Friendships and Timestamps

Reading through any band break up story, you'll be forced to contend with one factor that will always be evident - ego. Most bands over the ages have broken up because of their own, or somebody else's ego. Nobody ever stopped playing music just because they were shit all of a sudden and people were not buying their records.

Take The Beatles as an example. A band I worship. Huge in the 60's, and then suddenly broke up in the 70s, after just ten years of ruling the music world as arguably, the best band there ever was! Like any other band, this was the story of four friends who came together to jam in their backyard, had failures, then success. Success - so much success, at one point they were called 'bigger than Jesus Christ himself'. And nobody even protested. Try doing that today in 'secular India'. Call somebody bigger than Jesus Christ, and you'll have a riot in your hands. But not when The Beatles were playing 'Yesterday' in Madison Square or the old Wembley.

But what is that makes friendships sour? Is it just the ego? Or is it competing priorities. Is it the fact that the human brain is never content with what it has, and always looks for more. Are we programmed to be greedy as human beings, even in friendships. Do we want 'better friends'? I'm not going to go all shallow and say prettier friends, or even richer friends. But do we, maybe, want friends who will give us richer experiences, and not just the mundane conversations. The friend who drinks wants a friend who drinks, the smoker wants a 1 PM post-lunch buddy. Are we at the end of the day looking for like-minded people?

I remember a quote from Manu Joseph's 'Serious Man' that resonated with me. Don't we all at the end of the day just want to be better than our friends? Mind you, not all are as ambitious. But there always is the odd friendship where competition is ingrained. My best friend and I have been competing right from school. He was the better cricket player, and I the better footballer. He was a stud at math, and I at accounts. He got into Chennai's best commerce college, and I didn't. We didn't speak for a year. Then I passed my CA exams in the first attempt, and suddenly, we were talking again. Do we only speak to people when we are successful? Is friendship not all-weather.

The Beatles broke up because they had songwriting issues. Their lead singer was also in love. There are a lot of versions to that story, but the version they all agreed to was disagreements over the music they made. Only John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote their songs, but suddenly George Harrison's (my personal favourite) songs were finding more mileage. They had to include his tracks too. This was the 70s, and before you know it, they are fighting for space on the disk. It ended with Paul McCartney walking out on The Beatles. 'This is just business, but you will always be my best friends', he apparently said. But they never spoke again.

I haven't been speaking to many people I thought were going to be friends through life. It would almost be funny if it was not as sad, but at some time during our friendship, we almost always promised to be best men at each other's weddings. Little did we know our friendship came with a timestamp, just like that milk you bought from the grocery. Most of these guys are today not even on my Facebook friends list.

In 2011, when I created my Facebook profile, I had 1k+ friends. Today, I have less than 900. Aren't we supposed to be making friends as we grow older? Isn't that how this life thing should work? Not let go of people, but get to know more. Evidently not.

Maybe we get bored of mundane gossips over time. The bad A-jokes will bore you, the drunken dancing is not funny anymore. Maybe the people you thought you knew have changed. People change all the time, and that is not even a surprise. Friendships sour because of ego, changing priorities, human beings who think they are more important than they actually are, sometimes love (Hello, Yoko Ono! Thanks for breaking the Beatles up!), and a false sense of self worth.

Little do we realize the person you are hanging out with today will be a stranger tomorrow. Whom you hung out with yesterday, has already become a stranger today. At some point in your life, you and your friends will meet up for the last time, go out for your last meal together, and probably share your last laugh - and you will not know it. As Mr Keating says in Dead Poets Society, 'Carpe Diem, boys. Seize the moment'. You never know what's going to happen tomorrow.

Madras of my Dreams

It was only last week when I completed Bishwanath Ghosh's fitting tribute to Madras - Tamarind City. I don't believe in coincidences, but the stars had to be lined for me to finish the book almost the same week when the city was celebrating its Madras Week.

Today, is Madras Day. I am not going to drole on about filter kaapi, the Ilayaraja music, and other things which would be as good wherever in the world we choose to enjoy them. Filter kaapi on the shores of the Mediterranean, with Ilayaraja plugged in will be pretty good, you have to admit. It is not unique to Chennai. Neither Ilayaraja or the filter kaapi are 'Madrasi', as the Northies would like to call it. Kumbakonam makes an equally mean filter kaapi, and Raja is from Theni, a town 500 odd km from Chennai. So, definitely not Chennai.

Chennai to me are other unique things, unique feelings. Experiences that other cities wouldn't be able to duplicate.

1. The Culture - The city embraces its culture. Its not stored away in an old trunk, waiting to be displayed during marriages or other such occasions. It's there for everyone to see, everyday. The namam, patais, mallipoo, and whatnot.

2. The Weather - or the heat. The sweltering Chennai heat, and the sea breeze in the evenings, almost as if the sea was apologizing for it's unruly kid.
3. The History - To quote Ghosh, the city is almost like a shy maiden. She will not tell you about the people who tried wooing her, and failing miserably at that. About a certain Francis Day, who had his mistress in the Portuguese settlement of San Thome, a mistress he wanted to stay very close to for obvious reasons. That's why he suggested Madras as a possible 'starting ground' for The East India Company in the 1600s. Then there is Sir Arthur Wellesley, who stayed for long periods in Madras before going into battle to defeat a certain Napolean Bonnaparte. None of us will know any of this, or about Elihu Yale,who went on to set up the Yale University. Yale wooed the maiden, just like Robert Clive - who thrice tried to commit suicide in Fort St. George. He failed all three times, went on to win the Battle of Plassey, and establish what we know today as The British Empire in India. We don't know any of this because the shy maiden that Madras is, doesn't tell us. She smiles when we mention it - but doesn't offer further details. You'll need to probe and probe if you want more details. The people of Madras take after the city. Shy, almost unwilling to accept how good they are. The Ramanujams, the Radhakrishnans. If born anywhere else in the world, they would have gotten more fame and fortune they did in Madras. But that's what Madras does to you, leaves you grounded.

