few people were swinging their arms and legs to his chanting. “Aerobics”, Mr. Hulk explained.

A-ha, got it! For a minute I thought it was some sort of Voodoo ritual in progress.

“So Darshan, we will start with some stretching exercises, followed by a set each on these machines, each set consisting of 10 reps (repetitions)”, explained Hulk.

At the end of this 40-minute rigmarole, the hulk boomed, “Lastly, Darshan, we will end our day after doing the treadmill for 15 minutes.” Relentless! My cousin, by now, was feeling like sugarcane after it has gone through the crusher, twice. Poor chap!

It’s a strange contraption, the treadmill, much like a conveyor belt with the luggage replaced by human beings. But at least, it looked harmless. Harmless, did I say? Couldn’t have been more wrong!

The next thing happened in a blink. One of those instants that come and go but are photographed in the mind and never, ever, forgotten.

As Darshan was walking leisurely on the treadmill, all of a sudden his leg cramped up. As he urgently bent down to massage his calf muscle, his head cracked against the panel of the treadmill which threw him off balance. His bottom landed hard on the conveyor belt which promptly pushed him off the treadmill. In a flash, Darshan was lying spread eagled on the floor.

The receptionist’s statement from the previous day – A trainer will be supervising your cousin throughout the time he will be on the floor – rang in my ears as I understood the full purport of her words.

What a God-awful day Darshan was having, and to think it was only 7:30 in the morning.

By the time we got out of the gym, Darshan was totally ‘waisted’ and within 15 minutes had turned into a robot. With an immovable upper body and legs that felt like lead, every movement was becoming an effort. Half way to home, he was on the verge of a breakdown, not the ‘nervous’ variety, but rather the vehicle kind of breakdown. I was seriously considering calling a tow truck to haul him in.

Needless to say, there was never a Day 2 for Darshan at that gym, or for that matter, at any other gym. Last heard, he had taken to eating with a vengeance, more to rid his body of the abuse it had been subjected to, than for any health related reasons.

As I was walking home the other day, a Mercedes hoarding caught my eye. “0 to 100 in 6 seconds” it said. Well, my cousin took a little over 20 years to cross the 100 (kg) mark, but 100 to 200 might not take that long.

Weigh to go, brother!

Round & About

(On a lazy Sunday, here’s a round & about look of the various happenings around us…)

...Of My Name is Khan (MNIK), police, politics and a bomb blast

- A visit to a suburban mall on Friday made me realize that Karan Johar should arrange for a special screening of MNIK for the Mumbai police force, considering that all of them are anyway deployed to save the film! What a field day terrorists would have should they choose to repeat a 26/11. Keep away from the theaters screening MNIK. Rest is all yours, Laden bhai.

- To keep the salesmen and nuisance creators away, wondering whether I should steal a poster of MNIK and display it in front of my building complex?

- Had the protests from Shiv Sena been so severe even if SRK had named his film, ‘My Name is KhanVILKAR?’

- Not that I know a whole lot about politics, but now that the government has ‘successfully’ saved MNIK, can they please turn their attention to matters of lesser priority to Mumbaikars: such as ever-rising food prices, ever-dwindling water levels and ever-dug up roads?

- And finally, would the blast in Pune’s German Bakery have been averted had the poor baker chosen to screen MNIK inside his doomed bakery? Maybe the security cover would have scared the bombers away. I wonder!

...Of the National Anthem, dry throats and more MNIK

- Went to watch Ishqiya the other evening. Prior to start of the movie, a super elongated version of our national anthem was being played. The official version is 52 seconds and I believe it is one of the most fantastic national songs ever: crisp and precise with a clear message. Making it into a pain-staking 5 minute lullaby is not going to raise my patriotic levels. The producer might as well make it 2 hours long and play the movie in intervals. Even the 2 sisters at the mike seemed to be half asleep. Poetic license and all that bosh!

- Even mineral water was not allowed to be taken in if you happened to be watching MNIK that night. Made me wonder whether the poor moviegoers were suffering more than the Asperger’s-stricken SRK in the movie. Parched throats, empty tummies and multiple security checks. All to watch a movie. Ridiculous!

...Of Mumbai roads, water woes, cricket and still more MNIK

- Wondering whether the city administrators are planning to reduce our water woes by digging up a gigantic well. Why else would anyone order to dig up all the arterial roads when the main roads are already subjected to maximum trauma (either Metro and/or Monorail, flyovers, etc.)? Or is the plan to create waterways, a la Venice? Then water clogging during monsoons would be a welcome sight.

- The water woes on the other hand, refuse to end. Last heard, the BMC is planning to make it mandatory for all large constructions—like malls, hotels and residential complexes—to have on-site treatment of sewage water. Better watch what you eat, guys!

- Music it seems binds the world together while cricket creates a barrier. Why else would there be such a big controversy when SRK said he wanted to include Pakistani cricketers, while a Pakistani (Shafqat Amanat Ali) singing a song in his film MNIK (Tere Naina) did not so much as raise a vocal cord.

