Letter from a politician

Dear fellow party men,

I greet you at a momentous occasion in my life and the state I serve. It has been 50 years since I first entered politics. What a glorious time it has been for my family (thats worth Rs 150 crore), my state and my people (read: my family).

I rememeber the transition I made from films to politics. The days of struggle to bring purity to our 'culture' and our 'great language' lies fresh in my mind. Yet, today I feel deeply saddned by the events that have befallen our party (read: family). Recent differences have led to the loss of lives and property. This could have been avoided if the media had not highlighted our differences.

These problems have persisted over the years and in the process, there have been loss of lives and property. In this regard, I announce the formulation of 'Family Feud Fund', wherein those losing lives and their property will be adequately compensated from funds provided by the government.

I have always worked towards the rehabilitation of the down-trodden and women. In this regard, I have successfuly rehabiliated Mrs P, the wife of slain Mr P, a party loyalist (read: a thug who had several murder cases against him), who was killed in an encounter with the police a few years ago. The cries of despair from the innocent that rang in my ears have forced me to take a decision in this regard.

I take this occasion to announce the entry of my great-great-granddaughter Ms K in politics who will perpetuate my legacy and the party's vision (read: my vision), once she reaches adulthood. I have also planned to launch a new channel as per the wishes of the people (read: the party mouthpiece).

I thank the party cadres, my fellow countrymen, my followers and my fellow politicians for providing me the chance to serve my country and state at the highest level.

Your's artistically inclined politician

Mr K

Letter to the employees from the super-boss

Dear Friends and Associates,

It is with great happiness that I announce that our quarterly profits has hit a new high. Our profit margin has grown 50 % over the last quarter. We have gained 5 new clients. Our focus is now to make this 100% profit margin.

In this regard, we have elevated Mr B to the post of Vice-president internal/external communications. He has 25 years of experience in several capacities and was the Vice-President of Worldwide Mad solutions (until it closed down a few years ago).

Towards my vision to make our organization 100% profitable, I have envisioned the setting up of in-house committees to cut down costs. A few ideas have already been discussed, one being the wastage associated with the use of tissues in restrooms. Associates can now bring their own tissues to reduce cost to company. Second suggestion has been the use of candle lights instead of tube lights to cut down on the cost incurred towards electricity.

So lets take the first step towards making this organization more profitable for all of us. Thank you people. You are welcome to provide more suggestions to make our organization truly profitable.

MD, Mad Solutions Ltd

Unnale Unnale - candy floss for the eyes

I went with very little expectations and I was just right about it. Unnale Unnale (roughly translated "Because of you, Because of you") is just candy floss that has a story line that is wafer-thin. The film opens with quite a promise with a couple arguing in an office, while colleagues look on bemused.

The film then goes travels to the past and the reasons for the confrontation between the young lovers Jhansi (Sada) and Karthik (debutant Vinay). The handsome Vinay does justice to his role as an easy-going youth who is unable to choose between Jhansi and Tanisha (Kajol's sis).

The couple part ways in India only to meet again in Australia while Karthik is on way on a business trip. The cinematography captures the landscape very well and provides the perfect foil for Harris Jeyaraj's peppy and melodious numbers.

The first part of the film runs smooth until the hero meets Tanisha, who is shown as an extrovert. (Soon her immature pranks did get on my nerves.) She makes a half-hearted attempt to re-unite the couple but fails. The pace of film flounders after the intial half and the scenes soon turn repetitive.

Tanisha first attempts in histronics is noteworthy but her lip-sync appears awful in a few scenes. The comedy track of Rajusundaaram, Satish and Shrinath has very few laughs in between, with most of the crassy jokes clearly targetting the front benchers.

Finally, Sada lets go of her lover, Karthik, who gets married to Tanisha. The begining and the end were good, though one wishes director, Jeeva, had give more attention to the story as well. This film is for people who wish to tour Australia without taking the trip or paying for the airline fare. A one-time fare for those who have nothing to do at weekends.

Ooh! aah! and Ouch!

A bumpy weekend for me as I tumbled on the road and stumbled to a theatre to watch a film, which was finally not worth the effort. It was an accursed fellow motorist who did this to me, now left ambling along and hopping around for a few days to come.

A perfect weekend it was for me, until I drove my two-wheeler towards Citi Centre via the Cathedral Road. In haste the gentleman drove till the incident left me with a bleeding knee and sweat down my brow.

As I passed the Anna flyover, I noticed a corporation lorry parked near the median. What I didnt notice was a man on a bike with a babe, probably taking a long hike. He cut across without a second thought that brought my weekend plans all to a nought.

All that I remeber is that I flew like a bird before I could even speak a word. I landed on the road like a drunken toad. Tough it is for me for the next couple of days as I try performing mundane functions using innovative ways.

Tch ... Tch ... Mind Your Language dear

Well, what a reaction I must say! I am referring to my previous blog site wherein I had projected my perspective on a certain social issues that had occurred in the last few weeks. And what was the reaction of the public? Anonymous folks using the choicest abuse to put forth their flawed point across.

I expected this kind of reaction. Not surprising at all, considering the circumstances and the type of people capable of such mischief. One Ms anonymous was speaking about dollars like as if I had never seen a $ in my life.

One spoke about morals or rather the lack of it on my part. By using choicest abuse they thought it would stop me from blogging. Sorry folks, you are wrong. Try something better and more creative the next time and, if possible, with a bit of dignity.

One of them asked me to write my entries in a diary, another asked me to put it up on a hosted server. One threatened me that my wife will put me behind bars for domestic violence. Again, its my wife, I know what is to be done. I guess I dont need strangers to tell me what needs to be done.

It was quite funny reading the comments from people who appeared desperate to voice their opinion. It is worthy to remember here that some people choose to write what they wish in their blogs but when the same is written by others, they take instant offense to it.

For the nameless entities and the anonymous souls out there on the Net, let me put it across very clearly - a blogsite, regardless whether it is yours or mine, is very personal. Those who lack the stomach to accept the views of others should best refrain from visiting that particular website, rather than indulging in cheap antics like throwing barbs under the guise of an anonymous blogger. Of course one unexpected fallout of this is that the number of hits for my blogsite has risen dramatically. I guess I have to reluctantly thank you strangers for that.

adios strangers and grow up!!!

Blah Blah Blah ...

Being an IT professional, I consider myself lucky if I get a Saturday or Sunday for myself. Weekend normally means sitting home and working on my personal computer. But today it was one of those "rare" Sundays where I had thought of doing something useful - reading the autobiography of Martin Luther King Jr or cleaning up my car. But alas! I wasted my time in a place I shouldn't have been, listening to stuff I didn't have to, and trying to be nice to people when I knew I wasn't nice.

The occasion was the inauguration of a building by a prominent personality from the judiciary. The chief guest was a renowned judicial activist, a man worthy of praise and a very humble individual. Yet, I couldn't appreciate any of these qualities, as i sat hungry and fuming on a hot Sunday.

I had brought my car since mother had to bring the harmonium to render a prayer at the beginning of the program. I should have fled at the end of the prayer. I got a bit curious and made the mistake of staying back a little longer. By then, people had trooped in and I found half-a-dozen cars blocking the pathway of my parked car.

I was forced to sit and listen as the panel of guests took turns in giving a "biographical account" of each others lives. The speech had so much of data that many in the audience, it appeared, were as perplexed as me. I have had similar experience in school, wherein teachers rammed in as much information as possible in the shortest possible time. This was done with the fond hope that students would be able to remember at least part of lessons taught to them.

In this case too, I experienced similar result of this "mental exertion"- I began to nod off. Not wanting to embarrass the chief guest and my mom, I and my wife (who had unwittingly accompanied me) made our way out of the hall.

But the afternoon heat was so relentless that I felt like a fish being friend in oil. I circumnavigated the building as many times as possible; woke up friends from their afternoon siesta to tell them I am bored, sent silly SIMS to everybody on my phone book list; tried playing nanny to some of the young kids running loose around the premises.

Yet, the monologue went on... Just as I was about to leave the place to have my lunch at a hotel, lunch was served. Never have I been so ravenously hungry. I hogged like a pig, merely shaking my head to everything that my wife said. The words just bounced off my ears.

Finally I gave up, and I left home with my dad, who had come there to have lunch with us. I regret going there - what a waste of time!!

Life is a drag

Its has been quite hectic for the past two months, with very little time for myself, my wife, my folks or my friends. With a very tight work schedule, I have had to work on almost every Saturday and Sunday. Here are a few observations, though, which am sure, seem to be a common malaise among IT and IT-ES professionals:

Am more familiar with the security guard than some of my fellow employees; I have forgotten to dream (forgotten to count sheep as it is called) and instead dream of project deadlines; I fear the adverse comments of my client more than the adverse comments of my wife; My best friends are my office colleagues; I have never witnessed the sunset; Most of my information about my relatives and friends is outdated; By the time I decide to watch a good movie in a theater, it is telecast on the satellite TV channel.

I am more concerned with the office laptop than with my bike; I need reminders on my cellphone to remember my folks birthday; The last break I took was when I got married three months ago; I am so habituated to the use of swipe cards that I am absent-minded and try to use my swipe card to open the front door of my apartment.

These symptoms, I read, are common among IT professionals. Though I am trying to get a life outside the office, its tough balancing the hectic work schedule and my domestic life. Its not easy to get domesticated... Am trying hard :)

My Honeymoon in Kerala

The week prior was too hectic and too hazy to remember; the only memory left behind was that I was now a married man. A constant reminder of my altered marital status was a mild backache - a consequence of constant bows and attempts to seek blessings at the feet of elders who had gathered to attend my wedding in Hubli on December 15.

