End of half of 2010

As part of the new journey I am on – I believe there are certain experiences which are worth sharing. This journey is full of wonderful anecdotes, travesties, experiences, small journeys and big voyages, collection of battles and winners of wars. There is no winner, there are no losers, no interpreters, no impostors, no beliefs, no mirages. There is a manifestation of your own self – and what you pray against is a mirror, not in a literary sense but more figurative in nature; which actually means you are praying towards yourself for yourself. The most important ingredients seem to be an unwavering faith, the intensity to carry it undeterred and a clear aim of what exactly we want to purge.

I agree I am not making any sense at all. So from now on, in my own humble way, I will try to granularise such thoughts – not only for the benefit of the readers who do turn in, but more like a soliloquy aloud. It would seem to clear my own thoughts, disentangle issues and make things simple – as it is meant to be.

In the meanwhile light returns, optimism beckons – in a week’s time. A new beginning, a fresh start and I am really looking ahead towards it. Wish me luck, well errr no… Wish us luck!!

1990

I cannot see. I have had an eye operation. I cannot weep. Water and more so saline water is not good for the wounds fresh in the eyes. The eyes are wrapped, bandaged tight, and once they open, I am not supposed to wear spectacles any more. He is not there with me. He has gone to make a few swift telephone calls back home. He has gone to bring some food. It is difficult to find nutritious food for a patient in this part of the world. He has gone to procure a ticket for our journey back home.

He returns, half an hour too late. I complain. He gets angry. He usually gets very angry. He scolds, sounds expletives, goes to the balcony of our ramshackle shelter. He is alone, with a patient, who cannot even see. He has not been able to procure the train tickets. He cannot leave me alone and try his luck at the station. He has asked a friend to arrange for a Tatkal ticket – if it could be arranged. He hasn’t had dinner. He quickly rolls up his tobacco for a smoke, and puffs hurriedly at the balcony. Then he comes back. He finds a clean bowl and a spoon. He washes it and pours some milk. Then he tears the slices of bread into it. And then he remembers. He has forgotten the sugar. He goes to the next room. Another room, another patient – a girl, a bit older than the one in his room and her family. He shyly asks, “Do you have some sugar?” And then he remembers. Sugar is not very good for open wounds – that’s what his mother had taught him. He apologizes and thanks the family and comes back.

He switches on the dim light. I pretend to be asleep. He knows. He says, “Come on. Open your mouth, I will feed you.” No response. He says, “I know you are not asleep. So open up.” His voice does not sound angry any more. I open my mouth. He carefully pours one spoonful. I eat up. I do not complain about the sugar. But still he explains, “Sugar is not good for open wounds.” He brushes his hand within my hair. I fall asleep. He too dozes off. He forgets – he hasn’t had dinner.

The next day, the doctor has just opened up the bandage. He is expectantly standing in front waiting for me to open my eyes. I feel very uncomfortable opening my eyes, the sudden light, the blurring effect, the watery feeling. And slowly the camera seem to adjust its focus. And I can see, clear – no specs. He is happy, very happy. But he knows such operations are not always fully successful. The slightest carelessness can bring back the power to its normal level. No water for the next fortnight at least – he warns himself.

The friend does not return with the train ticket. He has to travel without reservation, with me – an operated patient. He does not care about himself. But it’s a 36 hours journey and a crowded train and an equally dangerous route. As the train chugs in, he throws himself through the door of the unreserved compartment and promptly grabs two side seats. He places the two suitcases between them. He makes me sit on one of the seats.

The thali arrives. He has his dinner – his first morsel in three days. He eats in a hurry. Rice, chapattis, dal, the rag of the vegetable – all in, all at once, as a trickle of the gravy pours out from the corner of his mouth. I watch, he doesn’t notice. He looks up once he has finished. And then he cleans up, goes to the basin and washes up. As the night draws in, he makes me lay over the two seats, the suitcases bridging the gap. He sits on one of the corners of the seat, my head on his lap. He will not lie down. He continues shooing away erratic passengers, who are trying to shove into a corner. I doze off and I can smell – his smell. He smells of tobacco, dust, sweat, after shave, the steel on his wrist watch, the coconut oil on his silken balding hair – all rolled into one.

