Welcome to my world

I keep getting these snail mail letters posted by Google's AdSense department every two months to "use the power of Google to attract new customers", all thanks to the little advertising bar which appears on the right of my blog page. They seem to be obsessed with the idea that my website is selling something which needs more buyers and therefore more visitors. A part of me finds that amusing and the other makes me curious, really really curious. What if my blog were indeed a real life shop? What if I had a 40,000 square foot of air-conditioned space to showcase my 'products'?

Keeping with that logic, that would make my thoughts the items for sale lining up the shelves of my shop and all the readers who stumble across my block of virtual real estate my 'customers'.

So how can I can help you today? Would you like this mildly humour inducing product, ma'm? Click on it and it'll tell you all about my pet bird, my dear Tweety, of how she literally fell from the sky and into my life.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2008/01/she-fell-from-sky.html

There are lots more animal stories for you if you liked this one and have grown up addicted to Discovery and NGC!

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/Animal%20planet

Ok, maybe not. Perhaps then, you'd like this serious, nostalgia powered product on how wonderfully sad yet beautiful my last day in college was or maybe even yours was.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2007/06/wind-of-yesteryears_1398.html

More funny/sad college stories then?

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/In%20deepest%20RECK

No, you say! You want them in red, the colour of romance?!! How about a poem then? Surely you'd like a poem about a grey day at work turning into a bright and sunny one! Here we go.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2009/10/daily-grind.html

Oh, all right. I now see that you are the serious type. Then you'd love to know how much I hate corruption.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2007/11/its-not-ok.html

Just in case, you are feeling a little patriotic...

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/Patriotic%20fervour

What? Too serious for you, you say. Hmm, let's see. Try this one then. No one seems to have noticed this one before even though it remains one of my personal favourites. Maybe you'll like it too. Inside info all of this, I tell you.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2007/06/bliss.html

Or how about you, sir? Do you need something really really unique? Does a poem about my motorcycle qualify?

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2009/09/pulsar-song.html

If you are as car crazy as I am, sire...

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/Motomania

You say you need a cure from the travel bug bite. Sorry, I don't have a cure yet but here's a solid product which will tell you why you shouldn't be looking for medicine. All of this is this salesman's humble opinion, of course...

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2007/11/wanderlust.html

Day-dreaming of travel ain't so bad, eh? :)

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/Wanderlust

Sky diving might just do the trick for you, wouldn't it?

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2008/10/free-fallin.html

No! :(

Childhood! Come on. Don't tell you didn't love your childhood! Sample this product, a tale of infantile naughtiness? I am sure you have many of your own too.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2007/06/guilty-pleasures.html

Want to go back to school? Sorry, I am no plastic surgeon or time travelling scientist but I do have a few recordings of my version of those golden days.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/search/label/Tales%20from%20the%20past

Sheesh! Nothing to your liking yet. You need some more time to think and analyze, you say? Wow, you ARE very difficult to please. But somehow that inspires me to work even more on my shop. Be my guest. Feel free to roam this huge collection of the most random thoughts you'll probably come across. I sincerely pray that you'll like something. The floor, all of it, is yours.

http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/

My shop is still a work in progress and it may never be complete. Some items may be on repeat display while some a one-off custom creation; some may be yawn inducing while others may be thrilling but they all are copyrighted products of my unnecessarily crowded imagination. So if you did not find anything of interest, please do come back. You see, I have a warehouse too and some folk call it my mind saying that I am always out of my warehouse. But I do venture into it once in a while, to capture, coax or drag out a stowed away thought or two. Welcome to my world. I hope you enjoy your stay whether you be here for business or pleasure!

India needs fast bowlers

As a kid on every trip to Delhi, we always used to head to a house in Greater Kailash where one of my dad's aunts stays. Just above her in the same house, stay another aged couple who may or may not be remotely related to me but they did qualify as another grandfather-grandmother pair and as kids forever hankering for attention, that didn't hurt us. Buchu Dadu of Greater Kailash was equivalent to any other grandfather and had been a leading scientist of India in his time, probably a physicist. I was elated at every opportunity to meet him as my aim in life then was to pursue a career in science. To my dismay however, whenever I talked to him the first topic of discussion would never be science. It was always cricket. Not that I hated cricket but I was more obsessed with science.