- Colgate and Pepsodent should consider using Shahid Afridi, the Pakistani captain (of which there are many) for their teeth advertisements. Saw a video on Youtube the other day of a match against Australia where he was tampering with the ball by digging his teeth into it as if it were an apple.

Tail Piece

- All this thinking has got me pretty confused. SRK wanted Pakistani cricketers for his IPL team Knight Riders (KKR) causing Shiv Sena to protest against SRK, threatening to ban his film MNIK. Enter the Maharashtra CM who promised, and did, put his entire machinery behind SRK and got the film released. Now does that mean the government will also help SRK get Pakistani players for KKR and / or will Shiv Sena go and watch MNIK or what?

A Hair Raising experience

(This post is dedicated to those men who are desperately trying to save the hair on their heads. The hair, however, are trying their best to get away.)

Middle age is a weird phenomenon. Around this time, the physiology of the male body undergoes a radical change, as if some potion brewed by Harry Potter to make one look handsome has gone horribly wrong. The outcome so suggests: waistline just doesn’t seem to stop growing; legs seem as if they have stopped growing after you were 20 and hair on the head seem to have retired from active life and are fast committing mass suicide in large numbers, in beds and bathrooms alike. To add to that, hair around (and inside) the ears start growing with renewed energy.

One such mid-life crisis I am presently going through is a receding hairline or as is fashionably called these days, an ‘advancing scalp line’. The way it is going, very soon I will have no hair apparent.

One night, slightly worried by the number of hair my comb was accumulating each day, I remarked to my wife, “It is time I took some treatment for my hair. They are all over the place except on my head”.

My wife, in one of her romantic moods then, stated, “See, I love you however you look, how does it matter whether you have hair or not?” Well, love is (not) in the ‘hair’ after all, I sighed with relief.

Next day evening though, as I returned from office, I saw a different story unfold. My wife had collected pamphlets of all the hair treatment salons in the neighborhood (which spans 10 km. in all 8 directions) and mom was talking to my aunt – long distance – discussing a home-made remedy for preventing hair loss. Before my 7-year old daughter would start surfing TV channels for the miracle hair growers on Asian Sky Shop, I decided to take remedial action.

As it turned out, help was available close by. A friend of an uncle of my sister-in-law’s cousin recommended a renowned trichologist who is supposed to work wonders. Trichologist? Isn’t she supposed to work on the national flag (tricolor)? And what is she going to do? Build castles in the hair, maybe?

But desperation overcame skepticism and I conceded to actually go and consult this hair specialist.

As I entered the clinic, I noticed the entire reception area of the plush air-conditioned office was covered with ‘before-after’ photographs; there were countless pamphlets with large size close-ups of the owner’s face; a TV in an obsolete corner was showing continuous footage of people who love this guy more than their wives. Talk about narcissism. The receptionist guided me to the chief specialist, who with a smile that seemed to be pasted on her face, asked me, “So, what seems to be the problem here? Hair loss?”

No, Acidity! I wanted to make a retort. When the gaudily illuminated board outside virtually screams, ‘Hair & Scalp treatment and Trichology clinic’, what other clandestine purpose a poor soul would come to this wretched place for?

“Well, yes,” I patiently replied instead.

“Ok, tell me something about yourself,” she asked, using the standard opening.

“Well, I have got an overall experience of…,” I began. Force of habit you see, having appeared for countless job interviews.

“Not your professional past, but personal life,” she interrupted me before I could begin my speech.

After listening to my deepest, oldest and darkest secrets (just kidding!), interjected by her occasional “ok” and “hmm…,” the lady doctor sitting in front of me said, “So what do you do for a living?”

“I am a consultant,” I replied in the most urbane manner possible.

“Is that stressful work?” she asked.

Did I notice a tinge of sarcasm in her voice or was it my mind? I was suddenly caught between a rock (the truth) and a hard place (my professional pride).

“Mmm… ya, kind of,” I said evasively, taking the safer option.

I realized, at a certain point during the interview that trichologists are like public prosecutors. They will keep giving you hell till they get to hear certain keywords such as hypertension, stress, hereditary, extensive travel, unhealthy lifestyle. Once any or all of these keywords or even a distant synonym is spoken, they will stop. Trick is to use them as early as possible. For example, as soon as you are seated, if you say, “Doctor, I am totally stressed.” That’s it! 30 torturous minutes saved. But I say this in hindsight. My sufferings, for that day, were far from over.

“Ok”, she said, noting something on a piece of paper, “is this a hereditary problem?”

“Hereditary as in? My mother and father?” I asked, “No way. They have ample hair.” In fact, my father can supply hair to the entire society, if needed, I wished to add.

“But there must be somebody in the family with hair problems,” she almost shouted, sounding desperate.

Who was she, Perry Mason? I felt like a defendant sitting in front of a criminal lawyer who is desperately trying to jog my memory of that fateful day. How in the world did I land up here? I wondered.

“Well, a distant relative does have this type of baldness“, I said, pointing to a photograph on her desk, the ‘before’ variety.

“See, I told you!” She cried in glee.