It was now time to relax and enjoy my honeymoon and hence I was on my way to Idukki, a district in Kerala. My destination was Greenberg Resort for a six-day-seven-night stay. I had never stayed in a resort, and the nearest I came to making a decision on this was when I had looked at the brochure of another lovely resort and dreaming of a perfect holiday but was woken up from my day dream by the sight of the price tag attached for the holiday.

Observation

Nevertheless, I had got a good bargain, and hence proceeded to go to Greenberg Resort in Kulamavu. I got down at Ernakulam Town and was picked up by a taxi hired by the resort. I felt the first pinch when I parted with Rs. 1,400 just for that 80-km trip to the resort. As we drove towards the resort, I was wonder struck by two observations: the lush green cover along the road margins and the humble veshtti being the uniform choice of garments worn by men.

As the taxi began climbing the hills towards our destination, I was awe-struck at the breath-taking view below us. As the taxi snaked through the S-bend roads across the mountains, we could feel the temperature drop. Flowers of varying hues adorned both sides of the roads, even as the taxi zipped past these sights at break-neck speed. So sharp were the road bends that Mangal and I found ourselves sliding back and forth on the backseat of the vehicle like kids stuck on a mechanized seesaw.

We finally reached the resort at 11 30 am, tired and hungry. At nearly 2,500 ft above sea level, it was cold and our ears felt like they had been plugged with cement. We hogged like pigs and slept like dogs the entire day. We woke up the next day to “take a look” at the place. The sight was phenomenal, with a little pond in the middle and pretty little cottages that surrounded the place. Most of the staff couldn’t understand Hindi, Tamil or English but somehow managed to deliver what I required at the right time and the right place.

Minor disappointments

However, there were minor disappointments in store for me: like when I switched on the TV, I found two Malayalam movie channels and one more news channel that faithfully kept repeating yesterday’s news in Malayalam. My phone didn’t work either, as Airtel had no coverage in that region and, hence, had to bother the hotel phone operator, who gleefully charged Rs 20 per call, regardless of the duration of the call.

In less than three days we had gone on a boat ride on Cheruthoni river, a major tributary of Periyar river, visited three dams: Cheruthoni, Kulamavu and Idukki (after paying a bribe to the policemen guarding the dams); an elephant ride that cost Rs 250 per head, and a boat ride on the Periyar.

Not surprisingly, I had a brush with an angry goose, a wild monkey and a confused Frenchwoman. The first one was at the resort that had a couple of geese that were let out for a few hours in the morning.

Wild goose chase

For a change, it was Mangal’s attire (blue top and pink skirt) that probably “got its goose”. The normally docile geese began making hostile postures and one of them began to swagger towards us with wings flapping and neck craning in the front. Mangal recoiled and ran towards me, seeking assistance. I stood for a minute before I saw him advancing towards me. Fear gave wings and I yanked her off her feet before fleeing to safety.

Monkeying around

In the second instance, during our visit to the Periyar Lake, as we stood waiting for the boat ride, we were accosted by a nasty monkey at the drinking water point. He sat calmly not taking much notice of people until I advanced to quench my thirst from the tap. I was brave until the fellow showed his lovely yellow pearls. For the second time in less than three days I fled, forgetting my thirst and my ego.

French connection

This incident happened while I waited patiently for an hour or so to sit atop an elephant. The fee was stiff, Rs 250 per person to sit on top of an elephant that appeared bored with life and with us. Mangal was in a skirt and hence preferred to sit with both her legs to one side while I and a French woman sat in the front.

She managed to strike a conversation with her limited knowledge of English. It went something like this: My name is Jonna (something too long to remember). Owi, we in Kerala… first time…my daughter … big MNC…. Bangalore…management…two years. Great I thought I introduced myself, what’s your name I asked. The answer was typical: Oh (something in French). Name me…. Jonna.. My daughter in … big MNC….Bangalore…management… two years.

For the next 20 minutes we had a conversation on a range of topics; overpopulation; bad roads; fleecing and tourism (at least that’s what I did); she spoke in French while I conversed in English; each perfectly aware that neither understood the other, while Mangal sat laughing herself silly.

What we did those six days and what we saw and felt is now safely relegated in our memory. But the experience of being in God’s Own Country was truly exhilarating. An enchanting experience that we are never likely to forget till life’s end.

Understanding the E-learning Project Cycle

Many a time I have met friends and elderly relatives who have asked me what I do for a living. I have time and again struggled, albeit unsuccessfully, to explain my job profile. I am not part of the IT crowd; not a journalist; not a call center employee; not part of the BPO sector. I work as an editor in an e-learning firm.
Attempting to explain my job profile, it appears, is an uphill task. Am sure quite a lot of us have suffered similarly. Here's a sample I picked from the Net which you can probably use to explain your job profile to friends and relatives:
1. Project Manager is a one who thinks nine women can deliver a baby in one month.
2. Process Developer is a one who thinks it will take 18 months to deliver a baby.
3. On site Coordinator is one who thinks single woman can deliver nine babies in one month.
4. Client is the one who doesn’t know why he or she wants a baby or what to do with it.
5. Marketing Manager is one who thinks he can deliver a baby even if no man and woman are available.
6. Resource Optimization Team thinks they don’t need a man or woman; they will produce a child with zero resources.
7. Documentation Team thinks they don’t care whether the child is delivered; they will just document nine months.
8. Quality Auditor is the one who is never happy with the process to produce a baby.
9. Editor is one who wonders why so much mess was created during the entire process. *
10. Instructional designer is one who is left thinking what went wrong - the process or the end product.

* This happens to my job.

Those Tumultuous 20 Days

The year has finally come to an end, so has my bachelorhood. December was quite a month to remember not just because my wife won a "Masters" in managing the household, but also because the last 20 days of that month witnessed so much action, much more than what I have witnessed in last the 20 months of my life.

The landing

First my brother landed from the U.S. on December 5th. Then began the rush to get his visa (his visa had expired) renewed on December 7. Once that was successfully completed, it was time for him to introspect on his decision to say "yes" to his bride-to-be. He finally said yes on 8th. Then began a mad rush to arrange for his engagement ceremony that was to be held on 9th. By then my would-be-bhabhi, Tripthi, and her family had landed in Chennai.


The drive

My first trial-by-fire had begun after my dad wanted me to take by bhabhi and her family to T.Nagar (the most crowded and lousiest place to drive during peak hours) for shopping in the evening. My situation was no better since I had just learnt how to drive two weeks ago and I now faced the prospect of driving a fully loaded vehicle in peak hour traffic. I ended up becoming deeply religious by the end of our journey. I thanked my stars after we reached safe, except for a bruised ego and a few scratches on my vehicle.
On 10th we had a satyanarayana puja at home, a long ceremony held by the groom and the bride's families at least 10 days prior to the marriage to seek the blessings of the almighty.
December 11 we were busy packing up our bags. While on December 12 it was journey time for us to Hubli. We reached on December 13th and began unpacking, a process which took 24 hours, considering the number of suitcases, jewelery and the presents that were stocked in them.

D-day minus one
December 14th morning me and my dad woke up at 3:30 a.m. to pick up four different sets of guests coming from four different directions in three different modes of transports. We reached the station at 4:35 a.m., only to realise that the train would be at the station at 6:30 a.m. and that there was some kind of communication gap that ended up in us coming two hours earlier at the station.
By 12 pm we had collected all our guests and "deposited them safe" in the hotel rooms that had been booked for them prior. At 6 p.m. some of the ceremonies were held prior to the big day. We slept at 11 p.m. that night, tensed and knowing not if things would go the way we had planned.

D-day:
Since some of the ceremonies had been held the day before we woke up late at 5 a.m. and began to get ready. Mangal's relatives began to trickle into the hotel lobby for the traditional welcoming ceremony even as hotel guests and the staff stood gawking at me like a caged animal in a zoo.
Since we reached the wedding venue after a heavy breakfast I feared the proceedings would put me to sleep. However, much to my relief, the ceremonies went smooth, thanks to the priest who kept us awake with his light hearted banter and jokes.
But as I had been warned earlier by my already-married friends and cousins, the wedding ceremonies went on till 3:30 pm. I had no option but to continue smiling and welcoming guests even as my stomach continued to growl for attention.

D-day + 1
Finally the ceremonies were over, but we still had to visit a temple in Ankola that was nearly 135 kms from Hubli, to visit our kula devata (family god, roughly translated). We took at trip on December 16th. Awesome sight and good darshan and a good 7 hours later, we returned to Hubli, exhausted but thrilled to have visited the place after nearly 19 years.

Honeymoon
Finally it was journey back home on December 17 with my wife and family. We reached here the afternoon and started off for Ernakulam on 17th night for our honeymoon in Idukki district of Kerala. We returned from the trip to Chennai on 24th morning for our reception that was to be held in Chennai on December 25th. On December 27th I was back on duty.

Good ol' days of yore
In 20 days I had covered almost 8-10 remote locations in three states. Most of all I felt it was the grace of god that nothing went wrong during my trip and during the wedding or reception.
My happiest moments, however, were reserved on the day of my reception when I met some of my friends from the present and the past. Every time I met someone from the past, old memories clouded my mind; those days in school, college, or my postgraduate diploma institute or the things I did as an NCC cadet in college. Truly memorable 20 days of my life.

Insane Solutions to Insane Issue

India has always had a host of problems to its credit, right? Cricket, politics, social justice, law, poverty. There are hundreds of issues that we Indians love to discuss over a cup of coffee or lunch with our pals and family members. Here's a new look and probably out-of-box solutions to some of biggest problems that plague our country.