4. The people, the co-existence of cultures. The Parthasarathy temple and it's proud Iyengars in Triplicane. The equally egoistic Iyers and their Kabali temple in Mylapore. The co-existence of the two, and the protection of Brahminism that they have taken upon themselves. To think the only people separating these two are the Muslims of Royappetah.

5. The humble middle class. The people who rush to work, get back and plan their next day without a thought. The upper class with their kitty parties. The co mingling of the two. The vanishing or the disappearance of the almost thin lines separating them.

6. The city's love for cricket, and a newfound love for football and it's ability to support both without prejudice - and it's gradual excellence in both sports.

7. It's humble, humble people, redefining the phrase 'salt of the Earth'. It's Vishwanath Anands, Manu Josephs, Kris Srikanths. It's cult figures. The city that once celebrated an unknown MS Subbalakshmi, today welcomes many more future stars. And all of them are but left humbled by the love shown. The ability of it's people to excel without a complaint. To brave the heat but with a smile.

8.Its food. The sambhar. Little did I know I'd appreciate this only after leaving the city.

Today, I'm fortunate enough to live only 300 km/5 hours away from Madras. I manage to get home almost every weekend to stay close to home. To me, home is not home because of it's huge skyscrapers, great skylines or amazing weather. My home doesn't have any of this. All it has is a heart to accept. It can take a pounding. Corrupt politicians, crazy weather, a tsunami, and a couple of cyclones. None of this can shake Madras. Madras will remain what it is for it's people and it's ability to accept change. Triplicane and Mylapore will remain. Even as Nungambakkam evolves. That's what Madras will always be about. The Madras of my dreams.

An Open Letter to Kamal Hassan.

Dear Mr. Hassan,

I have to admit I'm a fan. A huge fan of Kamal Hassan, the actor. Kamal Hassan, who has arguably the best comic timing in the industry. And the ever underrated Kamal Hassan, the singer. I felt for you when politicians and vested interests stopped your movies from releasing. I was with you supporting you when the common man asked questions about your personal life. It's his personal life, I told them. Appreciate the actor, don't judge his personal life. It's none of our business.

I loved it when you came on National Media once before the release of Dasavatharam and said religion and practicing religion should be like the the first night after marriage. In your own quintessential manner, you explained that you shouldn't have to ask who's religion is what. It's their own beliefs and we must let them be. I couldn't have agreed more.

But Mr Hassan, your recent foray into politics, the extravagant and sometimes irresponsible statements being made - statements being made without proof and with a lot of bias, has hurt a lot of people. Me included. Mr Hassan, when you tell people matters of religion should be within the four walls of their bedroom, why do you insist on putting forward your views on religions you don't care about? Or more particularly, Hindu Brahminism. You have spoken more about being an atheist than any priest in any temple would have spoken about God. You've made it a point to, time and again, include a snide remark in all your movies. In all your press conferences. A remark here about how you hate religion. A remark there about how brahmins are still exploiting others. Sorry, Mr. Hassan, if this is not hypocrisy, I do not know what is.

Second, why now, Mr Kamal Hassan? Why the sudden concern for society? The sudden love for the state. The sudden necessity to rescue the state from absolute evil, as you call it? Why did you not speak up when your movie was banned? Why did you say you whimper and threaten to leave the country? And what has changed between then and now? Where were you when the city was drowning in 2015? Did you not feel like coming to the rescue of people then? Did your misplaced communist ideologies not point you to the door? No, you were comfortable, Mr. Hassan. Comfortable within the confines of your own home.

The BJP government came to power in the center in 2014. Post which we had the TN chief minister go to jail. We had an interim CM. We had the CM acquitted, the CM admitted and the CM died. Where were you during all the turmoil? Mr. Hassan, you publically claimed to not have enough money to raise your movie, Vishwaroopam. What makes you think the common man will trust you with his money tomorrow? The common man does not have enough money to pay tax and manage four square meals a day, and you want him to support your new adventure? Don't you think it is irresponsible, if not stupid? I'm again not questioning your decision to enter politics. Only the timing. Why now?

You're an opportunist, Mr Hassan. An opportunist with misplaced ideals. Communism did not work for Germany. Communism was born in Germany and failed. Karl Marx and Lenin may be your inspirations but both were not without fault. The latter more than the former. Have you heard of Lenins gulags? You asked the present PM to apologise for Demonetisation. Would you be willing to apologise for everything Lenin did? You, Mr. Hassan, are an opportunist who did not have the guts to act when the previous CM was in power. You were scared of a powerful woman. And a wonderful statesman herself.

Speaking of being a statesman, Mr. Hassan, what experience do you have in administration. What have you administered or managed before? I don't want to get into your personal life, but that's hardly setting an example for how you'd behave when in charge of a State. You met the Communist from Kerala. You met Mr. Kejriwal. What were you trying to learn from them? Political murder and pollution control? Beware, Mr Hassan, the communists will use you and throw you away like tissue paper. Where will you go then?

