The man who fell in the tub

He gingerly touched the water. It was hot. So he bent, hurriedly I presume, to turn the cold water tap on. With this sudden shift in the CG (which anyway was precariously mounted at the edge of his chicken-belly) the gravity suddenly decided to make its present felt. And he fell. On his knees. In the bathtub.
Normally, under those circumstances, one would locate something to hold on to, and rise from the water. Not him though. Not to be outdone by the primitive force of water, he renewed his resolved to get up without any aid other than what nature has provided him with. So, completely ignoring the grab-handles given so thoughtfully on the side wall (or was it merely ornamental), he tried again and, predictably I must say, fell down again. On his knees. In the bathtub.
He hadn’t yet figured out the use for those white things on the wall and still tried to get up on his hands. Fell again. On his knees. In the bathtub.
Just as he started developing his views on his painful situation (he owns a Bengali intellect, so it was only a matter of time before he developed STRONG views on the bathtub community, in general), the bathtub decided enough was already done. It was quite obvious that he was not going to use the handles. So he rose. Victorious, a little bruised though.
Like its been happening since the time immemorial, a man defeated the forces of nature…yet again.

On a lot of requests and some threatening, the name of the victim has not been disclosed

The first time...

The first time I tied my shoe laces
The first time I saw appreciation on unknown faces
The first journey to the outer world, all alone
My first bandage when i fractured my bone

The first betrayal and that first selfless friendship
The first journey to the wild river and that first hesitant dip
The first ragging, first striptease and those tears
The first time alone I fought those demonic fears

My first dissection, first cut on that poor frog
To attain a healthy bod, my early morning first jog
My first "awakening" to the females of this world, and acting smart
My first dream to be a film director, hidden deep in my heart

My first victory in badminton, my dad was a proud man
My first flight, praying as the metallic thing prepared to land
The first time I stood first in the class
My first academic failure: Chemistry, I failed to pass

My first mobike, bought with my own money and some loan
My first farewell speech, as i ventured into the next unknown
The first thrill of the sea, the sand and the rising wave
The end of adoloscence, with that first genuine shave

The first time I touched 100kmph, and felt one with THE ONE
The first time I completed the half marathon, full 21 km run
The first GD, I trembled and couldn't utter a single word
The first time I did paragliding, flying in air like a bird

The first touch of snow, as I slowly myself turned into ice
And the first shot of whisky, the warmth inside really felt nice
First watch that I bought my dad, and felt so proud
The first trek in Sahyadris and that walk among the clouds

Each one of these days, I remember with vivid details
Each one is a gem, in comparison every other memory fails

Saudi Diary: What's in the name?

“I come here every morning in the Van. I had gone to the adjacent factory for some work” I was getting desperate. Maybe you would too if the security guards suddenly wake up to their call of duty and start questioning your motive of visiting the factory, if the guards can’t speak English and if the factory happens to be in Saudi Arabia.
With an expression I would probably reserve for martians (if they haven’t yet discovered the Babel fish) he looked at me and repeated the incomprehensible Arabic.
“I am from Tata group. Four of us are coming here for past four weeks, every morning with Boy” I was determined to enter the premises at any cost.
“Oh Tata people. Meet?”
Clearly, he knew about the four suited men roaming around in the plant, calling themselves “Tata people” and promising to solve all the problems that our client ever had.
“No, no. Not to visit them”.
“No? Then who”?
“I am Tata people…. I AM TATA” I secretly hoped Mr. Tata would forgive me for borrowing his name for a legitimate purpose.
“Oh. Okay”
Sorry Mr. Shakespeare. But I think name is everything.

Saudi Diary: The SPIRIT of Jeddah

“I bet he won’t serve you that” I asserted. But in keeping with tradition of those men who believe what they want to believe, Khemka insisted there was a possibility of our host offering us liquor (I still maintain he was assuring himself). The setting was Jeddah and we were invited for dinner. Our man has been deprived of the fermented liquid for sometime now. And now he has reached a stage where mere mention of ethanol (sometimes even methanol) brings an unprecedented hysteria in him. But let me take you to what happened after that dinner that night.
It was 10:30 pm and being the nice, courteous people we are, we realized that it was time for taking leave from our nice Indian guest. As I said “Let’s go” I could feel a shadow cross Khemka’s face. The party was over and he was clearly not getting any liquor. Now, let’s be fair to him. He is a social drinker but due to the society he moves in back home, rarely does a day passes without his visit to one of those hip & hep Bandra / South Bombay pubs. So it wasn’t without reason he was expecting the host to entertain him. It had been almost a month now without the divine drink.
“If you wait for some more time, I will give you something to drink”.
This statement from our host had an electrifying effect on all four of us. Something had to be, well, alcohol. I rushed to Khemka’s side to support him as I could see his knees had given way. Once he regained his senses, and we exchanged glances among ourselves (three of us did not know whether a drunk Khemka was worth taking the risk of checking the hospitality extended to the foreign prisoners), Khemka then settled down into an ear-to-ear smile.
“Won’t it be risky? We have to take a cab back to our hotel, you know” ventured Mr. Khemka.
“Risky? What do you mean? Ah…I see. Oye, I meant Falooda”
Next few moments are kind of hazy…But what I vaguely remember amidst the blasts of laughter from the three of us is that Khemka clearly could not appreciate what was funny in the situation. In the moments that followed, he tried in vain to melt into the surroundings, to turn transparent and disappear. His lean frame does allow him to appear one dimensional but disappearing altogether was asking a little too much from the Mother Nature. In the end, we had to leave with a blushing, red Khemka who kept insisting that he was deliberately led into the trap.
And we are more than happy to believe that. It’s much more fun this way.