Problem 1:
Reservations for the 'poor'Strange but true, while the entire world fights against overwhelming odds to come forward, we Indians take pride in classifying ourselves backward in a bid to get freebies to come forward.
Solution: Make 99% reservation, so that 99% of the population is covered by reservation for jobs, promotions and even seats in the Parliament. Leave the 1% for the moneyed class and those with political clout. Merit can go down the drain. We are marching forward and hope to catch up with West soon, say in another 150 years.

Problem 2:
Cricket IndiaOur cricketing heroes have just proved to be zeros in South Africa. With 4-0 drubbing in the five one-day series, the Men in Blue have been beaten black & blue. There appears to be no hope or scope of improvement.
Solution: Lets appeal to the International Cricket Council (ICC) and get ourselves tagged as "underprivileged team" and, thereby, enjoy special status. Appeal to the ICC to have 17 players to play in the place of 11 and ask for 60 overs for our side while others play 50. But does this still guarantee us a win in the future, perhaps not, but good excuse to lose the next time!

Problem 3:
Frequent vandalism of statuesHmm this is quite a problem. With Indian landscape dotted with high-rise buildings and statues of leaders, freedom fighters, goons and hoodlums of different social standings, guarding them against vandalism and bird goo has becomes a tough task. When vandals strike, the entire country erupts into well orchestrated riots that lead to burning of buses and trains.
Solution: Make a theme park where you park all these statues in one big place. So vandals belonging to each group can break statues of dead leaders of different parties and hence give the rioting mob enough space to indulge in violence. Incidentally, such statues would also benefit trans-migratory birds that would get their fair share of rest rooms during their flight.

Problem 4: Converting farmland into factoriesThis defies a solution. Having steamrolled their political campaign during elections the political party has given nothing in return. This surely is being ungrateful to their moneyed mentor. So the party in power plans to sell farmlands to the industrial powerhouse. Good for investments, bad for farmers.
Solution: If providing suitable land is problem, why not give all the lands acquired by politicians through illegal funds and through benami means. Going by the quantum of lands acquired by our political masters in the recent years, industrial powerhouses will never face shortage of land and will never be shooed away by farmers or opposition political parties.

Problem 5: Criminal administered justiceWe have had too many TV channels busting the reputation of some of our esteemed Members of Parliament, especially when they were in the process of accepting bribes or while they were indulging in moral debauchery. If that's not new, we have had candidates accused of grave crimes now wanting to rule the country. But then there appears to be a few laws preventing them from doing so. Why prevent such down-to-earth aspirations of "honest and hard-working citizens"?
Solution: Well our political class is so full of criminals and the morally corrupt that just one kind of politicians isn't going to make any difference in the great political circus. Remove all laws that hinder MPs from murdering each another. Make it mandatory for candidates to have murder charges against them as pre-requisite to stand for elections, perhaps, this will "don'...err dawn a new era for Indian democracy.

Problem 6: Ganguly-Chappell rowToo much has been said about the two; too much has been talked about the two. This issue has caught the imagination of the country and even the Parliament so much so that they kept aside vital matters to discuss Ganguly's inclusion/exclusion in the team. We need to put an end to this once and for all and stop wasting every body's time and money, including the TV news channels that have been giving a "blow-by-blow" account of the entire proceedings.

Solution: Arrange a mother of all fights: a duel to the death between the duo. A duel that will involve use of bats on the opponent. That would be better than the net practice session for dada. Let the match be telecast live, which am sure a few sports channels will be glad to do so. A few sponsors thrown in, and we have an interesting match better than those organised by the WWF. Anyway the one who is knocked out will be out of the team - either Ganguly or Chappell - one problem less for India.

Hubli, Here I Come

I live in Chennai, a city where smoke-spewing government buses and autorickshaws are more efficient as fumigating machines than the contraptions used by Chennai Corporation during their annual exercise to drive away mosquitoes during the dengue/malaria seasons.
I also drive on the roads of this great city; roads that appear to have been inspired by the landscape on the moon. I curse too, just like my fellow city dwellers, of the inefficiency of the city administration; of the inability of the garbage collector to clear the dustbins on time; of the inability of the traffic cops to regulate traffic; of the bad condition of metropolitan buses and of the lack of basic infrastructure in the city.
But there are places worse off than where we stay. This is just my experience, the good and bad:
Eyes wide shut
Having left Chennai the previous afternoon at 1:30 p.m. it was quite a long journey and I felt tired despite having gone to sleep early that night.
But it was not an uninterrupted sleep as I had wished. Twice a truant cockroach woke me up by playing hide-and-seek with me by crawling between my bedsheets. Once raindrops dripped onto my head through the closed window and the other time then a kind gentleman sleeping on the upper berth dropped the contents of his pocket right on my head and woke me up in the middle of the night to help him find it.
My fiancée and her dad came to meet me at the station at 6:30 a.m. I was quite groggy when I reached the Hubli station and had to sleepwalk till I reached the auto stand. A long queue of autorickshaws stood outside the station - old ramshackle Lambrettas - that had gone out of service in Chennai long ago.
I proceeded to sit, but my fiancée motioned me not to, for then I realised the bargaining and had not yet begun. The auto driver demanded a hefty Rs 60 for a mere 5 kms, which I thought was too steep even by (CAFS) Chennai Auto Fleecing Standards. Anyway, we got into the auto after bringing down the price to Rs 45.
Ride of a lifetime
Day 1: I have always been uncomfortable sitting in autos that had bucket-type seats. For they make me feel like sitting on a closet. Nevertheless, that was only the least of the problem that lay ahead. We hit the road at 30 kms per hour. Mangal made me sit between her and her dad. They had a good reason to do that. As we approached the road along the Hubli Airport, they clung on to the autorickshaw harder than before. Being the uninitiated one, I did not attach any significance to the change in their posture as I sat dozing with the suitcase on my lap.
Within a few minutes I began to feel the auto wallop like a horse let loose from its stable. I was rudely woken up from my semi-slumber. It was akin to being tossed inside a spin-drive of a washing machine, minus the water to cushion your fall. My stomach churned, twisted and turned as we happily bounced down the "pit-holed" roads of Hubli.
As the journey progressed, so did my agony, since the roads appeared to be getting steadily worse to a point where I had seemingly managed to defy Newton's Law of Gravity by being perpetually in a state of suspended animation.
There appeared to be a strange pattern to the law of perpetual motion which I appeared to be experiencing during this apparently perpetual ride in the rickety auto: At slower speeds we bounced up and down but at higher speeds we oscillated left-to-right, which made me wonder if all three of us would ever reach our destination without facing the prospect of finding ourselves thrown on the road and the poor driver realising that his passenger had "left" him long ago only when he turned around to get his fare.
Truant traffic cops
Day 2: We got into the bus to travel to Dharwad, a 20-km ride to my granddad's place. We passed some breath-taking scenery of lush green paddy fields and mountains but I regretted not having taken my camera along to capture these awesome sights. But my thoughts were disturbed as we passed in front of the Hubli court. We waited for 25 minutes as the deputy chief minister made a surprise visit to the festivities marking the Karnataka Day.
The cops couldn't’t handle the traffic or the half a dozen cars accompanying the VIP's motorcade so they did something easier - they just towed away all the parked cars on that road and made way for the VIP and his henchmen to park their cars. This led to altercation between the traffic cops and the owners of cars that had been towed away. This in turn led to a traffic jam, which I am all too familiar in Chennai. That delayed our progress by 45 minutes, while my granddad waited for us at his place fuming at our delay and the delay we caused to have our lunch.
IT is a boom
Day 2: The brainchild of a previous chief minister, this IT park is housed in a lovely building that looks more like a shopping mall from the outside than an intended office space for major IT firms. Some folks, I am told, bought plots and houses around this building, hoping that the land prices would shoot once the IT boom hit Hubli. That was five years ago and they are still waiting for the boom to happen. Good luck, folks!
Story time
Day 2: Having visited my grand dad's place after nearly 15 years, it was time to recount old memories and the days of yore: The games I played with my cousin brother and how my elder brother at the age of three walked out of the gate and got lost with only my grand mother's photo around his neck to identify him. It was story time, I an adult but eager as a child, to know what my grand dad did as sub-inspector in the Customs Department prior to the independence of Goa from the Portuguese. The number of times he traversed through thickly-wooded forests on the trail of Portuguese smugglers and how he busted smugglers and their hideouts. It was like going back in time, when your parents used to tell you stories while you lapped up every word before your bedtime.
Mangal gets a fright
Day 3: The last day we went on a walk a few kilometers together early in the morning to lush green fields where a little pond appeared to have attracted buffaloes and several birds that I had never seen prior in my life. I could identify only the woodpecker but others appeared to be too exotic for me to identify.
Mangal talked about how we ought to get a house near a green field and amid pastoral surroundings. A house that should overlook a mountain, where the radiance of the sun should reflect from the water of a nearby pond and where the sound of chortling birds and the fragrance of flowers of homegrown garden should wake us up every morning.
As she kept speaking my attention drifted, as usual, and my eyes fell on a yellow band that lay near the slushy lake bed a few feet away from us. I realised that it was a snake that had been disturbed by our talk and our movement. He quickly slithered into the thicket. But not before I had pointed out to Mangal, who in reply, shrieked and pulled me away. We left in a hurry, but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, notwithstanding, the snake or Mangal’s avowal of never venturing into a field again.