You speak of making public all donations received. Cleaning up the State. Launching apps. All good thoughts that deserve plaudits. We are a country of a majority of Hindus. By alienating the majority, how do you plan on winning a majority? Elementary mathematics, Mr. Hassan. You were too busy making movies then. But learn now. Learn how to play politics without having to pit man against man. Religion against religion. You blamed the BJP of communalism. You are doing the exact same thing with your remarks. You will face a glorious defeat not because you were a bad politician. But only because you were an awful person. A hypocrite might win a few battles - but will lose the war.

So this is where we stand. Please go back to what you were good at. Making good films. For when you jump into a swamp, don't expect to get out clean.

Regards.

A Year In The Life...

One Year.

It's been exactly one year since I made the move away from home. I thought I'd write this the moment I moved, but figured it would make more sense to give the city a chance to impress yours truly.

I hated the city at first sight. The city was Bangalore, and it was six hours on a good day from Chennai, which was home. It was the closest you can be to home while staying away. Which was good!

I was moving jobs, to a better job which paid more, had a better brand name et al. Everything that would force you to leave the ones you loved. Goldman Sachs was calling, and I had to respond. The packing was easy. I meant to get back home every week for my teaching (I taught Auditing and Law over the weekends in Chennai, that I didnt mean to discontinue); which meant less clothes packed. More kept at home for the weekends, when I would really live.

I took the 6 AM train from home to Bangalore (I don't want to call it the random new place anymore). I got down at a wrong station, the one farthest from home, got conned by a taxi guy and ended up paying 300 bucks for a 15 km ride. All on the first day. And yes, I also shared my cab with this girl who tried to make conversation with me. (Beware of alcohol, cigarettes and girls, my grandma warned me before I left Chennai. Fat Chance.) A typical first day at Bangalore.

My house was a 3 bedroom apartment in a nicely maintained gated community. The swimming pool was brilliant, the gym was rarely used and my roommates friendly. It took me six hours to set things right (Did I say I packed less?). The only saving grace to this date in Bangalore is our amazing cook who lives with us.

Okay, whats good about the city?

The city is vibrant. It's much more alive than any city I had been in. Maybe not as vibrant as Dubai, but definitely up there. The people, extremely friendly. There are more people from outside states here than locals. Which is good, because everybody is lost, and nobody has time to throw tantrums that you'd more easily see in a Chennai or Kolkata. Nobody to say 'my city'. There are one or two, but hey, not that many!

The weather is brilliant. Its chilly most of the days.Which makes the unbearable bearable. Like the hour long waits in traffic, travelling to work at weird timings (there were days when I left from work at 2 AM). There is always a slight drizzle that I would like to imagine is at par with the weather in the UK. Okay, maybe a little too much scene.

 The work. When you travel 700 km home to and fro every weekend, it is normal for you not come back too excited some Mondays. This has not happened to me. Yet. There is top quality work to be done with top quality people.

Why do I still hate the city?

The sambar. THIS IS NOT HOW YOU MAKE SAMBAR GUYS!No excuse. Bring the firing squad in. Thanks god my cook makes the Chennai sambar (also known as normal sambar).

The culture. This is totally on me. I cant drink or smoke. I am a laidback, reserved 23 year old who would prefer a book to an evening at the pub. And people who judge, judge. Which is not going to change that fact that I am a laidback, bla bla bla. The best thing about Bangalore is the Blossoms Bookstore and that will always be it for me. Nothing else.

The infrastructure. I grew up in Dubai, but spent most of my teenage in Chennai. My expectations are not sky high. All I expect is a road. Black, wide, with tar. A road. Bangalore has roads, but none you can see. All you can see is the bumper of the car in front of you. Or if you walk, the potholes on the side. Don't try it, unless you want to get drenched.

Right, to sum up. Wonderful one year, with wonderful people (most of them). More Bangalore rants coming up. For now ta ta bye bye when is the next bus to Chennai da?     

Love, and all that.

Its been sometime since I've written. A long time, more like. As far as I can remember, this is the first Sunday that I've actually not gone out in the past year. It feels good to be home.

There have been lots of things that have happened between the last time I wrote and now. I've qualified (still haven't gotten a grad degree, though), started work at a proper corporate, gotten bored of work at the proper corporate, and have generally had a topsy turvy year.

Throughout this period there have been conflicting thoughts running in my mind on what love is, or why love really makes the world go round. First things first, why were the Beatles so loved? There have been hundreds of bands, thousands of musicians, and a million playback singers who have composed or sang really good songs over the ages, but why do we remember only a few? Most Beatles fans today were not even alive when they were at their peak in the 60s and 70s. But we still love them as much as our parents or grandparents did. The answer, at least my answer, is really interesting. It's their honesty. The honesty with which they sang, they conducted themselves. They did drugs, and they didnt hide that. John loved another woman even when he was married, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it. They weren't liars, weren't pretenders. They never wore clothes they couldn't afford, or had a debt sponsored lifestyle.

Much like my love for the Beatles, any form of love to me is honesty. When the John and Paul had irreconcilable differences, they split up. They didn't pretend to be friends to make money. That would be prostitution.

The Valentines Day week has passed, and my friend told me how so many of her friends got into a relationship on the eve of V-Day. They were 'apparently' so much in love. How do you fall in love because of a  single day? Where does all that love go the remaining 364 days?

I see people getting into relationships with amazing speed, and getting out even faster than that, and I wonder what really love is. Our definition of love itself changes over time. When I was three, I was pretty sure I loved that girl who came out to play whenever I called her. But that wasn't really love, was it? The moment she refused to play cricket, I stopped speaking to her. I was 3. She was 2. Fickle minds.