At that stage of my life, I was tall for my age and lanky. The first question from his end would always be "Kid, do you play cricket?". Upon my enthusiastic nod, he would enquire further "What is your role in the team?". I would puff my chest up and say "Opening batsman!" and then play a solid defensive stroke in thin air to put emphasis on my role as a batsman in the technically perfect Rahul Dravid mould though it was highly difficult to play a sheet anchor role in a 6-8 over match which I frequently did! He would just shrug and say, "You are tall. You should try fast bowling. Promise me that you will be a fast bowler. India needs fast bowlers!". This would put me up at the crossroads again. I was desperate to be in the good books of this one man who was the role model that I looked up to for my future as a scientist and yet this was the man who was intent on sending me down the path of fast bowling greatness. To top it all, the future of my country was at stake. All this choice making was too much for my immature mind to handle so I would nod my head in subdued agreement and hope that he would jump to discussing science which he did once in a while. Wanting me to be a fast bowler however was part of every single conversation that I had with him. But being a fast bowler cum scientist was too much of a dream for me to aspire to even then at that tender age when nothing seems impossible.

15 years down the line, I am (as expected) neither a scientist nor a fast bowler though I do my best to follow the latest science and cricket stories. India still needs both scientists & fast bowlers and Buchu Dadu with his genius mind was prophetic on at least one count. On the scientist front, I know a couple of scientists in my own family who have come back from labs in Harvard to do their bit for India. It's been more than 10 years since I met Buchu Dadu last but I do know what the topic of conversation will be if I meet him. The question being flung at me at 155 kmph is definitely going to be "Where are the fast bowlers?"

The joker

Arjeplog is a town in northern Sweden on the Arctic circle. According to an article in Top Gear I was reading recently, 7 months in a year it remains ice and snow-bound which is why it serves as the icy terrain testing capital for car manufacturers around the world. Rolls Royce, Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, Ferrari - all use the almost completely frozen lakes around Arjeplog to test their mean mechanical beasts in winter conditions. What a sight it must be to see a Ferrari, a Porsche, a Rolls Royce or a big SUV slide its way across vast stretches of endless ice, being tested at the limits of their design parameters and speed. Everyone has their own versions of heaven and I think I now have a fair idea of what mine is going to look like. Kilometres worth of frozen open space and a very fast car to race and skid across it! So used to icy conditions is this corner of the woods that even civilians can parallel park their car in one single spin. Talk about cool!

Besides putting Arjeplog on the "Must-go-places-before-I-die" list for me, reading the article re-awakened a cold fear in me. "Parallel parking" is a combination of words which never fails to cause me to gulp a couple of times before triggering sad memories of innumerable failed attempts to squeeze my car in that available spot between two available cars no matter how large the space was. 99 out of 100 times, I would turn to look around, then look through the rear view mirror and then turn around again, put my car in reverse and then find myself in a position where half of the city's traffic was stuck behind me and my car was in a position which was sure to invite a ticket from a policeman or the attention of a tow truck. I would quietly get down and ask a friend to parallel park my car for me to my great shame and accompanying sense of failure. I can drive a car for thousands of miles without fatigue because I love driving on open, empty roads but tell me to parallel park my car and the sour expression on my face will tell you what exactly I think of you.

This is why the one of the few times that I managed to parallel park correctly was amongst the greatest days of my life. It was during my road test for a Massachusetts driving license and that is a certification which made me happier than earning my engineering degree had made me such was the intense performance anxiety that overcame me. Driving license tests have a way of doing that. I had already been driving around in the USA for close to 6 months by then using my Indian driving license which was valid for a year from my arrival in Boston. But an urge to save on insurance money forced me to get my driving skills re-certified for an American license. Despite having thousands of driving miles under my belt, in India and the USA, on the day of the test, it feels like the first day at a new school. The same steering wheel, brake and accelerator all seem strangely hostile when a driving inspector is sitting next to you with a clipboard and a pen looking every bit like he was hell-bent on failing you. Clearing the road test carried no value in the office conversation amongst your friends but God forbid if you fail the road test, then the joke would be on you for years to come.

It was early in February 2009 when my chosen date for the road test arrived. It was snowing on that day as it had the day before and the roads were covered with a thin layer of freshly fallen snow while the stuff from yesterday was piled high in snow walls on both sides of the road by the snow plows. I was moving ahead with extra caution going easy on the accelerator as spinning the car with the co-passenger being the old guy in charge of evaluating my driving capabilities would surely have spelt my doom. I got sharply reprimanded by him for holding up the traffic though and so I had to step on the gas to keep him happy. I exercised extra caution and stopped well behind the line at a red light on the test route but then my invigilator gave me a look which said he wasn't too impressed with my safe attitude. Hand signals and the three point turn followed but none of them seemed to bring the remotest smile to his face. At this point of time, I was on the verge of losing it as the tension of not being able to match up to his idealistic standards was getting to me. That's when he asked me to pull up on an empty street and said the two words which were the real reason for my unrest "Parallel park!"