The Interview

Attending interviews can be fun. Yes, it can, especially if you have no intention of joining the job and your visit is merely to check-out the company, understand what is expected from a prospective employer, and most important of all, to check who makes a bigger fool of themselves: the interviewer or the interviewee.In this case, it was the guy who interviewed me. The position of an editor in a "reputed company" that managed the content of a popular website was referred to me by a friend's friend's friend. With great expectation and excitement, I called up the company representative on his cellphone and fixed an appointment with him for the following day.My first disappointment was when I went to park my two-wheeler outside the nine-storied complex on Anna Salai that housed the office. The drainage pipes had huge craters on them, through which copious amount of water was being generously showered on two-wheelers (and their owners) that were parked below. The stink from the water was so strong, i almost felt faint by the time i ducked the artificial waterfall and managed to park my bike.I reached the second floor but was astounded that there was an office of a nationalized bank but no indication of the company that supposedly existed there. The guard of the nationalized bank lay in slumber even as flies made a unholy halo over his head. As I was about to call it quits, my eyes fell on a small dingy room filled with people who were typing away to glory on their outdated computers. A small printout of the company's logo and name stuck on the beetle nut-stained walls of the building announced that i had finally reached my destination.I fled from the scene, but was later reassured by my friends that I needed to attend the interview to decide the worth of the company rather than merely going by the outward appearance of the "office". Having regained considerable amount of composure and courage, I called up the guy and set up a date for an interview the next day.I went early and sat on a wooden bench while the mousy little attender sat on a small stool like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. I waited for 15 minutes but wasted little time in examining my prospective workplace.The place reminded me of a godown that had been converted into an office. A bunch of wires hung from the ceiling like trapeze ropes in a circus. The walls had been painted an ugly combination of pink and green. Worse still, were the ancient A/C units that appeared to be magically held back in place by plywood boards and wooden pegs and which threatened to fall on the people below by a mere touch of its switches.Finally our man arrived with laptop that appeared to be manufactured a few decades ago. I sat facing him as I told him about my present job profile and what my work responsibilities entailed, even as he pretended to work on his comp. My second mistake was when I asked him what was expected of me in the firm. Here's more or less how the conversation went about the job profile and my expected duties at the "office": "You know our website no, you need no to upload news all the hour no. You know, relevant news no, should go up no. As for what you need no for you to know, you should know MS Word and usage of the Template no. You will work in shifts no you know, because no we are dynamic site you no".That was it! I didn't know whether to say no or simply that i know i was in the wrong place. I thanked him for spending his valuable time in interviewing me. He promised to get back to me after consulting his head office in Bangalore. As I left the building I had made up my mind: this job vacancy was a definite no-no for me.

Pre-marital Shivers

It will be exactly a month from this date that i will be getting married in Hubli, Karnataka. Preparations are in full swing, invitation cards being sent to different corners of the country. Well its time for celebration, many might say. But its also time for self-introspection: Is my job secure? Is my savings enough? What does the future hold for me? These questions are some of the many that have been clogging my mind for quite sometime now. As a simple ceremony seals a new relationship between two individuals, two new lives will begin a journey in uncharted territory called destiny. I guess only time will tell, and in the meantime all I can do now is hope for the best.

These Silly Indian 'Soaps'

As a kid, I still remember, how i used to plead with my parents to permit me to watch TV 'serials' amidst a hectic schedule before the exams. Yes, 'serials' as they were called then, were endearing, something you looked forward to watch after a hectic day at school/college. A wholesome entertainment for the entire family - grandparents, parents and kids included. I can still remember sprightly little 'Swamy' from R.K. Narayanan's 'Malugdi Days', the carrot-munching detective in 'Karamchand', or the upright judge in 'Barrister Vinod'. Can one forget the eerie, but sometimes realistic tales in 'Ek Kahani'; or the brilliant portrayal of a family caught in the tumulus times of the partition in 'Tamas' ; the emotional strife suffered by a family in 'Bunniyad' and the real-life characters living on a street in 'Nukkad'?While 'Ye Jo Hai Zindagi' never failed to tickle your funny bone, 'Rajani' raised awareness on consumer rights by weaving brilliant stories around the lead character, Rajani, and her problems with the Indian system. The young woman who overcomes male discrimination to become a police officer in 'Uddan' was probably one of the first serials to create awareness on women empowerment through television.Contrast this with the sample 'Soaps' that are beamed in our living rooms: Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki, Kyu Ki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi (Hindi); Metti Olli, Kollangal (Tamil); Adhuri Ek Kahani (Marathi)The common thread among most of today's 'soaps' are the tiffs between bad mom-in-laws, daughters-in-law and equally evil sisters-in-law who spend most of their time planning each others downfall, often going to the ridiculous extent of using 'black magic' spells and even hiring killers to finish the job.The other common alternative to the 'script' has been to introduce the "other" woman/man in the lead character's life. With serials being extended or prematurely concluded as per TRP ratings, the storyline and characterisation has all gone awry. The results have been quite hilarious: People wake up from coma, amnesia and sometimes even wake from the dead. Characters appear as twins with no prior rationale explanation of their existence; ex-lovers appear after years to blackmail the lead characters; illegitimate kids pop up from nowhere, demanding a share of the ancestral property. It is little wonder that characterisation often appears hollow; the script is horrendous, while the storyline never seems to have an end. To make matters worse, TV stars either call it quits or commit suicide when the serial still tops TRP charts. These stars are promptly replaced with new faces who continue spouting the same silly dialogues of their predecessor. So have we seen the end of the golden era of Indian TV serials?

Ambition: Where Does it Stop?

To follow desire is to wander from death to death. But not having ambition is akin to not being alive at all. Isn't ambition one of the most important factors that have made individuals as great as we know them today?Had it not been for ambition and hard work, would Napoleon ever have been considered as an emperor in history? As a matter of fact would India have had industry giants like Tatas or Birlas? But how many of us have ever asked these pertinent questions before starting on the quest to achieve our goal? Are you willing to wreck a friend's career to rise up the office hierarchy? Would you tell your boss what your friend confided in you about his manner of functioning? Would you break friendships, chalk out cunning strategies to achieve upward mobility? Would you steal someone's ideas and present them as your own to your boss to score a few brownie points? Are you willing to ignore your former friends just to rub shoulders with people who matter the most at your workplace? How much are you willing to please your boss just to sit on that exalted chair or to get a phenomenal pay rise, the next month?Do we ever think of all these questions before indulging ourselves at other people's expense? For people who believe that means always justify the end, it is always lonely on the top.

Humko Deewana Kar Gaye (Drove Me Mad!!) - A review

The translated version of the title would best describes your mood after watching this C grade trash from director, Raj Kanwar. At the end of the movie, I was left wondering how so many (like me and two of my friends) decided to get fooled into wasting Rs. 90 and also a good part of the Sunday evening by merely going through publicity material in the medias. The plot is something we have probably watched a zillion times in Hindi, Marathi, Kannada, Malayalam and Tamil movies. A boy-meets-girl after bumping into each other at frequent intervals. (By this time we had in fact begun to yawn!!)Akshay is engaged to Bipasha Basu, who unfortunately is reduced to making guest appearance throughout the movie - the beginning, the middle and just before The End. Bips is a high-flying fashion designer, who is interested in her career more than her would-be, Aks. Tired of waiting, he flies to Canada, where he meets his ultimate dream babe. Enter Katrina Kaif, a cute-looking lamb waiting to to-be-married (halalled) to a rich and crazy industrialist, played by the vintage-looking Anil Kapoor. Kat dislikes Anil, who incidentally looks like he's just walked out of a horror movie set without removing his makeup. Poor Kat tries to make amends to her lack of acting abilities by displaying more skin than necessary. As the movie progresses (at snail's pace), Kat's hemline too progressively rises, while the neckline progressively plunges. (Incidentally, that's when the menfolk, including me, actually began to take "notice" of Kat). The movie is interspersed with the now ridiculous song-and-dance routines on snow-peaked mountains. Both Kat and Aks frequent tumble into irritating dream sequences that never seem to end. To make matters worse, there is Aks' sister, played by Bhagyashree. This sister loves to frequently utter a one-liner: "Very funny", which after a certain point time, fails to tickle the funny bone of the audience. Sufficient attention could have been given to Bhagyashree's clothes Her dress appears a bit too small for her size while the inspiration for her dress design pattern seems to have come from curtain makers.Anyway, the cinematography is insipid; the dialogs horrendous. In fact, the emotional scenes are the worst, since they tend to evoke laughter and tears of joy.Vivek Shauq as Ak's Pakistani friend, who has a problem keeping his drink, mouth and mojo in check, fails to lift the film or the sagging shoulders of the by-now drowsy audience.As the film finally progresses towards the end, Anil realises what "true love" is all about only after marrying her. He forgives Kat and Aks. The "highlight of the movie" comes at this point of time, when Anil Kapoor snatches his wife's mangalsutra and flings it away, saying that she is free to horse around with Aks. Bips too realises that Aks is no longer in love with her. (What a great coincidence that Bips turns out to be Anil's designer for his wedding clothes!!) The credit line appears after Bips spews profound words of wisdom about Aks and Kat: "They were not made for each other, they were mad for each other". Then comes the best part of the movie - THE END.BOTTOM LINE:Katrina's plunging neckline and rising hemline is not enough to keep the audience awake.STATUTORY WARNING: Proceed to watch the movie at your own peril.