So is love momentary? Is it the company you crave for, and the feeling you share when your cravings are being satisfied? Is love so material, so, as I said, fickle?

Nope. Sorry to break your bubble, but love is not so simple.

Love could be the feeling you share with your best friend of seven years. When you know you complete each other, even when you dont meet, or text, or call. When you just let go, sit back with the satisfaction that one person is always going to be there for the other. When you trust your future in the hands of fate, and pray.

Because love is uncertain. The funny thing about love is only you can measure your own love. The other person will have absolutely no idea. Love is more like good weather, you miss it only when its gone.

And love is letting go. When you know the other person has had enough. When you know your love could be doing more harm than good. Love is letting go with dignity. Not the eye catching Sanjay Leela Bhansali 'ohmygodimgonnapuke' kind of letting go. It is when you know you're no longer needed, and you walk away into the sunset, assured of the other persons happiness.

To conclude, there were two characters that have always defined love for me. Both passed away earlier this month.

Severus Snape, and his unflinching, you can even call it unrealistic, love. The kind of love that doesn't always end happily. But love is love, no questions asked. When Alan Rickman died, I was broken, not because the world had lost an amazing acting talent, but because I had lost somebody I was always saw as Severus Snape. Whenever there were troubled moments, I'd say 'Always' and move on. Now there would no longer be a face to associate the dialogue with.

Atticus Finch, and his love for mankind in general, and his kids in particular from To Kill a Mockingbird. A book I read when I was 14, this was my transition book from the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew reading kid to a little more matured reading. Harper Lee's epic was the beginning of a beautiful journey for me. A journey that has still not ended. She taught me that thing aren't as bad as it seems, and to keep hope, for which I'll be ever thankful.

So the next time somebody tells you they are in love, don't ask whom, or how. They are stupid questions to ask.  Ask for how long because that is all that matters.

When I Met Rahul Sharad Dravid...

It was the year 2001, and I was 7, when  my grandfather decided to take me to my first (and only) live game in the Chepauk. It was also a Monday and a school day.

Things are very different today, but back then, it was completely normal for a kid to bunk school and go for cricket matches. That is what I thought. The situation at home was so cool that my grandmother even promised to lie to my classmate, who I knew would call me after school, and tell him that I was down with fever. Things like that never happen today, and even back then, my house was an exception. People take school a little too seriously nowadays. 

Anyway, back to the story. 

I was excited. Very very excited. I remember that until the moment I entered the gates at Chepauk, I didn't know what game I going to. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to ask my grandfather. 

The game that my grandfather had bought passes to was a day nighter, which meant we left from home after lunch, caught the bus to Chepauk, and reached there by 1 30 pm. I expected to see Sachin Tendulkar that day, like any other kid. Tendulkar was at his peak, and was the nation's most treasured asset. I figured, like the kid I was, that any cricket match, had to have the man playing in it.

I don't know if it was shock, or just gross disappointment when I realised my grandfather hadn't bought tickets to any international game. Those were far too expensive even then, and the tickets he had bought were for a Challengers Trophy List A game between India Seniors and India A. I knew enough cricket even then to know that Tendulkar wouldn't bother with these games. 

These were pre-cellular phone days, which meant no handy cameras or selfies. So there was an adequate lack of documentation of special events. These were the times of the autograph books. They were special books that could be used to take autographs of people, with nice designs for every page, and all. But I was so unbelievably disappointed, I didn't even bother to get one of these books. Whose autograph was I going to take? The only person that mattered to me wasn't even playing. 

And then I entered the stadium. 

It was empty. 

There were hardly a hundred spectators, and the security was slack. Nobody really cared for these games.

Seeing my disappointment, my grandfather told me to run around the stadium, and see if I could spot any cricketers slacking around. He even gave me his telephone diary and told me to use it to get autographs if I met anybody. 

Everything that happened after that was like a dream. 

I was 7, and nobody really paid me any mind. This was before 09/11 and security was slack to non existent. I remember first running through the stadium pointlessly till I was out of breath, and realised I was wasting time. I went behind the stands and into some rooms that were there, and actually saw Kapil Dev lying on a physio bench, talking to Zaheer Khan. 

Kapil Dev. 

I couldn't believe my eyes. This was 2001, and I was 7, and my memory is hazy, but I did get Kapil Dev's autograph, and then Zaheer Khan's and a bunch of other peoples' too. I remember Sourav Ganguly being the Indian captain then, and  managed to spot him too, and asked for his autograph.

Everybody was so willing to oblige the 7 year old. I still feel that if we had gone for an International Game, the same wouldn't have been possible with the unmanageable crowd. 

Around 6 30 or so, when I was completely tired, and had managed to fill my autograph book with everybodys autograph, right from John Wright to some random North Indian wicketkeeper whos name I didn't even know, and whose autograph I asked for only because he was with Wright, and I thought it would be impolite to ignore him; I went back to my grandfather, who was watching the List A game with as much reverence as he saw any other game. 

I told him whom all I met, and when he didn't believe me, showed him the autographs. He was surprised, and didn't think I was capable of doing what I did that day. And I was proud. 

But that wasn't enough for him. He showed me a small opening in the gates that led directly to the players pavilion. There were no dugouts back then, and the players usually sat in pavilions which were cordoned off from crazy supporters. 

But they hadn't expected a mental 7 year old out on a mission. 

There were only two players in the pavilion that day, along with some managers, whom I didn't even bother addressing.