I wanted to add that to reach this distant relative through my mom you would have to traverse 4 different families, but her new found enthusiasm prevented me from doing so. Yet again she wrote something on the piece of paper.

“Ok,” she uttered (for the 25th time that day), “You seem to be having 2 problems, stress and the hereditary factor.”

“But,” I asked, “what has all that got to do with hair loss?”

“See, this hair thinning condition,” she explained, “is called androgenic alopecia or "male pattern baldness" and occurs in adult male humans...” At the end of this 10-minute monologue – on the anatomy of hair, the root, the follicle and God knows what not – that left me completely dazed, she asked “Do you understand now?”

All I did understand was that since my hair was thinning, it proved that I was human, adult and male. Thank you, Doctor!

“I am sure nobody has explained to you in this detail?” she commented with fierce pride, completely unconcerned with the stoned expression on my face.

“Which means, and I am sure it is obvious to you, that we have to treat the root of the cause and then the root of the hair. ha ha ha!” she boomed, enjoying the joke, which she must have told for the thousandth time, I was sure.

Of course it was obvious to me. As obvious as a needle in a haystack! This lady was beginning to get on my nerves and roots and follicles.

“So, what do we do? I mean, it’s too late to change my parents now,” I said, despairingly trying to find a way to get out of this ordeal.

“True,” she said, grinning stupidly, “so we have to cure your stress!”

Elementary, Watson! Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth. So said Sherlock Holmes.

“See, stress is not good for your body. It shortens the blood supply to the scalp and subsequently, the hair does not get enough blood to grow healthily. It’s a vicious circle” she spoke, in a motherly tone.

“So there is no need for a hair treatment? I just have to treat my stress?” I asked, as if that was the simplest of tasks. But anything to escape this predicament.

“No, no, of course there is a hair treatment involved.” She said, sensing a potential customer slipping away.

“What is it?” I asked, more out of exasperation than curiosity.

“See, there is hair transplant treatment, but that is very expensive, easily runs into lakhs of rupees, so we will not go for that,” she started to explain.

Can we please look at what we can go for, rather than keep referring to my financial health, I wanted to ask her, but no words came out.

“But there are a few treatments you can undergo,” she continued, “To start with, there is stem cell therapy, followed by an intensive hair… (something something). Simultaneously, you will have to apply 4 different kinds of oils, 2 each on alternate days and of course, there are antioxidant tablets to be taken every night.”

Usage of the word ‘few’ was quite oxymoronic. What she meant was ‘quite a few’.

“How much for all this?” I asked, though the question was redundant. I knew as a rule of thumb that greater the number of tongue twisting names in the therapy specified, higher the cost.

“15 sessions, 1 every 2 weeks, 10K per session” she confirmed, referring to a table hidden in some drawer.

Why don’t you sell wigs? I wanted to ask her. I mean there has to be a remedy for the financially challenged also. If I had to pay this kind of amount, it will add to further hair fall since the stress and hypertension levels would be at zenith.

“So, doctor, after 15 sessions my hair will start growing?” I asked, dreading the answer that was going to come.

“Hah! Not exactly," she said in a manner which meant definitely not, "You see the first 15 sessions are needed to stabilize your hair and arrest hair fall. Then we will have to undergo 2 more such cycles before visible effects are seen. Of course, we offer you 25% discount for the 2nd cycle and 50% for the 3rd cycle.”

Can I not undergo the 5th cycle directly? By now I was feeling like pulling my hair out, whatever remained.

“Also, treatment alone is not enough. It can only help if you follow the complete diet plan I give which will provide maximum protein intake, which again, is good for hair growth.”

There’s more? Oh, God! Hair or no hair, what was beginning to grow, exponentially even, was my irritation. She was not quite finished though.

“I will also give you some meditation exercises that you should follow which will help reduce stress and also some scalp exercises.”

The only exercise I wished to perform right then was running; away from this clinic at 100 mph.

“So, are you ready to start?” She asked hopefully.

Yes, of course, how about in my next life? I might even start from the age of 4, just to get the early bird advantage.

“I will let you know,” I told her, and ran away from the clinic like a hair, sorry… hare.

As I now spend an extra 15 minutes each morning doing the classic ‘combover’ – covering the bald area with surrounding hair – I am reminded of what my brother once told me was the most pragmatic way to get a reality check. Depending on your need, you should start plucking every alternate tooth from your comb after you cross age 30. Intensity of the hair fall will decide the number of teeth remaining. I have got 5 teeth on my comb remaining!

Next Sunday, I will visit the cosmetic shops, to look for an appropriate wig. ;)

Ciao!

A Hell of a 'Lot' of Parking

(This post is dedicated to my colleague and dear friend Ramesh as well as to the millions of Mumbaikars who face parking problems each day.)

Ramesh is a changed man these days while I travel to office by cab. Confused? Don’t be. Read on…

The story till that day…

Ramesh travels to office everyday by car. It’s a long and arduous journey, around 40 km. one way, but since he loves driving, he enjoys the ride. Two thirds of the way, he picks me up and rest of the distance we travel together, along with a couple of other colleagues.