15 Faltoo Fundas for Hindi Film Buffs

Ever felt sorry for having arrived late at a theater and missed the first 10 or 15 minutes of a Hindi film? Fear not, for probably you haven't missed anything at all, except for the song-and-dance routine that accompanies the introductory credit line. Over the years, Bollywood's dream factory has been churning such "excellent" quality of Hindi films, that we have been hooked to them since the time of our great-great grandfathers. Such "variety" in story lines, script, dialogs, scenes and dances have won global appreciation. And for those fascinated by tinsel town's histrionic ability and for those seeking to know more about Hindi films, here's a quick guide to the rules that go into the making of such time-tested formula-based Hindi movies for the masses:1. Scene I: The coughing father or the widowed mother sleeping on a charpoy in the corner of a dilapidated house of the hero or heroine, should necessarily kick the bucket by the end of scene 2.2. Widowed moms always wear white, sing in praise of the lord and are always born blind or partially blind.3. Scene 2: Grown up sisters of the hero always get raped by the end of scene 2, leading to their suicide (preferably by hanging from Sarees), wherein the hero gets a solid reason to beat the crap out of the villain and his henchmen.4. Hero always uses expletives like Kutta, Kamina, Harram... to describe his arch enemy.5. Hero gets beaten on the head, loses memory, but always regains it after being struck at the same spot twice!! (medical miracles never cease to happen in Hindi movies) 6. Scene 3: Meets heroine, romances around trees, sings duets preferably in the Swiss countryside or the Alps. 7. Scene 4: Hero finds baddy to be either the heroine's brother or daddy. Baddy daddy too finds his daughter's romantic interludes irritating, sends henchmen to finish off the hero.8. Henchmen cant shoot straight, can't knife a person in the heart and have never learnt the art of fighting. 9. Scene 5: Baddy daddy or brother finds other ways to harass hero, kidnaps brother's or sister's or probably neighbour's child, who is not surprisingly called Rahul/Rohan/Pinky/Rinky (or Winky).10. Scene 6: Frantic search begins; hero and heroine stop duets. Cops are called but they never figure out anything anyway. The man-servant, who is not surprisingly called Ramdin or Ramu Kakka, too is initially suspected. But he's such a sweetheart, he cries every time he sees Rahul/Rohan/Rinky/Pinky/Winky's black-and-white photo.11. Scene 7: Villain makes extortion call, demands either money or that hero come alone (for a judo match) for final settlement. Hero never calls police, goes alone.12. Scene 8: Kills half-a-dozen goons single-handedly and sustains severe injuries like a minuscule cut on the forehead that oozes with tomato ketchup.13: Scene 9: Saves dangling heroine, who incidentally gets kidnapped in between a few scenes. Rahul/Rohan/Pinky/Rinky or whatever is freed after hero kicks the hell out of the villain. 14. Scene 10: Police finally arrive in large numbers, take the villain and his cronies to jail. Option A: Baddy Daddy changes his mind and accepts daughter's matrimonial choice after a five-minute lecture. Option B: Daddy too Baddy, hence, attempts to snatch pistol and shoot, but fails, as hero snatches weapon from nowhere and empties half-a-dozen rounds into the villain.The couple walk into the sunset. 15. Addendum: If the movie is an emotional-unrequitted love-tragedy tale and without a villain in sight, hero dies due to natural causes, namely blood cancer or brain tumor that often leads to frequent aches in the head or heart or stomach, resulting in the spewing of equally painful 10-minute monologue before his death in the last scene.IMPORTANT NOTE: Doctors are never present until patient dies and come in only to say: "Sorry" and shake their heads sympathetically.Three cheers to Bollywood!!!

Bachelorhood Interrupted!!

It was a month of madding deadlines and nerve-numbing work that never seemed to cease. Working on a three or four-month project seemed like those gross daughter-in-law Vs mother-in-law mega serials (we love to watch on the idiot-box), which have irrational twists in plots and which threaten to continue for the next 20 years without an end in sight. Having put my head, heart, soul, time and everything else possible for the project, i finally found some time to pursue certain "extra-curricular activities" like purchasing a new two-wheeler and choosing a wife.Yes folks, finally i got hitched. The engagement ceremony took place at my place in Chennai on April 13 amidst lot of rituals and relatives. However, workload had not reduced and i did my bit for the day even though i had taken a compensatory-off for my engagement. My day began early with work at 6 a.m. from home. This was stuff i had not submitted the previous day. However, I finished work around 10 a.m. and sent them across. The next phase of work was at home; my early part of the afternoon was spent cleaning up the house and making it presentable for guests that were to assemble soon. Towards 2.30 p.m. I was reminded by my folks to get dressed for my D-Day.My lady came in a Saree, while i was dressed in a green Sherwani. The best compliment i could get for the day, i guess, was from an elderly family friend, who said "i looked decent" in my new clothes. Nevertheless, guests began streaming in at around 4 p.m. By 4.30 p.m. it was house-full. And by 5 p.m. the priest had begun the rituals. Having never been engaged before, except with work, I watched the proceedings with great interest. But the mid-summer heat and the undue attention from kids among the crowd, was quite disconcerting, often reminding me of the monkeys that i used to tease as a child, during my routine visits to the Vandalur Zoo. Food arrived at 5 p.m., sharp. But I couldn't lay my hands on them till 6 p.m. After the exchange of garlands, the crowd blessed us. Then, it was time to take the customary blessings from all the elders who had the assembled in my house. My would-be and I had planned to take-off to the beach by 6.30 p.m. However, some elderly folks seemed reluctant to budge from our place till 8.30 p.m., leaving us with little choice but to indulge in friendly banter with them about inconsequential issues that had no bearing on us, the community, the country or the world at large. Tired of waiting, we gave a broad hint and finally left for the beach and were back at 10.00 p.m. By then i was too tired and I hit the sack at 10.30 p.m. And that's what I term "quite an eventful day".

Politics: The Ten Little Indians

Indians, will agree, in varying degree, that politics is quite an interesting field. The only field that requires that the applicant have no qualification or experience to be elected to a post, though decisions made as elected policy makers may tend to affect the lives of millions; an enterprise that requires very little capital but pays rich dividends for those making it big. Here are ten “endearing” individuals, who have left an indelible mark in our psyche with their “selfless deeds” and “public services” in their attempt to make it big in the “great Indian political circus”. First on my list of favorites is this maverick one-of-a-kind politician, who rose from being a milkman to a Chief Minister (and then a Central Minister). This man finds bovine companionship more comforting than human company. Having milked his cows for the first 30 years of his life, he is said to have continued the practice long after his ascend in the political scene. He is accused of milking the exchequer and amassing over Rs 900 corers.Second on the list is the fire-band leader from the East, who walked out of the grand old party to form a new party. Having hated the Communists, who have been ruling her State with a vice-like grip, she hoped her exit from the grand old party would pave the way in her becoming the Chief Minster of that State. After having walked in and out of several alliances, faster than crossing a busy national highway, she now finds no takers for a grand alliance to form a “Third Front”. Third on my list, is a woman from the North, who shares similar character traits with the one mentioned above but hails from a different ideological stable. Prone to quick temper but neither gifted with tact or reason, the lady’s over-vaulting ambition resulted in frequent clash with top leaders of her party. She was eventually shown the door from the party that nurtured her. Her much-vaunted rath yatra (awareness drive), before the State polls, was supposed to stir a sympathy wave and sweep her to power. Instead it just swept her into political wilderness.Fourth on my list, is this “honourable” Member of Parliament who is well-known in the country for his 12 "dishonourable" deeds that include murder, extortion, smuggling, only to name a few. A man who changes parties faster than one gets to changes his dress, this “respected” Member of Parliament is much respected in the political circles for his muscle power and a large well-armed, well-funded private army that could put an Italian Mafioso to shame.Fifth on my list, is a far less harmless variety of a politician, a man who rose from a humble agrarian background to become the Prime Minister, albeit, for a short tenure. This man, whose son later rose in revolt to upset daddy’s political applecart in a South Indian State, was eulogized as having empowered farmers with his electoral victory. He is widely know for his inefficiency and has been widely pictured with eyes wide shut during meetings. Sixth on my list is a person one can term as an “intellectual”. An IIT professor with a PhD from Harvard, he burst into the political scene in mid 90’s, hoping to be a kingmaker. Ten years since, this would-be-kingmaker has been reduced to a one-man party that regularly issues press releases that appear as single columns in the inside pages of a national daily. This aspiring kingmaker has been reduced to a political court jester.Seventh on my list is a politician from the West of India. As communal riots consumed his State, the Chief Minister sat justifying the reason for the riot. Known for his vitriolic speeches against the minority community, this man takes the pride of having safeguarded the self-respect of the majority community by inflaming their religious passion. Touted as the one of the most efficient Chief Ministers, he is also equally blamed for his efficient manner of protecting the perpetrators of the violence that killed thousands.Eight on my list, is a small-time South Indian politician who has made it big by stirring anti-English agitations and striking clever alliances at the Centre. He gets his regular share of kicks and publicity by blackening giant advertising hoardings written in English, while his London-educated doctor-son, serving as a Minister in the Central Government Cabinet, addresses national and local meetings in English and loves to get photographed in Western attire. Ninth on my list is a man who is past his prime and has crossed 80. At a time when most people seek retirement from politics, this man continues to hold steadfast an alliance, containing a cluster of parties that have diverse interests and ideologies. His decision to see his son as future leader of his party has not gone down well with other party workers and his second son. A gifted orator, writer, and novelist, he gets his daily rush of adrenaline by shooting barbs against the Chief Minster of a State. Tenth on my list, is a woman known as much for her vindictive nature as her steely guts. Though a political novice when she entered the political arena in the early 1980’s, she was quick to pick up the art of political one-upmanship. She and her omnipresent friend have been accused of large-scale corruption but court cases and electoral defeats have never rocked her boat. She gets her share of kicks by directing police to pick up political opponents from their homes in the middle of the night.

(mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy (In high spirits)

Christmas season can really lift your spirits, especially for happy-go-lucky bachelors like us. We (Manu, Pillai, Sam, Suresh, and I) lived in a cheap, second-grade flat in Coxtown, Banglore. The four of us worked as copy-editors for a national daily, while Pillai was employed in the IT field. We had our share of kicks. For Manu, Pillai, Sam and Suresh, it was drinking, for me it was watching them get drunk.Manu was keen to enjoy every ounce of his bachelor days since his girlfriend had threatened to put an end to it by marrying him soon.Comprehending the inevitability of having to reform his wayward life and eventually giving up his love for spirits in favor of his future wife, Manu moved in with us a month before he was to get married, on a pre-condition that it would be party time every weekend. My pals agreed willingly. So did I, for a different reason. The day before Christmas (it was on a Sunday), we invited the entire editorial staff for a bachelor’s party. We pooled in the money and purchased food, rum, whisky, vodka and red wine.The day began quite early by our standards at around 8 p.m. Friends began streaming in for quick drink. As it was a working day, they took turns to get drunk and stumbled back to office to finish the pages. (Some of the pages had a few typographical errors, the next day.) As the night progressed, the booze flowed and crowd got more raucous. The aggressive ones mellowed down, while the sober types began getting aggressive as the time progressed. However, the weather played spoilt sport as it began to rain heavily. To compound our misery, our area was plunged in darkness, due to unscheduled power cuts. Booze can have strange effects on the human mind. Pillai began his monologue on Kerala’s twisted politics, Sam on Shakespearen plays, while Suresh busied himself with Aristotle’s philosophy. As the three rambled on, Manu a die-hard-canine-hater (especially of the street dogs that seemed to be in abundance in Cox Town), began to get worked up, after hearing the howl of a distressed street dog. We rushed out in pouring rain, only to realise that a street dog had fallen in a narrow pit that had been left open for a borewell. On his insistence, we began the task of retrieving the dog in pouring rain. With torchlight to illuminate our progress, we got to work with a bucket, a rope and few good hands.As fellow journalists came in for a second round, everybody lent a helping hand in attempting to rescue the terrified canine, as Manu stood supervising the operation. Persistent attempts failed as the terrified dog refused to climb into the bucket and bit the rope. Having run out of other viable options to get the dog out, we decided to go in for the easier one - to get Manu drunk until he dropped senseless to the ground. A few more glasses did the trick and Manu was soon fast asleep, while the rest of the crowd continued with their nocturnal activity. By the time the “high-spirited guests” had left, and each of my friends had drunk themselves silly, the clock had struck 3 a.m. But the party was not yet over for others. Hence I retired to bed early, leaving my drunken friends to settle down later that morning. That was to cost me dearly. I woke up around 7 a.m. to realise that the front door was ajar and had not been bolted the entire night. My Bata shoes that I had bought from Chennai last week were missing. I frantically woke up my friends to tell them of the latest development. However, Manu ignored me, Sam laughed it away, Pillai seemed unconcerned, while Suresh gave me a lecture on materialism.But I was not the only one to lose my foot ware. I soon discovered that the nimble-footed thief had also made away with Sam’s Rebook, Pillai’s Woodlands formal shoes and Suresh’s expensive wristwatch from the hall. In contrast, Manu took it as a personal insult that his weather-beaten, two-year-old shoe had been left untouched in favour of our footwear.Our search seemed futile as the thief had also picked up our socks that had been left to dry on the cloth line. The incident left a deep mark in our minds. My friends promised never to drink again, at least, not with the door left open.

Always An Engima

This is one subject that is so vast that it would require me to write a thesis. A subject so complex, that it may require life-long research and may yet throw up more questions than answers. They have been a subject or source of wars, jealousy, beauty, apathy and abuse. Plainly speaking - women are enigmatic creation that has befuddled MAN (kind) - capable of immense greatness but also of equal malice; much kindness but also of unspeakable cruelty; intuitive and calculative yet seemingly vain and petty; physically weaker but mentally stronger than men; seemingly simple but more complex than the enigma code. Capable of remembering all through their lives about guys who jilted them in love, yet never remembering the guys who helped them get over the crisis. Aren’t they worthy and fascinating subjects of study in a lab, guys?

Colour Of Money!

How many times have we made a decision in our professional life - a decision in favour of pecuniary benefits over job satisfaction? How many times have we worked longer, harder during weekends, at the cost of quality time with our loved ones? And what have we got at the end of the year - a small perk, a promotion or as in the case of the majority workaholics - just a pat on the shoulder for the job well done? Ask any one, particularly those out of a business school or an engineering college, what his/her dream is, and invariably the answer will be - making money. True, money is an important factor in life, but does life begin and end with just making more money?I have been witness to two extremities vis-a-vis money - of dearth and excess. A friend of mine from a prestigious A-grade business school has a salary which is probably five times of what i earn in my present position. She is out of town 15 days in a month and has everything anyone can dream of - a gleaming Merci, a gardener, a cook - she has it all. But peace of mind, health and social life, none.She is lonely and suffers from umpteen number of health problems - something her Rs 6.5-lakh p.a. salary has been unable to cure or provide a solution. So much for making loads of money? My other friend was my college batch mate. After his degree, he tried a variety of jobs, made bad investments, got married and finally ran into heavy debt. The last I heard from him, he was selling every piece of furniture that was available, to keep debtors at bay. He is afloat now, rather just about managing with his meagre income. In this case it was lack of money or rather the lack pure lack of common sense while investing that brought him all the trouble. So once again we come to the same question, where do we draw the line when it comes to making money? How much are we ready to sacrifice, just to earn a little more? And how do we define the parameters of success in this mad materialistic world that we live in? No wonder success is defined as a "relative term". For some it means going up the social ladder, for others it is climbing the organisational ladder and for most it is just plain - making loads of money. But the bottomline is the same for everyone - money can buy you everything.

(mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy (Rendezvous with a goat)

I have always been the adventurous type in my family. Mother liked animals, dad tolerated them while elder brother abhorred them. I was the only exception: I loved animals whole-heartedly. Consequently, frogs, squirrels, cats, dogs and pigeons (to name a few species from the animal kingdom) have at some point of time have been residents in my house.I do remember mother's scream, brother's petrified looks and dad's good whipping, when I (as a nine-year-old then), proudly presented, during dinnertime, a baby fruit bat as my pet. I had found the fellow sprawled on the floor and had decided to taken him in, out of sympathy. But I had to release him immediately owing to intense opposition from the rest of my folks.Nevertheless, such minor setbacks failed to deter me from attempting to befriend any stray animal in my sight. The result is that I have been forced to make annual trips to our family doctor for anti-rabies shots.One such unfortunate encounter was when I was twelve years old. As I walked home, one evening after school, my sight fell on a goat near a tea stall that was busy munching a wall poster. Compassion swelled in my heart, as i witnessed its pitiable condition of having to eat old posters as a source of nutrition. I immediately made my way to the goat with the hope of dragging the beast to better source of nutrition - a few patches of grass in the area.The goat seemed quite unimpressed as I had interrupted his supper. I dropped my schoolbag and attempted to have a go at it. Twice it successfully managed to dodge my eager hands. Repeated attempts to capture the goat too was futile as it proved to be more agile than me.In my childish enthusiasm i had to recall a golden rule: hunger and anger can be a deadly combination in a beast. But when the goat lowered its forehead, fear gave wings to my feet.But before I could make an effective run, the horns came in contact. I remember being lifted off the ground and landing, with a painful thud, sprawled and face-first, on the asphalt.The goat proceeded to return to its primary function, after having given vent to its fury. I turned round to find a crowd gathering around me. The embarrassment of having ?bitten the dust? in public far outweighed the pain that I had begun to experience as I attempted to sit upright.The second encounter was with a milch cow, a few years later. This time around I was luckier, as I fled before I suffered a similar fate. In 27 years of my life, I have suffered several bites, scratches, and undergone subsequent stitches.But I have not changed much: I still am as compassionate towards animals as I was when i was nine. The only little difference being that: i apply caution before approaching a stray beast.

mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy Part 5 (A cooked up tale)

Cooking is a fine art, attempted by many, chosen as a profession by some, but mastered by few. I, unfortunately, come in the last category.

My predicament in the cooking department began when my mother undertook a 12-day trip to Pune, to participate in a music programme.The decision to go on a trip was announced at the dinner table, which was met with stark silence on our part. This was comprehensible if certain facts are put in the right perspective.

For one, (Father, elder brother and I) appreciate and contribute to mother's cooking quite ?substantially? by means of consuming everything that is served without much hassles and very little complaints.Secondly, none, with exception to my mother, know the nuances involved in cooking (including washing and cutting vegetables), and hence the prospect of managing the household for more than 10 days left us petrified.The third factor was that father was averse to eating hotel food as he has a very delicate tummy. And consumption of any type of hotel food often leads to a serious round of disagreement with his stomach.

Lastly, of the three, only I happed to be what I term ?kitchen-friendly? help with both my father and elder brother least considering the prospect of helping with the cooking.Mother?s reassurance to us in the cooking department came in the form of a long list of do?s and don?ts for preparing homemade meals during her days of absence.

The night prior to her departure to Pune was spent in explaining the nitty-gritty?s of the day-to-day household chores (including the menu for feeding an emancipated street dog that had taken shelter in our compound).After she left early on Sunday, I woke up early in the morning, quite confident of the ?little? tasks that lay ahead. I entered the kitchen with a lot of confidence only to realize that my mind had not retained the instructions given to me the previous night.I made quick breakfast, lunch with whatever food was left the previous.