On close inspection, they actually did look similar to me. I had only seen the two of them in live TV before, and hadn't really bothered much about them considering they were always going to be second to my idol, ST10. 

VVS Laxman and Rahul Dravid. I noticed Dravid's blue eyes first, which were strikingly dissimilar to any other. Laxman didn't bother with me and just nudged Dravid to take care of the little pest. I expected them to call security. I was old enough to know what happens when you go to places you're not allowed into. But Rahul Dravid did not call security that day. He actually smiled at me. 

Rahul Sharad Dravid, smiled at me, a 7 year old, when he could have just called security and gotten rid of me in the first place. I didn't have the guts to smile back. I just wanted his autograph. I was here only because my grandfather wanted me to go. So I blurted out, in my still unbroken voice, "Sir, can I have your autograph, please?"

He asked me what my name was, and told me that he was watching the game, so I'd have to wait for two minutes. He even asked me to sit down next to him on an empty chair, but I was too scared to, and preferred to stand. Who even does that anymore? Which player has the decency to ask a 7 year old kid to sit down because he has made him wait 2 minutes? 

I got back home that day with Rahul Dravid, and VVS Laxman's autographs, along with a deep respect and admiration for Rahul Dravid. I started idolising the person he was, and over a period of time, even forgot that I once liked Sachin Tendulkar. As my passion for football overtook my liking for cricket as I grew older, the only reason I watched the game was to watch Rahul Dravid play.

I remember watching everything from his Kolkata innings to his struggle at the Oval, when he scored 12 runs out of 96 balls or something. 

There was something about the man that was soothing to watch. His elegance, the way he handled the team and pressure, all that taught me how to live life. My grandfather is no more, but I am forever indebted to him for that day at the Chepauk. Neither is Rahul Dravid playing any form of cricket anymore, but his stints at the commentary box along with Harsha Bhogle are a joy to watch.

There is a reason he is called the Wall of Indian Cricket. He was the soothing balm we needed, and he was happy to be just that. I remember people criticising Dravid for his lacks of form, but the man tried, atleast. I don't remember Sachin volunteering to keep wickets or open the batting when the ball was at its meanest in England. Rahul Dravid actually did that for the team. 

He was our wall, our Dark Knight, and walls don't retire. They become monuments.

Happy Birthday, you absolute legend. :)

P.S. Below are some of the autographs I had taken the other day. Since I hadn't written down their names below the autograph, I don't remember whose autograph is which. The rare names I had written down in felt pen (in my shoddy handwriting) can be seen below. Any help with respect to placing the autographs will be appreciated. There are more than 5 unrecognised autographs that I haven't bothered uploading. (Copyrights Reserved) 

Unknown Autograph..

Sadagopan Ramesh

The autograph of the man himself, Rahul Dravid.

Vinod Kambli.

Unknown

Zaheer Khan.

Unknown.

India's then coach, John Wright.

Mohammad Kaif.

Looking Back...

I was watching the fourth episode on the seventh season in Castle, when it dawned on me that I had grown old.
Suddenly.
I don't know if it was the scene where Castle goes to this primary school to get possible witnesses for a murder they were solving (as it is always the case with the series which has, to be honest, become monotonous) or the fact that I've been plagued recently by the worst of  troubles, at work, financially as well as academically; but the sudden realisation hit me hard.
Like a truck, as the saying goes.
There was a time, when I was around five or six, and I used to enjoy going to school. There was this pretty girl in my class, and that was motivation enough. That had, unfortunately, been the case right through my school life. When we moved from Chinmaya Vidyalaya and India, to Dubai, it was hard letting go. I had even managed to make a couple of guy friends. One of them, named Aditya, even promised to keep in touch till the end. We were only seven. I didn't hear from him after that, unsurprisingly.
My mom was never with me when I was doing my primary in CV, and it was always my grandparents who got me ready for school, which was an achievement by itself. There were times I'd fake fever and vomitted in the school bus so that they'd drop me back home in time for me to catch the cricket match on the tele. My grandparents never suspected their six year old grandkid was capable of such evil.
Whenever my mom was back home during her extended leaves from work, which was 200 km away from Chennai, she would find time to pack me of to school, and get me my favourite wafers packet, which used to be a riot back then. Especially the blackberry flavours. Even today, the term blackberry strikes me only as a fruit flavoured wafer packet that my mom got me from the nearby grocer, after giving the flustered van driver an earful, telling him that waiting for 30 seconds wouldn't do the school any harm whatsoever. Little did my mom understand that there were 30 other kids who had to get picked up after me.
What was beautiful about all this was the fact that I was blissfully ignorant about whatever was happening around me. I was happy, and enjoying my time at school, cricket practice after school, further cricket at home with my flat friends, and got back home just in time to watch Radhika in Chiththi. My grandmother would feed me my dinner. I refused to eat if I had to eat by myself.
I was six, and had the liberty to make demands.
I was at a liberty to do anything I wanted actually. My mom had her hands full with work, my dad was in Saudi, and my grandparents were left with responsibility of taking care of me and my sister.
While my sister would while away her time by eating sand, mud, stones and any other construction leftovers, I was more picky with my diet. I had only potatoes.
I remember standing on the balcony, and abusing the milkman as he came to deliver milk. When my grandpa would leave for office, I would dutifully follow him to the end of the street. All this, naked.
As I said, I had a lot of liberties.
Sometimes, I took a little too much advantage of my liberties, which resulted in fights between the neighbours and my grandmother. I would take careful care not to abuse anybody when my grandmother was within earshot. Once she was in the kitchen, or sleeping, I'd spot the neighbor walking down the street and would shout at him, in my still unbroken voice "Subriah mama, konjam ipdi vaangole"
Noticing the cute kid (yes, that changed too), being so polite, he would come near our gate and say "Sollu da pattu."
That was all I needed, I'd wait for him to come close enough, so that I didn't have to shout as much, and would say "Poda mayirandi".
This would shock him. He was first, shocked that a six year old could abuse. And then that I had the guts to actually abuse him. He would glare at me, and then would ensue a fight in the evening between my neighbours and my grandmother, who would never ever accept the fact that I would abuse anybody. She always felt that the neighbours hated me for being too cute.
Grandmothers are that way, I guess.
All these were a daily occurance, and what was funny was the the neighbour mama would always respond to my calls, thinking that one day I'd probably have a genuine reason for calling him. That never happened, as he unfortunately passed away a couple of years back.
Thinking back at all this, it is funny that life changes so much when you're all grown up. You cant really wait to grow up, and when you do, you realise that it's too late to ask for another wish. All that talk about age being just another number is bullshit. There is so much of responsibility that comes with the whole growing up package, that it is sometimes not just worth it.
Until the next time, then.