It’s a routine journey, spiced up by some songs on FM, office gossip and the horns blaring all around. But in an otherwise mundane journey, it is the climax, like Hindi movies, that is the liveliest part. From the moment we enter Kamala Mills compound till the point we reach our cubicles, are the most interesting 5 minutes of our entire day, thanks to the security guards who double up as overzealous parking attendants.

Interesting, I say, not funny, because I want to travel with Ramesh again tomorrow. :)

One such day, as soon as we entered our parking area and Ramesh parked his car adjacent to another vehicle, the security guard, who was standing a few meters away, started to stroll towards us.

He asked Ramesh to park a little closer to the other car. “Why?” I queried, as Ramesh started winding up his window.

“Sir, we have parking allotted for 40 cars and there are 48 cars here every day”. But will asking Ramesh to squeeze his car closer going to allow for the 8 extra cars, I wanted to ask him. Heck!

As we got down, Ramesh started the reversal process, I mean, the first iteration of reversing the car and managed to skim off a few inches, moving closer to the other car now. That is that, or so we thought.

“Sir this is still not close enough”, the guard said, astonishingly, after Ramesh had barely managed to squeeze himself out by opening the door only halfway, lest he bang into the adjacent car.

“But why do you tell me now, after I get out?” Ramesh fumed, rightly so.

Unfazed, the guard replied, “Sir, I was estimating the number of cars that will fit in”.

In a parking area of 40 cars, with only 2 parked, he estimated that Ramesh parking a foot away from the only other car, might mean ‘No Parking’ for the 47th car that will come in. Even Ramanujam would not have been able to match this guy’s abstract mathematical ability. Crazy!

Ramesh, the good guy that he is, protested, but obliged and after iteration number 2, had actually managed to move still closer (if that was at all possible) to the other car. Any more and they would seem welded together.

Only problem now was for him to get out. The door opened barely a few inches, enough for a foot to be pushed out. Then started an exercise that would have made Ramdev Baba proud; at one point resembling a complex Yoga pose and ending with Ramesh completely out of breath, but magically, out of his car and thankfully, still in one piece.

Thinking our ordeal to be over, we started towards the car to remove our bags, when suddenly I noticed the guard staring in frowning concentration at the space between the 2 cars. Now what??!!

“Sir”, the guard thoughtfully said, “I think the angle is not correct, it does not seem parallel”.

This guy should volunteer as an examiner for driving license tests at the RTO, I thought. No new driver will ever be able to procure even a learner’s license.

“And how would it matter? Are we giving a test here?” I asked him scornfully.

Unfazed, Mr.RTO replied, “No sir, but you see we have to fit in 48 cars”. There we go again!

The situation was beginning to get hilarious and exasperating. Hilarious for us, exasperating for Ramesh! Now how was he to get in; definitely not from the driver’s side? So obviously then, he went in from the passenger’s side, climbed awkwardly over the gear box and fell into the driver’s seat. Hush!

After the car had been maneuvered back and forth 5 more times, Mr. RTO finally announced, “Perfect!”

This guy reminded me of my mechanical workshop supervisor in 1st year engineering. The maniac would move around with a T-square and check every piece of iron found in the workshop for ‘perfection’.

Ramesh’s misery however, was far from over. Piqued and sweaty, he he was clambering back out of the car when RTO shouted, “Wait sir!”

A collective groan went up from all of us standing outside.

“Sir, you have backed up too far!” he added urgently, not wanting Ramesh to leave his car, ever.

What??!! God! I wished a fairy to appear and turn this guy into a ‘self-directing parking lot’. He would then start beeping if a car was parked even .2532 mm. wrong. An ear-shattering alarm would go off for 30 seconds and within 1 minute if corrective action was not taken, the ground beneath the car will open up and gobble it. 2012 revisited! But no such thing was going to happen. This relentless tyrant was hell bent on killing Ramesh.

“… that’s what I was saying, sir, it would be difficult for another car to make a turn around you.” I heard RTO continue.

Ramesh by now had resigned himself to his fate and had gone on auto pilot. He quietly reassembled himself and reversed the car again. For a moment I thought he would reverse it all the way and head home. But Ramesh was an epitome of patience. After all, he has got 2 kids. ;)

And Bingo! He had done it! RTO was finally satisfied with Ramesh’s parking ability and with a grin like a Cheshire cat, began to move away. Phew! We let out a deep sigh of relief.

And this was the point that fate chose to show its hand. Talk about Murphy!

Just as Ramesh was beginning to climb out of the car, for the last time, we were surrounded by a puff of dust, which when settled, made our eyes pop out! Our GM had just parked his brand new Mercedes SL350 adjacent to Ramesh’s car, got out, locked the door and giving us a tight smile, walked off. Just like that! For a moment, Ramesh seemed to me like Houdini, locked in from all sides.