Return

I thought I would never come back. Primarily because I dislike; no, I hate the MS Office look, which comes to haunt 80% of my waking hours. But then I did have lots to share, lots to say. And then I did make up my mind to indeed write again. But now that I have done, I really don’t know what to write first.

In a singular, disdainful and reckless moment of carelessness I have destroyed a lot of features on my blog which I had painstakingly selected and added to it, trying to make life a bit more interesting for readers who do turn in the pages once in a while. Hence, that would need to be reinstated, but, given my retardation in matters relating to the computer, I presume that should take a while.

Second there have been certain changes in life which would need to be shared. How, when and where – well that’s what even I am trying to figure out. But for a start, let me sprinkle over you something, well… you judge it.

A few months back, I was chatting to a friend of mine, more on matters personal and affecting my daily life – and I tell you there is a helluva lot keeping me absolutely strangled. While listening to the same, he told me, “I think you need to change the way you think, speak and live.” Live? I mean how can I change my life? “Well, yes, you can,” and he seemed remarkably sure of what he was saying – and that’s a very rare trait these days.

So what he told me during the conversation goes like this:

Whatever we face in our life is a manifestation of our actions not only in our past, but also in our past lives – well that’s no big deal, my winzipped version of the Bhagwad Gita has it even on its executive summary. But here is the twist. He tells me, well if your actions have been cause; the effect is the result and / or the grind that we go through in the present. But, as a person, I have the power, right within myself to change this cause and effect – to mitigate the polluting effects of my actions in the past and the ramifications that it has at present. The level and the range of the actions and the results can be controlled at some point of time by certain things that we do in our own lives and hence can, to some extent, come out of this cycle of helplessness.

And the best part is yet to come. To attain this, we need not renounce anything from the current longings and desires. It is a spiritual attainment, beyond doubt, but it is fuelled by certain worldly and karmic wants which fuel the individual towards the attainment of a goal. The icing on the cake is that, the individual himself decides that goal irrespective of whether it is material or spiritual.

Interesting? Well, let me fathom it myself. How I fare, only time will tell, but will sure keep everyone posted on this exquisite journey and my own determination to overcome barriers to remain on course.

He is no more

For the man who wrote his own obituary - for people, he knew, would miss him long after he is gone

Another day has gone
I'm still all alone
How could this be
You're not here with me
You never said goodbye
Someone tell me why
Did you have to go
And leave my world so cold

Everyday I sit and ask myself
How did love slip away
Something whispers in my ear and says
That you are not alone
For I am here with you
Though you're far away
I am here to stay

You are not alone
I am here with you
Though we're far apart
You're always in my heart
You are not alone

All alone
Why, oh

Just the other night
I thought I heard you cry
Asking me to come
And hold you in my arms
I can hear your prayers
Your burdens I will bear
But first I need your hand
So forever can begin

Everyday I sit and ask myself
How did love slip away
Then something whispers in my ear and says
That you are not alone
For I am here with you
Though you're far away
I am here to stay
For you are not alone
I am here with you
Though we're far apart
You're always in my heart
And you are not alone

Whisper three words and I'll come runnin'
And girl you know that I'll be there
I'll be there

You are not alone
I am here with you
Though you're far away
I am here to stay
You are not alone
I am here with you
Though we're far apart
You're always in my heart

You are not alone
For I am here with you
Though you're far away
I am here to stay
For you are not alone
For I am here with you
Though we're far apart
You're always in my heart

For you are not alone.

- Michael Jackson (Album: HIStory), 29 August 1958 - 25 June 2009

The Post Lehman Era

PLAYBOY IN MARKET FOR A SUGAR DADDY WITH $300M

By KEITH J. KELLY

May 22, 2009 --

PLAYBOY Enterprises, the far-flung empire founded by Hugh Hefner in 1953, is quietly being shopped around for $300 million, sources tell Media Ink.