The CAs who call themselves CAs.

I couldn't help but notice while networking on Facebook of the various Chartered Accountants out there who have prefixed a CA to their Profile Names. For example, we have CA Two Names.
CA Two Names is a very nice person, and well known in the social circles for his sense of humor, and spontaneous wit. He'd be well recognized even if he was just called Two Names on Facebook.
But oh no, he wouldn't settle for that. Because he needs to tell everybody he's passed 19 different papers and is a qualified accountant.
Honestly, who gives a damn?
And don't you go comparing yourself with the Doctors. Doctors save lives. We are nowhere close to doing anything that worthwhile. Even doctors nowadays have taken it easy on the Social Circle, and have dropped their Prefixes.
Imagine a doctor being called Dr. Two Names, MD, ABCD, XYZ on social media.
How irritating would that be?
If all you CAs with prefixes were living under a rock all this while, there is something called LinkedIN, which is a Professional Networking website. You can go put all your prefixes and suffixes there.
Yes, you can even mention that you had won the 1st prize in Recitation in Grade Two. Good job.
But seriously, it is really beyond my understanding why people have to go for a prefix while they're networking. Wouldn't they be recognised if they chose to omit the prefix? Or is it a matter of respect?
The respect then is for your prefix, not for the Two Names following the prefix. And that should certainly embarrass you.
If your greatest, most worthwhile achievement in life is passing 19 papers, and prefixing two letters to your name, you really need to introspect.
I don't come online everyday to talk to 'CA Two Names'.
I come only to see what my friend 'Two Names' has been up to. To connect with him, and share stuff with him. Whether you have a CA before your name, or a PA, doesn't really matter to me. Any prefix being used on Social Media is bollocks, and just shows how much you understand what social media is all about.
We really have to take a cue from engineers on this.
They've studied for longer than us, passed more papers than we've had, but don't exhibit their degrees on Facebook.
There is not a single Er. Two Names on my profile. Just a lot of CA Two Names.
What happened to this profession being all about modesty?
When did all that go away?
There isn't a day that goes by without my friends asking me why CA Two Names can't just be Two Names on Facebook. Why Chartered Accountants have to be so uptight, high and mighty all the time.
I've been in this field for two years, and that is long enough for me to understand enough about how much good we are really doing.
Enough, I say. Let us stop pretending we have done it all.
Your prefix is not going to fool anybody.
So, please, please stop embarrassing us already.

Goodbye, O' Captain!

Back when I was 9, and in Dubai, going to the video store to rent DVDs was special. We didn't have a TV at home, thanks to my Dad, who fantastically believed that TVs would hamper our education and the all movies we watched were on DVDs which we played in our CRT screened 15 inch monitor. 
I did not know what LCD  was, or how LED looked, and the only happiness I ever got were from the visits to the DVD shop.
The DVD shop was owned by a Keralite, who loved my sister and me. In the beginning, I'd call and torture him asking him to keep the latest flicks ready. Then I started calling and asking him when the latest movies were going to come out on DVD. At one point of time, I was even the silent Managing Partner at this small video store, helping the guy out in deciding which movies to buy, and which to avoid. After a couple of years, he'd let us in to the other side of the counter so that we could browse through the movie DVDs as much as we wanted. We could take out the DVDs, read the synopsis (This was how I learnt what it meant) and keep them back in order if we weren't impressed. 
We were allowed to rent out 2 movies at a time. My dad got One, because he was my Dad and he was paying for the whole thing. My sister and I had to share the Second one, which would invariably lead to spiteful fights in front of the other customers. But none of them cared much as they'd think we were the owner's kids. My mom would slowly whisk the violent one away, and the other would get the pleasure of choosing the Second DVD at leisure.
The only films we did agree on were slapstick comedies, where, either the family was going on a long doomed vacation, or something terribly wrong was going to happen on Christmas.
Jim Carrey, Steve Martin, Will Smith, Martin Lawrence, Steve Zahn, and good old Mr. Robin Williams brought us closer. 
It is extremely difficult thinking of going back to that DVD store, and not having a new Robin Williams movie to rent.
The first time we rented out a Robin Williams movie, there were no fights.
R.V. wasn't exactly his best film but it was a brilliant watch with the family.
I fought with my sister when I wanted to watch Dead Poets Society and she didn't, but funnily, both of us ended up crying when the movie ended. 
We were moved. 
Mr. Keating was the kind of professors we wanted at school. He taught us how much better it was to study in a system which let you enjoy what you learnt. It reminded me that there was a lot more that could be done to this education system of our that we are so proud of, here in India. 
Years later, when my English teacher took the poem O Captain, My Captain!, I wasn't even listening to her. I didn't need to. I knew more about the poem than her, or anybody else for that matter. Robin Williams had given soul to the body that was Walt Whitman.
That was Robin Williams to you. He'd make you laugh your arse off, but would still do justice to the character and story behind the film.
You had to only remember Night at The Museum to know Ted Roosevelt wasn't such a bad President after all. He made Vietnam look like a bundle of fun in Good Morning Vietnam!
He made your sorrows go away, Robin Williams did.
It is sad that he had to go the way he did, but most great comedians have famously battled depression. 
The Italian short story on a comedian named Pagliacci comes to mind.