But this was one of those defining moments that make you appreciate the smaller things in life. A marketing wiz would have branded Ramesh’s small car as ‘God’s own Maruti’; such was its importance today. You see, without a proper boot, the back door acted as an emergency exit from which a bruised Ramesh was able to extricate himself; akin to Amitabh Bachchan escaping from the water-filled coal mine in Kaala Patthar!

As we made our way into office, we realized that even the smallest of incidents can define the course of your future life, as I found out later, much to my chagrin.

A few days later…

Ramesh did not pick me up today; neither did I receive his customary 8 a.m call. I tried his number, which was unavailable. The other regular co-passengers too had no idea of his whereabouts. I reached office; 9:30 turned to 9:45 but still no sign of Ramesh.

Just I was about to redial his number, a colleague, who travels by train informed me that Ramesh was standing in the queue at Parel station, buying a First-Class Season Ticket for his daily commute to Kharghar.

As I said, Ramesh is a changed man these days while I travel to office by cab.

A Household problem

(This post is dedicated to the house hunter community of Mumbai. Guys and Girls, keep looking for your dream house. Never ever give up. Someday, when you are nearing age 80 maybe, you will definitely find it.)

Whole of Sion, Kurla and half of Chembur knows by now that we are looking for a house. In almost every new society and more than half of the old ones, we are more familiar than most of the tenants. It has become quite a ‘kahani ghar ghar ki’ by now.

Here’s how we became the numero uno house hunters in the vicinity.

DAY 1 – The Beginning

The wife called in office 1 day and said, “I had called a broker today.”

“Broker? What broker? What for?” I asked, unable to immediately comprehend the context.

“What do you mean what for? Of course to show us a house” she flared. Oh!

This was by far the fastest mobilization of a thought ever known to mankind. Earlier that morning, over breakfast, I had made a passing mention of how nice it would be to have a 3-bedroom house.

“Where?” I asked with some trepidation.

“Sion or Chembur” she replied, in a tone which implied isn’t it obvious, dumbo.

“What range are we looking at?” I was beginning to not liking this conversation, fast.

“2.5 or 3 bedroom”, she said.

“No, no, I mean what price range?” I asked, in a voice that was now beginning to quaver.

“Why do you need a range? You can always take a loan. Who will deny you a loan?” she asked back in a challenging tone.

This is the thing with wives. They can make ends meet like no one else. I thought of telling her that there is a difference between eligibility (of loan amount) and ability (to repay), but let it pass.

“We will discuss when I get back home. I have to go for a meeting now.” I answered instead in the curtest possible tone, not to sound rude, but to escape from the situation. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Before 6 p.m. the same day, I had talked to my wife 9 more times as also with 3 agents, whom my wife had considerately given my number. This made me hopping mad by the time I reached home.

I removed my shoes and plopped myself on the bed, hoping for some relaxation from the idiot box. No such luck. The first channel I tuned into, Star Plus, was showing the 10,000th episode of the never-ending soap “Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki”; click-click; An inebriated Dev Anand was rambling “… tere ghar ke saamne” on Channel V; click-click; Colors was screening the 80s hit movie “Ghar”! GRR!!! Disgustedly, I threw away the remote and switched on the radio only to hear Bhupinder happily singing “Ye tera ghar ye mera ghar…” on 93.5 RED FM. Bajate Raho!

It is exactly days like these that make you feel whether it is all worth it. Fearing that even dinner would be assembled in the shape of a house, I gave in to my wife’s demands and called up one of the agents whom I had given a piece of my mind in the morning. We decided to meet the next day and he agreed to show us a number of ‘badhiya’ houses.

DAY 2 – The Hunt

House agents, just like TCs at railway stations, can be spotted a mile away. Ours, in formal full sleeves, carrying 2 mobile phones and looking like he had appeared for his SSC exams only last year, came to us and said “I have lined up 14 houses for you today sir. Hope you got your car.”

Car? Were we going to drive the house away? What an idiot we have landed, I wondered. Tch, tch … wrong again. If ever you want to go house hunting, go buy a car first. Else by the end of the day, you might feel as if you have completed the full marathon, twice over.

As our caravan progressed, we realized that the gap between dreams and reality hits you with full force when looking for a house. While dreams dwell somewhere in the center of Carter Road, Bandra, pocket reality points towards the end of Ghodbunder Road, Thane. The result was that it took us 3 tiring hours and 8 houses, before I could see a smile on my better half’s face. Phew!

The agent, who was feeling the heat (more from my wife than from the sun above), suddenly burst out with renewed vigor, “3 bedroom hai, sir. 1550 square feet.”

The thing about houses these days is the builder, when calculating the area, includes even the topmost corner of the uppermost attic, where even a rat would have difficulty entering. Looking at the house gives you a feeling that the adjacent house should also be included to complete the area mentioned.

Anyway, the wife liked it, so I decided to fall in line and in typical analyst style, asked “Carpet kitna hai?”

This is asked only for the purpose of making you sound knowledgeable. It makes no difference whether the answer is 250 or 1250 sq. feet. However, I was not going to be put on the back foot by this 20-something kid.

“30% less sir”, he answered dutifully.