He added "Be careful, son. I don't want to touch the snow...". So, here I was, already taxed by the momentous responsibility of parallel parking between an ice cream van and a red Ford Taurus, even without the don't-touch-snow clause. The snow was piled 2-3 feet high on the side of the kerb such that even the kerb was not visible. The snow was to be my line of reference to put my car in position. A more picture-perfect horror scenario I couldn't have imagined for myself! My mouth ran dry and I twisted around in my seat like it was an electric chair while putting my car into reverse. I looked around, checked around in all human ways possible before turning the steering all the way in one direction and then in the other. Like magic, my car had pushed itself into position or so I thought. My driving inspector was still as silent as a rock.

I drove into the parking lot 0f 10, Washington Street where the Taunton Registry of Motor Vehicles (RMV) is located. I sat quiet as a mouse as the inspector popped open the lock of his door. On his way out of the car, he leant back, that grumpy old man of the last 20 minutes smiled at me and said "Son, congratulations. You have just become eligible to drive in the State of Massachusetts!" I breathed a sigh of relief and he added with another meaningful smile, "I was never going to fail you. I give you credit for giving the test in all this snow!" It seemed that all his seriousness was a put-on act to have a little entertainment at my nervous expense. I was still too happy then to have parallel parked successfully and earned my driving wings, on the one occasion that it really mattered, to tell him aloud what was going through my mind. I was smiling too but my eyes might have leaked the words that were on the tip of my tongue "Bl***y joker!!!".

Pull your weight

Calcutta is a city of paradoxes. Some uncharitable critics would even accuse it of reeking double standards. On one hand, the city prides itself on its artistic history and a culture of humaneness and on the other hand, it is the only city in the world where hand-pulled rickshaws are even allowed to operate. To a certain extent it is understandable when the rickshaw-wallahs are taking little kids to school or old ladies to the market through Calcutta's serpentine lanes but what makes my blood boil is when I see perfectly healthy guys of my age sitting pretty on a rickshaw with an umbrella in their hands while a 40-50 year skeleton of a man pulls them along. It's a great relief to know that no more new licenses are being issued for hand pulled rickshaws by the West Bengal government and after this current generation of rickshaw pullers, the abominable practice of hitching a ride on the same road that is being walked by another guy dragging you along shall come to an end.

In my childhood, whenever I used to come to Calcutta for the summer holidays, the rickshaw-wallah with his little hand held brass bell (which he used as some kind of a horn), torn vest, sweaty face and the gamchaa (towel) thrown across his frail shoulders was one of the key defining images of Calcutta. I used to look forward to trips to New Market which is only a short walk from my house simply because I loved the precarious weightlessness and fragile balance that comes in a hand-pulled rickshaw ride as it negotiated the madness of Calcutta traffic. I saw nothing obscene about the idea of being rich enough to pay off a poor man to walk a distance which I could have walked by myself and then actually rely on that underprivileged man's legs to do the walking for me. My only consolation is that I was a kid back then and didn't weigh as much!

For most of people born and brought up in Central Calcutta, employing the hand-pulled rickshaw is a way of life as much as say devouring 'mishti doi' (sweetened curd) or riding the rickety old trams which add to the messy state of affairs on the roads. In a way, I do understand the logic behind their patronage of the rickshaw-wallahs too. Jug Suraiya, the famous columnist once wrote about how he had asked a rickshaw-wallah if he could pay him for the ride and walk alongside to interview him (as Jug was understandably queasy about taking a ride on one). The rickshaw-wallah replied with something to the effect of, "Saheb, we may only be rickshaw-wallahs but we are hard workers, not beggars. If you pay me, then I'll have to ask you to take your seat on the rickshaw."

That is indeed a very true assessment of the situation. Here are men desperately poor, who had left their villages years ago in the hope of finding a better life in the big city, a dream which was not to be. Today they still sleep in open tin sheds at night huddled together by the dozens, the meagre amounts of money that they make unable to provide for anything more luxurious. Come 5'o'clock in the morning and they are out on the street again waiting for their passengers. They could have so easily not chosen this path of inhuman hardship. Disgruntled by the horrifying unfairness of urban society, they could have easily opted for a life of crime instead where there was at least fear-induced respect from the masses, shady glamour and potloads of easy money. The honest, moral, humble, hard working ethic couldn't have found a better personification. Unfortunately all the attention always seem to be on the guys who cheat on government taxes and regulations for years, have crores of bad debt on bank loans but who still manage give their darling wives a personal jumbo jet on their birthdays. On bitter dark days when optimism is out on long leave, it does feel like the fate of the rickshaw-wallah is the fate of the honest man.