A man goes to a doctor, and tells him he is depressed. He can't eat, sleep or talk as he is mentally depressed. 
The doctor tells him that the treatment is simple. There was a great comedian named Pagliacci in town, and he could make people laugh so much, they'd end up crying.
The mad cries, and says "But Doc, I am Pagliacci."

The problem with being Robin Williams was that he was the only person in the world who didn't have Robin Williams to cheer him up. And that is very sad. 

We will miss you, Mr. Williams, my sister and I. 

Rest in Peace, Robin LcLaurin Williams.

Some Hope for Humanity...

The world has always know Chennai to be an extremely hot place with relatively cold people.
The fact about the weather is definitely undebatable. Some would even go as far as to say the same for its people, and they cannot be blamed. For the city plays host to the worst auto drivers who fleece the public without a conscience, policemen who won't let you go without paying up the 'amount', and worst of all, the government officers. These officers, for want of a better word, delay. Delay, till the end of time. They are the Gods of Procrastination. And deceit. Under all these evils, the city moves on. Anyway, that is not what this blog is about. This blog is not to bitch about the city we all love, but to show that there still is some hope for all those living in it. Some hope for humanity.
It was an extremely hot September afternoon. I had just started work as an articled assistant under a Chartered Accountant, and was in a hurry to get to work. Where was work? Work was 15 kilometers away, and an easy 1.5 hours travel by public transport in the excruciating Chennai traffic. I was late that day, as usual. I sat in my Share Auto, and listened to the driver grumble about the heat, the police 'prechana', the petrol prices, and even the passengers, or the lack of them. I listened to all that he had to say, with my earphones in, some Beatles song or the other playing, quietly wishing he'd start soon. He stopped grumbling when the Share Auto filled up, and thankfully, started. We moved at a snail's pace, weaving in and out of traffic. I'm freaking melting, I thought, as we thankfully got out of the crowded residential area where I lived and picked up some speed.
Only to be stopped. Suddenly and abruptly.
The Heat? Check.
Running Late? Check.
Grumbling Share Auto Guy? Check.
What else could go wrong, you might ask.
The Police. Not the band, of course.
We got pulled up half an hour later, barely a couple a couple of kilometers from our starting point.
The Share Auto guy had been driving without a permit, we were informed later. He had to get down, and 'handle the police'.
The Police asked us to take another Share Auto. The vehicle and it's owner were done. They were going to be taken away to the nearest station for some questioning.
And us? We were asked to find our way from there.
I had never been in a situation such as this before, and I wondered whether the Share Auto guy had to be paid for the incomplete trip. The logical answer would have been, NO. The wannabe Chartered Accountant in me very vaguely recalled the only law that I had bothered to learn properly till then, The Indian Contract Act. The contract which had been entered into was for the whole journey, the lack of performance of which meant the consideration wouldn't have to be paid.
And anyway, the guy hadn't been very likeable, and there was no way he was going to get some 'pavam paisa'.
The driver wan't there then. He was off squabbling with a bunch of policemen. So there was no way he could have anyway forced us to pay up for the journey. Or whatever part of it.
This was solely going to be a matter of personal choice.
What happened after that blew my mind. As people slowly started getting down they took whatever money they owed the driver for the shortened trip, and kept it on his now vacant seat. The lady with the two shabby looking loud kids, the old man who looked like he hadn't bathed in a long while, the school kids, everybody.
Those who could afford to pay, and those who couldn't. Everybody kept some money on the driver's seat and left.
Nobody grumbled. Nobody said a word.
And I did the same.
I realized just then that the heart of this city called Chennai was it's people. The auto drivers, the policemen, everybody who was ever rude or angry, was deep inside just another human being, trying to make ends meet. And there was a lot of place in that heart for forgiveness. Chennai was a big city, after all. And a city with big hearts.
Chennai suddenly didn't feel hot to me anymore.

Why Calling Yourself a 'Proud Citizen' is Bullshit.

I keep hearing the phrase "I am proud of ..." and "I am proud about ..." so often that it has gotten quite irritating. A while back, while going through this Facebook page named The Idealist out of practice and emotional desperation, I came across a quote by the great George Carlin. This quote immediately got my attention, not because it used the word 'fuck' but mostly because it made sense.
This is what it had to say

“Pride should be reserved for something you achieve or obtain on your own, not something that happens by accident of birth. Being Irish isn't a skill... it's a fucking genetic accident. You wouldn't say I'm proud to be 5'11"; I'm proud to have a pre-disposition for colon cancer.”