“Oh. So you mean”, I said, assuming my most thoughtful look,”this is super built up area?” My recently acquired knowledge came in handy here, thanks to Google.

Next intelligent observation you are supposed to make is the view from all bedrooms / hall / kitchen / toilet and wherever else. As I moved into another room, the agent said, “The view from here, sir, opens directly onto the golf club.”

Tiger Woods would have been so proud. The 5 square feet of green that was visible though, could easily have been anything from Madison Square Garden to Hanging Garden, considering the 10 buildings that were obstructing the view.

“And we have 2 master bedrooms in this house, sir!” he continued, unfazed by my irritation.

Had the joke not been on us, the anatomy of the house would have seemed hilarious.
The first room we entered was called the ‘living room’, although looking at the size of it, you might as well ‘live’ in the outside corridor. Then there were 3 more rooms, identical in size and shape to the living room, known as bedrooms, thus called because a bed is all that can fit. Any bedroom having an attached toilet is known as ‘Master Bedroom’. This guy was a genius!

“Logically speaking, even the living room then can be called a master bedroom”, I remarked, giving him a sardonic grin. This made him laugh in a loud and mechanical way, the way you do when you have to please someone, which only got me further irritated.

Then there was another tiny room which was no more than 2 walls separated by a 2’ by 3’ platform and enough space for a medium sized person to stand. The agent actually called it the kitchen. As in where you cook??!! I dreaded the thought of bringing my mom to show her this sorry piece of culinary area. Sacrilege!

After the kitchen, my gaze turned to the ceiling. “Why is the ceiling so darned low?” I questioned the agent. I mean Eskimos I understand; but then Igloos were never this costly.

But the agent seemed to have an answer for this too. “It is not low sir", he answered in a patronizing manner, “it is designed in such a way that the air from the fan can be felt in all corners of the room.”

Now, did we have a 21st century Einstein in the making here? I mean, this guy, baby-faced and all, was continuing to astonish me with his genius.

“So how much for this?” I asked, knowing fully well that any answer would make me feel dazed. But here too Einstein managed to surpass me. I began to see stars before my eyes once he quoted the price; as if Mike Tyson had delivered a knockout punch!

Suddenly I heard my wife calling me to my senses from one of the 3 bedrooms. I excused myself and went looking for her. Inside, she told me “See, no need to act so dazed, it is only twenty extra.”

What’s wrong with your maths, I wanted to ask her. Instead, I argued “But that is plenty extra.”

“Look, as it is we are going to take a loan. Why worry about ten or twenty?” she insisted.

If he would still be alive, I wanted nothing more at that moment than kill the person who invented home loans.

“But there is stamp duty, registration, interiors, maintenance, etc. which will add to the burden”, I protested, desperately trying to find a way to get out of the situation.

“Oh, come on, have I ever demanded anything from you?” she wailed. ‘Ever’ means this week, right? I was about to ask, but couldn’t.

“Just this once, please…”, she pressed her advantage. Damn! How do you argue with emotional blackmail?

Cornered and bruised, I was about to throw in the towel, when suddenly the new age Einstein came running in, looking flustered. “Madam, I forgot to tell you”, he began.

Now then! What happened suddenly to bother the omniscient Mr. Einstein? Was this flat not for sale after all? I offered up a silent prayer.

“This is a strictly vegetarian society. Non-veg not allowed, no parcel, no cooking at home”, he blurted out.

Yes! There is a God in Heaven after all.

Hearing this, my wife’s face went through a rainbow of emotions; anxiety, anger, sadness, disappointment all in a matter of seconds. Seeing her on the verge of hysteria, Einstein, who by now had turned from a beet root red to a vanilla ice-cream white, knew it was time to make an exit.

He profusely apologized for his folly (though I could have kissed him for this) and led us out of the flat and the pure vegetarian society. End of story. Or was it?

DAY n – Payback

The setback only helped in firing up the tigress even more. As I was leaving for office the other day, I overheard her talking on the phone to an agent, “… and keep in mind, we eat non-veg 6 days a week. So search accordingly. And please find a house that has at least one balcony. No, no, don’t worry about the budget.”

Picture, abhi baaki hai mere dost! ;)

BIG BOSS – Season 11

(This post is dedicated to all my bosses over the years. Without you all, I would not have reached where I am right now. I might have gone a lot more ahead.)

My psychiatrist tells me the recurring nightmares I am getting are my past demons coming back to haunt me. Yes, I informed her, all 10 of them!

They were the bosses I have had in the 10 jobs I changed in my short 13-year career. In retrospect, it seems all of them shared a single soul (stone black at that), although they came in varied sizes, colors and cultures. Like brothers lost in some global ‘Kumbh ka mela’. They are the sole reason my resume tops the ‘Jobhoppers’ list at every recruitment firm :(

Bosses are invariably associated with ‘appraisals’, which are yearly rigmaroles akin to police 3rd degrees – where the beating continues till you agree to sign on whatever they want you to.

During one such appraisal, as I entered the torture chamber, I mean, the boss’s cabin, he said, or rather commanded, “Yes sir! Please have a seat.”