But so far, well-heeled suitors that have been approached, like Apollo Capital Partners and Providence Equity Partners, haven't stepped up.

The battered company's market capitalization is now around $100 millionand nobody has been willing to pay the substantial premium that it would take to persuade Hef to sell.

Sources said the sellers are looking for far more than the company's market capitalization because that would ensure Hef has enough on hand to maintain his lavish lifestyle.

"Everyone says he'll never let go, that he'll take it with him to the grave," said one source.

The empire's iconic bunny ears are one of the most identifiable trademarks in the world, but the empire has fallen on hard times as the Internet and video-on-demand have eroded its core brand, the magazine.

Hefner, now 83 years old, said recently that one of his biggest regrets was taking Playboy public.

He still controls about 70 percent of the voting stock, and as of March 31, the second-biggest shareholder was Wells Capital, which held a 10 percent stake. Fidelity is third at 7 percent.

Sources said that James Griffiths, a former president of the entertainment group, has been involved in the potential sale process.

Playboy has been under intense pressure and has been furiously cutting costs. In the most recent quarter, the company said it lost $13.7 million, compared with a loss of $4.2 million a year ago. Revenue eroded to $61.6 million in the quarter from $78.5 million a year ago.

Christie Hefner, Hef's daughter, stepped down as CEO in January and formally left the board at its annual meeting last week, severing her ties.

A Playboy spokeswoman said, "We have not received a proposal for purchase, nor has Mr. Hefner indicated that he will listen to proposals regarding a sale. However, as a public company, we will listen to proposals that could create value for all of our shareholders. "

Courtesy - The New York Post

Summerisms - I

Now there is one serious democratic exercise going around. The one that we call in India as elections. And true to his duty towards the nation and free of notions from any exit polls, Contramental donned his summer hat and did go out to vote. The travesties in this exercise are enlisted herein.

Summer of 2009 and we gear ourselves for one of the most intense, and interesting exercise in the democratic enigma of mainland India. A mini vacation looming over the weekend – with the day of elections being clubbed with Labor day and the weekend presents itself to be a delectable get away from the heat. However, in the midst of all this – organization level visionaries had a spark and realized that such a long drawn holiday process would not do much for the work ethic of the people who have kind of serenaded lethargy in the garb of recession. So orders were summoned out to be in office on the day of elections after having cast your vote. Expletives were presented with an air of imperceptibility (inaudible and unseen). So the wake up process was not with the requisite holiday fervor more out of the work day demeanor – the Oh-no-not-again types. Lazy toothbrush strokes helped focus on the television set which had started showing responsible and fitness minded, early, celebrity voters queuing up. I would not say that this kind of stoked my sense of duty. At least I had taken the pains over the last couple of years to register myself as a new voter here and put in the requisite effort to enable the transfer to my new domicile. So in around 40 minutes, I found myself locking the door.