An eerie feeling told me that the days ahead would not be as smooth as I had initially perceived. And soon true as I had thought my mother's maternal uncle's daughter-in-law's somebody and her companion, dropped in to say hi to us.

After the customary handshakes and smiles, I excused myself and went in for my maiden attempt to prepare tea. I poured the milk in a container and heated it. Later I put the tea powder and proceeded to use the filter, but in my haste, I dropped some of it on the floor. Later I added two spoons of sugar. As the milk was insufficient I proceeded to add, what I perceived as milk powder.Tea was served. And I waited with bated breath to see the result. And the result was instantaneous.

The raucous twosome became instantly silent after just two sips from their cups. Much to my relief, they scurried away stating that they had other relatives to meet before they left home for the night.The reason was not too difficult to decipher the reason for their early exit. In dire haste, I had inadvertently added baking soda instead of milk powder.

But much worse things were yet to come.My first-hand experience in preparing lunch had just begun. I had begun with a delicious curry that required sufficient amounts of chopped carrot, onions, ladys fingers, chilli powder and too dal. A quick-read of the recipe handed to me on the eve of departure by my mother, made the preparation seem a child's play.

I chopped the veggies, as instructed, although the onions literally left me in ?tears of joy?. The curry was to be garnished with chilli powder and a bit of sugar. I was behind the 1:00 p.m. lunch schedule. It was already 1:30 p.m. and I was feeling quite hungry when father streamed into the kitchen, asking about my progress.

Blame it on the fragrance wafting through the kitchen or his hunger fangs, but he began a long lecture on why hotel food was best to be avoided and how certain preservatives used in food items were carcinogenic.The plates were then kept on the table and we began to eat. My father was the first to taste the food. But the minute he took the first bite, his enthusiasm began to ebb, so did the color of his face.

His eyes went red and his face ashen, as he lunged for a glass of water. After having had his fill, he told me to get ready to head for a hotel.As I prepared to leave, the final insult came from none other than the geriatric orphaned dog that stood waiting at our doorway for its customary meal.

Not wanting to waste the food I had so? meticulously? prepared, I poured the contents into its bowl.But I was quite dumbfounded, when the dog merely sniffed at the contents; gave me a sympathetic glance before scampering away to its usual rest place. The slight from the dog spoke volumes about the quality of my cooking.

However, this was nearly a year ago. Today my contribution to my mother?s cooking has considerably improved. I can boast of chopping vegetables without the fear of chopping off my fingers. I have begun the slow and steady progress towards becoming a good cook!

(mis) Adventures Of A Bachelor Boy - Part 4 (Litmus test)

I have had a proclivity towards fine arts since my early childhood days, and hence, it was only natural that I would go in for a degree in Visual Communication after my schooling.It was the summer of 95?, and I was just about feeling a deep sense of relief that most people experience after completing their higher secondary examinations. I set about to fulfil my dreams of getting Viscom degree: by visiting the Government Arts College for an application form to the course.My first visit to the campus left a lasting impression on me. The majestic Roman-style architecture, the wooden support beams and the serene atmosphere of the campus were very impressive. But the staff, like the yawning peon, however, turned to be quite unimpressive.The immensely obese gentleman took a good 15 minutes to issue an application form for the course. Having completed the formalities, and filled the form, he took another 15 minutes to receive it. Within a few days, I had the call-card, giving me the time, date and the venue for the entrance examination. The exam, it said, was to be conducted over a period of three days between 11 a.m. and 5 p.m. I went along with my father and was the first candidate to reach the campus. In an hour, the campus was jam-packed with candidates from various parts of the State. The roll numbers were called out and the candidates were divided into three groups. I was lucky to get into the first group. We were made to sit in a dingy hall that seemed a wee better than a pigsty. The furnishing included drawing boards, stools and 13 puzzled candidates perched precariously on them. A quick survey of my fellow candidates revealed that some were between the age group of 29 and 35. It was also embarrassing for me to realize that I had erroneously assumed one of the ?older? candidates to be an invigilator for the entrance test. On being queried, one of the ?older? candidates said that many, like him, were full-time artists who were appearing for the course only for the degree. My conversation was interrupted when the examiner entered the hall with full scape drawing sheets. To my dismay I found that the desks provided to us were too small for the sheets and I had great difficulty holding both ends straight and attempting simultaneously to sketch on it. An elderly gent, who I had (once again erroneously) assumed to be duty gardener, entered the room. He pulled out a rickety stool and placed it below a 200-watt lamp and perched himself on it after removing his shirt. The examiner then proceeded to point out to the fine specimen on the stool, and asked us to begin a ?live portrait? of the man. It was no mean task for a novice to do a live portrait. But this specimen proved to be more difficult, given the fact that one needed to be very skilful to sketch the contours of the elderly gent, who seemed to display more of bones and skin, than of flesh. While other ?older? candidates began their work immediately, I began mine by stretching out the sheet and alternatively attempting to sketch before the sheet wound up again. My maiden attempt of sketching a ?live portrait? finally came to fruition after nearly two-and-half-hours.This was possible by working in stages: first came the head, then the neck, and finally the trunks and the legs. Having worked on it so hard, it was time to unroll my magnum opus. But to my dismay, I found that the head was slanting at approximately 30 degrees, his trunk was at 45 degrees and the rest of his legs and the stool, stood somewhere in between. Even as I was contemplating my next course of action, in came the peon, we had met a few days ago, with a schedule of the tests for the next two days. On day two would be the pottery test, wherein candidates would be expected to make moulds of earthenware and human faces! On day three (it was worse), candidates would be provided with chisels, hammers and piece of stone. The candidates were expected to carve a flower or an animal from the stone. My experience with hammers was limited to my childhood days, when breaking radio sets and watches, and every electrical item (that I took a liking to) was a favored pastime. I wondered if this degree was a value-add for beginners like me or was merely a piece of paper with little value for seasoned artists like my companions in the hall. The tests were obviously not meant for beginners like me, who required to be trained by professionals, to get into this course. This posed another question: If I was trained, why do I need this course? My train of thoughts was interrupted by the examiner?s announcement that the test would continue after a lunch break. The announcement on the sculpture test had left me in jitters. It was now a question of paramount significance to my life - what was more important my thumb or my career? I made up my mind and did what I have never regretted till date ? I fled from the hall.

mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy - Part 3 (Foot marks in history)

(A pure nonsensical account of how a pair of footwear played an insignificant role in history)

Long due in the trash bin, these rock-hard pieces of leather had been saved from oblivion owing to its emotional, albeit ?insignificant?, historical value. This weather-beaten footwear was the prized possession of my friend, Gurucharan. He adorned his showcase with the footwear. Though umpteen visitors had expressed varied opinions, ranging from revulsion to ridicule, he nevertheless, continued to display them proudly.It was not merely a pair of slippers, he once said, but a piece of history. History my foot, I had exclaimed. Manufactured by a local (long-perished) manufacturer in 1915, the footwear had been a source of pride for his great-great grandfather. For, he was the first to have had such a ?luxury? in his lineage. Thus, Gurucharan would begin the story of the famed footwear to several unwary and unwilling guests. A Tonga driver, his great-grand father, Haricharan, attached more value to his slippers than his own life.He took great care against wear and tear. Much to the envy of his ilk, Haricharan would kick the horse with his foot, to show-off the prized posession. Despite blessed with such luxury, he was not endowed with good hearing or common sense. The year, his great-great grandson said, was 1919. His great-grand father had just left two passengers at the gates of Jallianwallah Bagh. The place wore a festive look with thousands of people milling the place to have a glimpse of two anti-British speakers who had defied prohibitory orders. Being inherently curious, Haricharan made his way through the crowds. The meet was of little use as neither the speech nor its political significance made any sense to him. Having earned nearly 15 annas that day, he proposed to kill his boredom by watching the crowd. As he walked towards the crowd, he saw Khaki-clad figures brandishing rifles and a white officer leading them. None paid attention as a tall White officer barked order to open fire on the crowd. At that moment, Haricharan found that a leather strap on the footwear had given way. As he bent down to set it right, bullets began to whizz past his ears.Many attempted to flee. But his great-grandfather stood focussed in his endeavor to set right the strap. Eyewitness account says that a man almost succeeded in dodging the bullets until he tripped over Haricharan?s inclined figure, and went face first in a nearby well. Haricharan was oblivious to the mayhem around him as he continued with his objective.By the time the strap was set right, the ground seemed empty. Unnerved but relieved of having been left alive by providence, he decided to make a run for it. He never spoke about the incident, until years later, by which time his son, Sreecharan, had grown into a school-going, marble playing, brat of 13. Battered by the elements, the footwear had become hard as rock and hardly served the purpose it had been manufactured. Yet it was safeguarded like precious jewels, safe in a trunk. Sreecharan being curious as a cat, once dared to open the trunk in the absence of his father.Even as he opened the trunk, a nasty smell struck his nostrils. Little Sreecharan soon came upon the reason ? a pair of footwear. Ignorant of the value his father had attached to the prized possession, the boy flung the stuff far and wide through the open window.Circumstances are yet unclear, but history has it that an anti-British procession was winding its way through the lanes adjoining his house. The footwear struck the head of a white police official known for brutality, leading to his untimely death. This culminated in a lathicharge on the protestors. His father hurried home fearing an impending curfew in the town. Little Sreecharan received the first taste of physical punishment and worse, some lessons on history from his father. The son ambled along the lanes in shame and pain, finally managing to track down the prized footwear among the assortment left behind by fleeing protestors. And so goes the story, his father grew up feeding on the stories of the famed footwear. Gurucharan says, his father kept the pair with him, as he stood hearing Nehru?s famous freedom speech in ?47.Later he carried them during the anti-Emergency movement and many other agitations that were to follow. It was the personal and emotional bonding with his father?s leather footwear that made a now seemingly well-off Sreecharan to decide on opening a footwear shop in Punjab.However, he later shifted the shop to Coimbatore in the late 80?s, a fall-out of insurgency problem. Despite ostensible losses, he has never closed it, save for Sundays. Thankfully, his son, a lawyer, insists he isn?t interested in the business. Gurucharan continues to get legal clients at his home, where he ?entertains? them with stories about the footwear. I heard a few days ago, that his clientele had declined steadily. Maybe it was the stories that had driven them away or his ineffectual professional arguments. No one is sure yet. As for the footwear, it's still in his posession.

(mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy - Part 2 (Tale with a twist)

It was 9:30 p.m. and the bus service was running late by nearly 15 minutes. Route no. 29B from downtown Periyar Nagar to Saidapet was overcrowded. I preferred to take such buses, for it saved me the day?s ticket as most conductors were lethargic and didn?t bother to move through the crowd to collect the fare.My clothes were pressed; shoes polished and perfume enough to stifle the stink arising from an overflowing garbage bin near the stop. The bus arrived as usual, carrying a sea of humanity. I managed to squeeze myself through the rear entrance. The conductor, surprisingly, was not in his seat. He stood at the front entrance, surrounded by a mass of hands holding coins of various denominations.The heat was oppressive, the crowd overwhelming. Yet I managed to safely perch myself on the last step and hold on to the railing with reasonable sense of confidence of seeing through this journey, alive. To my right stood an elderly gentleman, who seemed to be sweating profusely. Dressed in white shirt and veshtti, he clung onto a handbag, which almost seemed like second skin. The man (his name I will never know) began talking at lengths about how the world had gone bad and why it was no longer safe to lead a peaceful life as a retired civil servant. He referred to the spate of daylight murders in apartments in the city. Some passengers shook their heads sympathetically and spoke of how personally they had become victims to less insidious criminals ? pickpockets and cheats.As the bus veered through the notoriously pot-holed thoroughfares of the city, the conversation quickly turned to petty thieves and the slick methods employed by them. The elderly gentleman spoke disparagingly of pickpockets and their vile ways of robbing old pensioners of their hard-earned money. To this another youngster narrated how a butter-fingered thief had once deftly cut open his nylon bag and carried away its contents. He was going back home with Rs. 20,000/- from the bank. Luckily the money was in his shirt?s inner pocket, and the culprit merely walked away with worthless bills and an old notebook. Saying thus, he proceeded to thank half-a-dozen gods for saving his cash. I observed the elderly gentleman?s carry bag. One could tell it contained cash, lots of them. I told him to keep a wary eye on strangers, especially smooth-talking tricksters, who diverted the victim?s attention while their accomplices snatched and fled with their valuables. This remark started another round of discussion. By then one could hear a baby cry, and the conductor yell at an unruly youngster who was seated in a place reserved for women. I told the gentleman I worked in a private bank and extended a visiting card to him. He was quickly impressed, evident from a series of questions put forth on provident funds and declining interest rates on savings accounts. I answered the best I could. He told me about his daughter?s forthcoming marriage and how he was taking a loan towards meeting this expense. I wished him well and spoke about the need to take care of his cash, long enough for the conductor to finally collect tickets from us. I bought his ticket, which seemed to please him further.A few stops later, the rush eased a bit. As the bus neared the Pondy Bazaar stop, the old man affectionately patted me on my shoulder. As he was about to get down, he would have stumbled down the stairs, if I had caught hold of him. He blessed me and left the bus.I was to alight at the next stop. I was extremely happy. My day?s wages were earned. I hurriedly stuffed several visiting cards and the wade of notes in my pocket.So finally the SSLC education I had received did hold me in good stead. I was in and out of jail several times where I had mastered the art of using tiny blades to slash purses. I hated to do this to an old man. But then, even pickpockets like me got to earn a living, right?

(mis)adventures Of A Bachelor Boy - Part 1 (lock-out)

The night of 2001 February was cold and misty. The comfortable warmth of the bed beckoned me as sleep rested heavily on my eyes. Though a hectic day at office, I had successfully completed my work much ahead of my edition deadline.I was a copy-editor in a newspaper organization in Bangalore then, and lived with relatives at Malleswaram. With work for a copy-editor beginning only at 5 p.m. and effectively ending at 1 a.m., it was not surprising that I, like my journalistic brethren, was a creature of the night.If the work hours were uncomfortable, equally uncomfortable was the night-drop facility. A Sumo transported us to our destinations. Thanks, to a 26-year-old guy, who had a habit of falling asleep on the wheel, as he drove the vehicle. However, I found innovative means to stay alive. I sat in the front seat and indulged in inane banter to keep the Tamil-speaking Kannadiga awake, at least, till I reached my destination.It was just like anyother day, when I got down from the vehicle in one of the umpteen crossroads in Malleswaram. I had noticed unusual number of policemen patrolling the streets. I was told me that patrolling had been beefed up following a number of reports of theft from the area.As I began to walk towards the apartment, I cam across two beat constables, who ordered me to a stop on my tracks. One of the constable could barely manage in Tamil. After a couple of attempts and after having waved my journalist's ID card, I was allowed to proceed. I had hardly crossed 20 yards, when I was stopped by another set of beat constables, who unlike the ones i had just seen, seemed to be unusually hostile towards me.My attempts to speak in broken Kannada only seemed to infuriate them further. One of them asked me why I couldn't speak Kannada though I lived in Bangalore. I had the gall to reply that I lived in any place as per my likes, to which, he raised his lathi to strike.Only my quick thinking prevented me from receiving a blow ? showing my journalist ID card. Having convinced them that I was not a cat burglar, I proceeded towards the apartment gates.But my trouble had just begun. To my dismay, I found the security guard on the night shift wasn't the one I had seen in the evening. He had left after completing his shift but had not informed his colleague about my late-night entry.My problem was compounded by the fact that this security guard could neither understand Tamil, English or Hindi. I tried convincing him that I had just moved into the apartment. Those were the days of pre-cell phone days. I waved him my ID, tried to communicate with sign language, attempted to speak in broken Kannada.(Incidentally I had not progressed beyond the point of communicating with anyone in that language except for the basics which involved saying "I am hungry" and "time for food".)Having literally shown the gate by the security guard and with no STD booths in sight in the middle of the night, I found myself on the street with a street dog, a rodent and a few mosquitoes, for company. We were shortly joined by a constable, who could thankfully, speak Tamil.We chatted on topics ranging from Tamil stars to the Cauvery issue to the most popular stars up North well into the early hours of the next day, even as I shivered in the cold, envying the warmth of the woolen sweater worn by the policeman.The nearly five-hour wait finally came to an end with the policeman waving me goodbye and a milkman depositing milk sachets in front of the doors of the apartment around 5:30 a.m.I managed to slip-in, and rang the bell. I hardly remember if I answered the flurry of questions put by my relatives who had woken up by then, or me stumbling into my bedroom. All that I remember is the warmth of the bed and the sleep that enveloped me in no time.

The Hmmmm! Factor

This is my maiden attempt to write a blog. Hence i thought I would begin my ramble with trivia, which is of immense import to guys who are still single. A subject of discussions that has never been attempted to understand by MANkind: the hmmmm! guys frequently get to see during their extended chat sessions with women.Ever wondered what the hmmm, means? It could mean anything: disinterest, absolute apathy, boredom, expectation, irritation, and sometimes even petty jealousy.Here's what i learnt during my countless chat sessions during the period of seven years:Take for instance those with a habit of saying hmmmm even before the completion of your sentence. Beware! This is a definite sign of disinterest.Occurance of such an instance calls for prudence on the part of the guy, since pressing his luck too far will break all vestiges of courtesy left in the girl. The result may be a very polite/polished (or a vey impolite/rude): "get lost" remark from the girl.Absolute apathy usually is the product of constant attempts on the part of a guy to get too friendly with a girl who cares a darn whether you are dead or alive. The hmmm, in the this case, appears at the end of every sentence and is concluded by a "hey you dont mind, am a bit busy ok" sentence.Boredom is when the lady on the Net has had too much from you for a day. In this case, the hmmm is monotonous and usually makes an appearance after you type paragraphs (that she considers inane details) about your past, present, future and details about what you did as a kid.Expectation is when the lady adds "then" after every hmmm! These are definite signs that the lady seeks something from the guy, who is too much of a dullard to understand the obvious signs/signals. Such conversations is most likely to lead to dissappointments for both sides involved.Irritation is obvious when you attempt to butt into a conversation between two people who seem already content with have each other's company. The lady will appear to intersperse "accha" or "ok" with her "hmmm". But in all probablity she is not even interested in opening your dialog box but only to say hmmm! ok and bading goodbye to you.The hmmm from a girl suffering from bouts of petty jealousy is usually short and followed by the word "really?", a sign of disbelief and anger. The occurances of such cases are normally the fallout of a girl watching her guy having a very "friendly chat" with another girl she dislikes by sight. Persuasive powers may be put to severe test in this case on the part of the guy.Well my research in this subject continues. My networking has improved vastly but then as someone said: "Mysterious are the ways of women", my search continues for a comprehensive answer to this hmmm factor.