The ‘sir’ had a double coat of sarcasm over it. ‘Sir’ing you, right at the start, usually means that you will end up somewhere near the bottom of the heap. Excellent start!

“So, what have you been up to this whole year? Done any good?” he began.

Remember, appraisals are like you versus Mike Tyson in a boxing ring. You need to keep your head down, hands up and desperately pray for the bell to ring. So I kept my gaze riveted on the soles of my shoes. Forgot to polish them, damn it!

“What are you going to do about the GTC project?” He asked in his most depreciatory tone of voice. Not that his voice is any more silken than that, but maybe it was the context that made it harsher.

“Have already sent out the response, boss”, I said, thinking, of all the 7 projects in the year, he had to choose that one. No coincidence this!

“Yes, I saw your ‘response’, and hence I am asking you whether you can manage to sort out the mess on your own? Frankly speaking, I have my doubts.” he retorted.

Ever noticed, just before the appraisal, how the boss goes completely ballistic, hitting you at every opportunity he gets (not the Rahul Dravid kind of hitting, but the Virender Sehwag variety).

As I patiently explained the response I had provided, it irked my boss even more, primarily because I had provided a solution, that too without consulting him. Hell hath no fury like a boss with a bruised ego.

“Earlier also, you had goofed up the dates and timings of a project meeting. I had to spend 2 hours trying to pacify their MD. And there were no minutes of that meeting as well!” he went on, raising his already shrill voice by one more decibel.

An astonishing quality about bosses, very much like wives, is their ability to remember – and reproduce verbatim – anything that can be used against you because of something you might have said or done anytime during the past year.

Sometimes I wonder how a boss would behave at home in front of his wife. Like an immovable force meeting an unstoppable object. Imagining the situation brought a smile to my face ;), which was instantly wiped off, since this 16-tonne truck was on a collision course with a hapless lamp post. Only one result was possible. Complete Annihilation!

The undesirable effect of his raising his voice was that my own came down a few decibels, to the point of being almost inaudible.

“Well, er…, the thing is the project manager at their end had goofed up. And the minutes were also to be circulated by them, that is, since…”

The last part sounded like a tape recorder, just after the spool of tape gets caught in the head of the recorder.

“Why do you always have to blabber?” he stormed, “Can you not talk clearly? Or even that is an effort now?”

I liked the ‘always’ part. A mistake was elevated to a habit, which served to provide the boss with that much extra ammunition. He was on a rampage now.

“Okay, what about the BTS project?” he asked sourly, picking on another goof up, “were you not supposed to make a synopsis and discuss with me yesterday?”

Was I? I was about to ask. Instead I said, “I was waiting till 9 p.m. for you. Since you did not return, I kept it on your desk and left.”

This answer sent him into overdrive. I knew he would now scale newer peaks of humiliating me.

“Who said I did not return?” he asked “I was stuck in a meeting with the MD which got over only at 11:30. But you were nowhere to be seen. And I DID NOT find it on my desk.”

11:30? Really? If you had told me I would have brought my bedding along, I wanted to tell him. As to his desk, it’s a wonder he can even find the keyboard on it.

“So tell me” he said, changing tactics and looking at my appraisal sheet for the first time in 40 minutes, “why do you rate yourself so high?”

Because I know you do not want to rate me at all, so I am just compensating for what is going to come.

“Well, actually, since I have finished 2 projects successfully and have managed to add an important account, I thought …” I chirped in.

“Oh, you thought, hmm... Interesting” When the boss says your thoughts are interesting, it is time to take cover. “Ok. I would not like to discuss this project by project (Oh really!), but rather look at the summary of your performance over the entire year (I am speechless!) and then see where you fit (like in your trash can, maybe?) and which areas you can improve upon (how about a complete overhaul, transforming myself into a clone of yours?).”

Suddenly his voice dropped down a couple of notches. Zor ka jhatka, dheere se lage!

“You see” he continued in a softer voice, “I actually like you (even I like you, somewhere deep down, from the bottommost portion of my …), and therefore would like to give you some advice (how to look for a new job). First and foremost, you need to take charge, take the initiative (ya, right!) ...”

What followed was a boring lecture on virtues that only 2 people can ever possess. Boss and God! And even God might have difficulty in sustaining all of them. No point in re-iterating the entire conversation here, but the summary of it was that my rating was slashed by 2 points, thanks to the ignominious bell curve, which obviously, was out of the boss’s control; increments and bonuses were never discussed, since they will be decided by the board of directors anyway and promotions were out of the question, since by now I was thinking how I ever managed to reach this far.

It was a lesson on narcissism combined with escapism. Chetan Bhagat wrote in a novel, that if you like someone, their mere presence evokes a warm feeling in you. It seems to be true, for by now, I was feeling as warm as one would in Antarctica.

“I have done all I could, to the best of my abilities”, he said in a somber voice.

A hospital scene – with a doctor coming out of an operation theater and saying these exact words, trying to console the grief stricken relatives of a patient he could not save – swam before my eyes. For a moment I felt like strangling my boss with the imaginary stethoscope.