- George Carlin

Now, if Carlin had said the same thing in India, there would be bloodshed. Because, to simply put it, we Indians follow more the heart than the head. This is the main reason why there are a million movies with the same damn story being released every freaking week in India. The same story of two lovers, either living happily ever after or crying over love lost, we watch every week, we weep, crave sympathy, and enter the theater the very next week to watch another film with a similar storyline.

In a nation such as this, where every moment is romanticized and every emotion magnified, the pride that is carried in every heart of being born here is immense. It wouldn't be easy to try explaining to the majority of the population, or those who care to listen, why you are just lucky to be an Indian. Not proud. 

There actually is a huge difference between pride and luck. You don't control luck. Luck just happens. Whether you believe in karma or not, none of us can come out and say, "Dude, I make my luck". because we just don't. We could plan on doing this, that and everything else in life, but get run over by a truck the very next day. THAT is luck. You don't control luck.

But pride, well, pride is a different story altogether. You ought to be proud of what you have done. That is the key phrase. What you have done. or achieved. 

Now let us examine our situation, did we choose to be born in India? NO. Neither did God ask us where we wanted to be born, nor did we tell him " India, God, India. "

Did we deserve to be born here, because we had did something in our previous lives? NO. Half of us don't remember our previous lives, and the other half deny the very existence of a life before this. 

So what are you proud about?

The whole idea of being proud about being a citizen of this country or that, is fundamentally flawed. 

You cannot be proud of something you had no idea would happen. You had as much chance of being born in Pakistan or Ghana as you had of being born in India. I know people who say they are proud of being Brahmins. Being a Brahmin myself, I don't see anything to be proud of there, unless you start behaving like one. 

The same goes for all you 'proud citizens of the country'. Most of you have left the country, going West for better opportunities and thus better pay packets. So don't just sit there and tell me that you're proud of this country. Drag your sorry ass back here, fashion a country that is worth living in, and then tell the world that you're proud. Because a country is like an organization. We are proud of our organizations, however bad they are, only because we play a part in making it better. If we don't do that, there is nothing to be proud of. You cannot be proud of the neighbor's Bentley just because you get to see it parked out in the front yard, nice and shining everyday. Get your own damn Bentley, and then tell the world you're proud.

Ah yes, then there are the "I'm proud because my grandfather or my great grandfather's second cousin had fought for our independence" crowd.

Did you do anything, any sacrifice at all? No? So shut up. Thank you.

None of us can either be proud of our forefather's achievements at gaining independence nor revel at it.

Because freedom, whether you are Indian or not, irrespective of even whether you're even human is a basic right for every living thing. the very fact that you've lost yours means you would have to earn it back, They did just that. Nothing more, nothing less. We weren't even born then, so what are you so damn proud about?

Be proud of something you have done. For the country or otherwise. Don't look at capitalizing at others' achievements and gaining some emotional comfort from the same.

Because that, to put very frankly, is both cheap and extremely pathetic.

So, the next time you stand up for your national anthem, whichever country you're from, irrespective of who you are, remember that all you're doing is paying homage out of respect for the dead. 

Be proud only when you have done enough for your country, and understand that enough is never enough. 

Here Comes The Sun...

"Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

   Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here"

- The Beatles 

There has been no bigger truth spoken than the above lines to summarize what the country has been faced with in the past decade. An impotent government, a mute prime minister and a greedy family, the adjectives have kept coming. For a long time, now. 

Not many people really know that the Indian National Congress, or the Congress as they are known nowadays, were meant to be disbanded after India got it's Independence. Mahatma Gandhi, the man who always spoke the truth; so much that he named his autobiography "My Experiments with Truth", played the biggest con when he refused to disband the party, albeit all the lip service. The so called Father of Our Nation also had the audacity to go on and name his good friend, Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime minister of the country. This was inspite of wide support for a certain Lal Bahadur Shastri.If only normal voting protocols were observed. If only the interests of the people were heard. But no. Gandhi always did what Gandhi wanted. He gifted away the Prime Minister post like it was his property, and with it, the hopes and dreams of millions.

We all know what happened thereafter. Gandhi became the Nehru family name. No prizes for guessing why. The Nehru family would just have been another page in the books of Indian History, if not for Gandhi. After the Grand Old Man died, India went on to fight wars, suffer depressions, economic uncertainity, all thanks to the whims and fancies of one person.

It never seemed to end. 

Until the last one year. 

How ironic that the end of the road for one of the most infamous families in Indian History had to come in the hands of a chaiwala. A poor tea seller's son had risen rather spectacularly in Gujarat, through the RSS and the BJP, and had risen so well and so high that he started to dream. He dreamt of miracles. He dreamt of an India without the Gandhis. 

And India dreamt with him.

That is how the journey started. This was as good a David vs Goliath story as any other. 

Miracles start to happen when you give as much energy to your dreams as you do to your fears. This man didn't fear, at all. He made his point to his party. He showed through his successes that he was the person they needed to help them tide over the upcoming elections. He showed them his baby. Gujarat. The party loved the baby, the country loved the baby.

And so the man travelled. The man spoke. And a million listened. And voted.

On the 16th of May, 2014, the Gandhi family stand overthrown. They don't even have enough votes to become the opposition. To the world, this is the end of the Gandhi period. 

From the 17th would start a new reign. A reign that would hopefully not disappoint. 

Mr. Narendra Modi should understand that the nation has pinned all it's hopes on him. Lest how could he have gotten the clear majority which has eluded parties for the last 30 years? 

This isn't the end of a journey, Modi. This is just the beginning. You, of all people, should know that if the country's most powerful family could be overthrown, you don't stand a chance. So do not disappoint the nation. 

For the nation never forgives.