Here I need to mention to you guys of a story which has been keeping me pretty perturbed these days. Ratna Aunty (RA), a portly kinda-Bohemian neighbor is pretty exasperated these days. She had got two Alsatian pups and named them Tooty and Frooti. Well yes, the idea was to have that air of coolness around, but typical of Navi Mumbai style where the average power cut durations are 3 hours a day, on a sultry summer afternoon, the most pleasant idea for a slumber is not with two full grown, lolling Alsatians trying to cuddle up against you. And its pretty humid these days, I tell you. Well in all this last time just after summer Frooti breathed her last – to reasons unknown, which makes RA hyperventilate at the slightest sight of disorder with Tooty. These days, the activity levels of Tooty has grown a bit sluggish and believe me this has nothing to do with the economy or the weekly IIP figures that come out of the economic wings of the North Block. Nor is it that Tooty, like most of us has grown on a staple diet of Hindi movies, like most of us and have realized the futility of his own existence. RA claims that it could not have been the heat since this is his third experience of the Mumbai summer and by Toutatis – till even last year, he looks up to the season with his diet of thandai and his new sleeping position on the couch just beside the one and half tonner Carrier. So off she went with Tooty to the vet in the neighborhood to check for diabetes, cholesterol etc. After a harrowing check up lasting for 2 days with lots of bones came the diagnosis. “The poor dog has just gone lazy.” Now that’s what has made RA fly off the hook – who wants to be branded as the owner of a lazy dog. And the relationship has soured ever since. A couple of days back, on my way back from office, I met them at the apartment lobby with RA trying to convince Tooty to take the stair case, that being the fitter option. A reluctant Tooty was tugging at his leash, trying to lead RA towards the lift, which of course was the wiser option to the sixth floor. The earlier evening, RA was in some animated discussion with another neighbor (I tell you, these Mumbai flats are full of neighbors), while Tooty was deciding that taking a dental try on its own tail was not a bad option to keep himself active as well to elevate himself to the good books of his master. He went all round – once, twice – ok, enough was enough; no use trying to make a fool of oneself. Which, obviously caught the observation of his master and the acerbic admonishments came pounding in. “You stupid dog, etcetra etcetra..” By then Tooty was nicely ensconced on the cleanest part of the lawn on all his fours with his tail neatly curled up beside him.

As I was locking the door that day, when, I met dear Tooty once again, for once without his leashes and out of sight of his master. There is a poodle in the neighborhood as well – the nattiest and most dynamic bovine in the premises. He had a nice rotund ball for company (a bit overgrown for its ownself), a foot length from Tooty. Having been bossed around for ages, even Tooty felt this was a ripe chance to refill its own sense of confidence. So he marches to the poodle in his most regal demeanor and bows astutely. The poodle offers him his own ball for a game or two. For around half a minute, Tooty hones his own skills with the ball and then, kicks the ball towards the poodle (had this been IPL parlance I could have said he had Pedigreed it – a bovine nomenclature to the analogous he has just DLFed it; Pedigree being available in various flavors and blends for various kinds of bovine creature). Which brings me to the point that the ball, in fact was too large for the poodle – and the valiant dog was soon seen wedged to the orb and taking the revolutions in its own stride. A Mirzaesque return in front of Raphael Nadal later, the action was repeated to similar effect. And this time poor little doggy was so battered that he took to spruce himself up, leaving Tooty to bring back the plaything. Tooty, got the same in – and he did not complain, and kicked it back to his partner. And the same action was repeated. Well it was not often that Tooty indulged in such selfless and value less action of bringing back balls without anyone heeding to his own demands. And hence, as was expected, he woofed, cast an askance glance of disgust mingled with you-chic-little-good for nothing poodle, forced open the front door into the comforts of the air conditioner, still purring to welcome him back.

See, you made me digress and how! But the election update will return, shortly, I promise!

Heads you win, tails I lose

[It was a conscious decision to write this piece after a hiatus. This hiatus was meant to understand life, to take in every morsel, chew and grind them and relish its taste long after it is gone. And then when again I complain, thinking that each bite of life tastes the same – relive those moments when bland or bitter, any dish would have been savored and you would exchange anything for a few more moments to live, on your own terms. For context to this post, I would request to read Part 1 and Part 2 to this post.]

“P tell me something, have you heard of Darwinism,” asks S. No one seems to answer. P continues to open her purse every ten minutes and look fondly at the picture of her kid, a drop of water accumulating in her left eye and quickly wiped off. “As you know,” S continues, “every creature seems to adapt to its surroundings and develops ways and means to survive adversity. The prime example being, say a mosquito, which was killed of DDT, in the next generation you again infuse DDT, the following generation might be a bit more resistant to DDT. Right? And so on till the umpteenth generation which really becomes resistant to DDT. I have been thinking that mankind has been fighting for so long, since it almost came into existence. Generations after generations have succumbed to bullets and we yet do not have bullet resistant human beings,” puts his can down loud with disgust. And then pontificates again, “May be theres another logic to it. The DDT strain has gone down by constant adulteration of us humans, while capabilities of bullets have progressed, quarter on quarter.”