With the bile rising in my throat making any conversation impossible, I angrily pushed back the chair and got up to leave, making as much noise as possible (my only form of protest). The parting shot came just as I was about to close the door of his cabin on my way out.

“Sir, you should have at least got your shoes polished before coming for the meeting!”

Amen!

(Once again, thanks to Vinay, Rajesh, Archana for edits and expert comments)

Dil Mein Baji Guitar…

(This blog is a tongue-in-cheek account of what we encounter in our day to day lives. It is not intended to hurt anybody - well - almost anybody. To be read in (and with) the right spirit ;). Hope you like it. Thanks Archana, Rajesh, Vinay for making it happen.)

The only thing missing from the guitar adorning our bedroom wall is a garland. It’s as good as dead otherwise. At times, I wish the wall would just open up and gobble it up, a la Sita mayya. A recent dialogue with my wife only made me think how to make this wish come true.

One quiet evening, as I happened to glance up from my poker game, I saw my wife's gaze settling on this unsettling piece of old memories. Nostalgia sometimes stinks!

I shuddered as I heard her asking, "Why don't you start learning to play the guitar again?"

"It is a hobby that requires great powers of concentration and greater amounts of practice. I have got neither the time nor the mind to do it", pat came my answer.

Akin to Sherlock Holmes, her gaze had given her away and I had earned an additional 5 seconds to form my answer. Who does she think I am anyway, Eric Clapton? Round 1 to Sherlock, or so I thought.

"So, does it take more concentration and time than you usually spend on that stupid poker game on the PC or on FaceBook?" asked my wife and I understood, immediately, that Sherlock never handled a situation of marital duress.

"You mean this game of poker?" I answered laughingly, feeling color rise into my cheeks, "this is just a stupid card game that is programmed on random logic. What concentration would this require?"

"But that's what you said it does require the other day when you refused to get up from the PC to make tea for my mother!" she stormed.

Even when she is not around, the mother-in-law makes sure she is a topic of discussion. This game of verbal volleys, however, was fast becoming an engineering mechanics exam, with lots of out-of-syllabus questions.

To avoid ruining the fine fish I had just had for dinner, I stopped playing, the game anyway ruined. I even began to shut down the PC, hoping this would pacify her. Alas, 11 years and I still haven’t got used to my wife’s ability to find a gap, like Roger Federer, even from the tightest of corners.

“Ok, so how about singing”, she hollered, dropping the guitar and taking up another touchy subject.

Sometimes, when uncomfortable topics come up, nightmarish faces start floating in front of my face. This time round, for no reason at all, the extreme close up of Shankar Mahadevan’s rotund face, laughing like the devil, popped up.

“What about singing?” I asked just as a feeling of hopelessness began enveloping me, as if the dementors from Harry Potter had landed up in Chembur. Someone call up Azkaban, please! :(

“Well, you once said you like to sing. Since you have so much free time, why not learn singing then?”

The one amazing quality women, and especially wives, posses is that they can use whatever you have said against you in an argument. The sad part is they always use it out of context and usually when you have completely forgotten about it. This was one of those poignant moments.

“What free time?” I asked, feigning indignation, “I am a consultant and as such have got …”

“That’s what I said, you have so much free time”, she said cutting me short, “Why don’t you take up singing. It will reduce your stress and give you a chance to earn some real money.”

Before I could even completely open my mouth, she continued, “Why don’t you at least give it a try? Only yesterday we saw that no-talent win in Voice of India. He will become a playback singer and earn loads of money. And anyway, you do sing very well.” she added, as an afterthought.

Voice of India is not held in our bathroom, I wanted to tell her, but restrained myself.

Instead, I soothingly told her, “Baby, who will make me a playback singer? Look at those contestants. Some are even half my age. Also I am not trained in singing. You love me, therefore you like my voice.” I topped this off with my most romantic smile (fingers crossed behind my back!).

“Well, you once said that if Himesh can sing, so can you. And even Kishore Kumar was not a trained singer!!” Game-Set-Match Wife.

There was more to come though. “Also, didn’t you once say that your singing is ripening like old wine and sounds better now than it did before?” Me and my big mouth!

As I slipped into the bed, I told her “Look, how much ever you say, people are not going to like my singing and don’t say Himesh Reshammiya and Kishore Kumar in the same breath ever again.”

There, I thought, I had finally managed to douse the fire.

“You never listen to whatever useful advice I give you. Go to hell.” She said and turned the other way.

That’s where I am, I wanted to tell her, but then what hadn’t happened in the last 11 years, was definitely not going to happen tonight. So yet again, I kept my trap shut.

But I almost fell off from my side of the bed when, just as I was making an escape under the bed covers, I heard her saying “Why don’t you think about doing an MBA?”

I quickly switched off the lights, closed my eyes and cursed myself for not having thrown the guitar away when I had the chance. I made a promise to myself to give it away to any of my near or distant relatives or friends or the first passing stranger or even the society sweeper, the first chance I get.

Nostalgia, sometimes, definitely stinks!