Saudi Diary: The tormentor

I was dreading the moment. As I switched on the T.V. (like I do every morning) I could hear the voice of a 20 something on a request show on the only Hindi channel available in my hotel in Jeddah.
“Shamita, can you please play the song Aashiq Banaya Aapne.”
And being the good VJ (ah…good?) she is, she did what she had to do. And next came the man with a cap (is it the same in all his songs?) and a voice that would compete with my nasal best when I perform in the bathroom.
This is the voice that has tormented me from the time I landed here in this country. The hotel has only one hindi channel and that happens to be B4U. And by some cosmic conspiracy, all the listeners of B4U seem to have taken unnatural liking to the nasal voice of certain Mr. Reshammiya.
One day I decided to count how many times I get to hear Mr. Himesh Reshammiya and returned with a mindblowing figure: 7 songs within an hour.
I survive....I hope I will last this trip.

Saudi Diary: OK TATA

The light turned red and our cab came to a screeching halt. Secretly thanking those who invented the seat-belts, I kept looking ahead…our cab driver was a formula 1 hopeful. It was then I heard the noisy engine of the vehicle next to me. Although the windows were rolled up, the noise could still be felt. So I turned my head to have a look at the culprit. And what I saw looked familiar. It had TATA written in large, bold letters. A TELCOLINE greeted my sight. TATA Motors sells its 207 Pick-up as TELCOLINE in export markets. The main difference it has that this vehicle has a passenger cabin as well. Since then I have seen some five odd TELCOLINE’s and a TATA bus. And every time I somewhere deep down, feel proud. Rather odd, considering back home we hardly appreciate what TATA Motors is doing. But here in Jeddah, far away from desh, life takes a different meaning I guess.

Saudi Diary: Being rich

Q: Who will you call if you have to find a man richer than a Sheikh who owns 100 oil wells in his backyard?
A: A Sheikh who owns Water well in his backyard.
Mortals, from the part of world I belong to, are quite used to seeing the “Rs.” counter moving at an astronomical speed compared to the “Litre” counter at any gas station. So when today our cab driver stopped at the station, we instinctively looked at the meter. And what we witnessed sure gave us dizziness. It was a heady feeling. The Riyal counter was moving slower, yes let me repeat, S L O W E R than the “Litre” counter. Putting all the chips, constituting what they call brain, to work, I calculated that the petrol prices would be somewhere in region of (okay, breathe slowly…) Rs. 11-12 per litre. Phew. At that price, it is actually cheaper than the water. Maybe instead of owning an Oil well, I will look out for some water wells.

Saudi Diary: Raising Avenger

Raising Avenger
Fourteen days and no news from Suki. Suki: A dear friend whose love for biking dangerously borders at (and mostly wanders into) madness. He is the one who is living his dreams. The one who defies all cold logic and common senses and does his own thing ‘cause he feels like it. And so what if he is gets drunk if the vapour of some stray alcohol atoms gets its way inside his nervous system, he is always in control of his bike. Numerous rallies are witness to his skills and so, enthused by his unquestionable dominion in the world of two-wheelers, yours truly entrusted him with his second love: My brand new Bajaj Avenger. She had hardly burnt enough rubber on the tarmac to even qualify as a proper run-in bike when my spoilsport company decided to give me the taste of desert and sent me to Saudi. It meant leaving my latest possession to someone I trusted, truly. And so she was promptly packed away to Suki, with a clear instruction to him.
“These are the forming days of my bike. Please don’t let your instinct take the better of you. Groom her into a cruiser that she is meant to be….and not into a racer (she would anyway perform miserably in that).” Today I feel miserable because I can’t take part in the character building of my own bike. My own full-cash-paid cruiser. I just hope and pray to God that Suki doesn’t turn it into a street racer or an off-roader.