I smile back at him, “Kya S tujhe teen beer mein hi chadh gayi? What happened to your famed capacity?”

“No deary, its just that a little less agonizing when they shoot me through here,” and points towards his chest. “And here shall it be, no one shoots S on his back,” he reverberates.

Have you been to a clinic? Waited for a doctor, waited for your name to be called, expectant that the next turn could be yours? Of course you have. Now try to extrapolate the fact that as soon as your name is called, on the other side of the curtain sits someone in shape, size and hue – you know not. He or she has a kind heart and would offer you a choice – a choice of how would you like to die. How would you like to wait till the wheel of fortune points and heralds your name and you just wait for the time to come. And while you wait, you search on the internet to devour as much information as you can to add some shape, size and hue to the character on the other side of the curtain. Try to ascertain how do a 21 year, Versace wearing, grenade tottering kid would look. What does it take to walk into a hotel lobby, toss a coin, grimace awww tough luck and empty Kalashnikovs.

With lights switched off and curtains drawn, with periodic peeps through the window, with shudders at another grenade blast and another and then again another, with sips at coffee from the vending machine, with intermittent reclining, inclining, with private tears and public smiles the five of us tried our best to move the hands of the clock. As best as we could, as fast those rusty, un-oiled hands would move.

Five it was. Morning. A new day and I had dozed off and regaining my garb was a bit difficult. Where were we?

“Today’s my dad’s birthday,” said I to which S added in his deadpan humor, “oh that’s wonderful, he would need to remember less dates from now on – his own birthday and your death anniversary.” All scores to be settled if we get out alive. “Why don’t you call him?” he suggested. At 6.30 in the morning I did:

Me: Good morning. A very happy birthday to you, (brraaammmmmmmmm!) were you sleeping?
Dad: Ya just got up. Thanks. (quiet) Whats news there?
Me: All fine. So whats plans for today?
Dad: You think people make birthday plans at this age? (brraaammmmmmmmm!) Whats that sound?
Me: (quiet) Mmmmmmm.. Oh CD player
Dad: You listening to songs? At this hour, at such a volume? (brraaammmmmmmmm!) Man, no wonder you would get a hearing impairment soon. Hope you are not going to office today?
Me: No and happy birthday again!
Dad: Thanks. Bye.
Me: (after the sound of the disconnected phone intermittently went on) Bye dad.

“You know what,” quipped S, “there is this chic always on night duty on the tenth floor. If these devils do any harm to her, I am sure I will not be able to pardon them anytime soon.” And he continued on his keyboard. The moment he had finished, there was a knock on the door.

The moment of truth had arrived.

Heads I win, tails I lose. A man always faces a decisive moment in his life where you gamble. Equal odds to win or lose, to life or death.

Serendipty [ser-uhn-dip-i-tee] –noun 1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident.
2. good fortune; luck: the serendipity of getting the first job she applied for.

This is the word that flashed in my head when I heard the knock as we all looked at each other. The question for the day could well be for whom it turned out to be the desirable discovery or the divine intervention. At times when we used to devise a mischief, we asked for consensus from our partners in crime by something that we later came to know to be furtive glances. But at times when your bloodlflow freezes, such glances could well be an act of pleading, a beseeched heart insisting the other to be more courageous to the occasion. In short to rise and open the door. No one knew what lay behind those doors – a bouquet of bullets or the warmth of life.

“Open up. These are the marine corp.” Multiple and desperate knocks now. We still looked at each other. The heart argued why don’t you open the door to the marine corps. The head contravened, how are you absolutely sure they are the marine corps. Our dilemma took us quite a few precious moments. “Open up or we force in,” came the voice menacingly.

As I shivered the door latch open, the remaining four looked the other way. The person who stepped in pointed his weapon at me and we were promptly asked to line up against the wall. I could only see eyes, with one of his brows askance. Nothing on his anatomy moved other than his eyeballs. And it quickly gauged the people and the surroundings. At that very instant I heard the safety latch on his rifle resound with a chirpy ‘click!’ And without warning …