In an alternative take on the rickshaw-wallahs' life, is it likely that we are overthinking this? Do they feel as sorry for themselves as others feel for them? Is it at all possible that man is both poor and honest, but still happy within his limited universe? Are the rickshaw-wallahs deserving of our pity or is their simple, uncomplicated existence worthy of our respect?

I let the rain wash over all these thoughts as I watch the Hurricane Laila's remnants splash itself down on Calcutta from the safety of my verandah. The thunder is rumbling and the showers play a steady fast beat on nearby roofs as a hand-pulled rickshaw pulls up in front of the house across the lane from mine. I see that the tarpaulin roof and curtain have protected the passenger from the onslaught of water until now. Now that the destination is reached, the rickshaw-wallah slowly lowers the rickshaw and moves the curtain to reveal a 10-11 old boy returning from school. As the boy dashes for the cover of his house, looking thrilled at being caught in the rain, the rickshaw wallah picks his school bag and follows his little passenger towards his home. The boy is obviously a regular customer as a few seconds later, the rickshaw wallah returns having collected his fare from whoever it was who was waiting to receive the boy. I strain my eyes trying to decipher the expression on his face but it is difficult to define through the driving sheets of water. It is definitely not sadness but then again it is not happiness too. It does not look like pride but it is also not one of meek surrender too. Some questions in life will always remain difficult to answer. For all I could see, it was only a rickshaw in the rain.

Get a life

This is for those great "patriots" who picked a scuffle with Indian cricketers at a West Indian pub. "We came all this way to watch you play and you let our country down", they said to a group of players who very undeservedly were looking to party after being humiliatingly knocked out of the competition. A lot of people I know supported the "patriots" wholeheartedly. 'A beating is what will bring them back to their senses' seemed to be the word of advice freely thrown around.

Yes, the majority of the current Indian cricket team is woefully unfit, grossly overpaid and unnecessarily hyped. But we tend to easily forget who put them there in that unsavoury place. These are players who like you and me started off in the same dusty cricket grounds probably with a flimsy bat and a rubber ball. However the difference between us and them is that they stuck to their dream of playing in the national colours, not content merely to watch cricket on TV but to be the cricket on TV. When they made it to where they wanted to be, the spotlight fell on them with all the attendant pitfalls. As a nation, we are all collectively guilty of watching and playing only cricket and advertisers aren't such dimwits that they wouldn't notice the overwhelming bias. They know where to spend their money.

While national hockey teams slept on airport floors, cricketers moved around in limousines & relished a plush existence in 5 star hotels. The struggle to make it to the national level, no matter what the sport is, is no joke, but the stark difference between cricket and the others once you get there is tragic. But does that really give us the right to bash our cricketers up for under-performance, especially since they did not force us to watch cricket at gun-point? It is we, of our own free will, who watch them and cheer for them. Given the continuous focus on them, can we really blame them for accepting the buckets of cash thrown their way to endorse a world of products, devoted followers by the millions that they have? Even if a quarter of its people who spend hours and days watching cricket turned their focus to Indian athletics or other field/court sports, India wouldn't have to be content with the shame of winning only a handful of medals at every Olympics and be ranked 132 in soccer by FIFA.

Swear at them, curse them, hate them with all vehemence for letting your hopes and the hopes of a nation down - but all from within the confines of your living room. Watching sport would be a meaningless activity if it were not the passions it stirs. Everyone wants to be on the side of a winning cause but it does help to accept that we are not talking of robots taking the field here. All the best laid plans and the most intense training regimes may come to nought exactly at the moment the first ball is bowled or the first shot is sent flying out of the ground. There are a lot of mental factors at play and no matter how many times you may have been in that situation, every game is a new game as anyone who has ever participated in a nail-biter of a terrace cricket match will testify. The joys of victory are as exhilarating, as is suicidally depressing the spectre of defeat.

Things happen to people, both great and detestable, when under the glare of live cameras and when within hearing range of thousands of roaring fans. Say what you will, but you have to give each and every player that concession for human failure. Just because you bought a ticket to watch them, or missed dinner and India lost the match due to that dropped catch or poor over hardly qualifies you to give an actual black eye to the guilty party or be gleeful that somebody was moronic enough to try doing that. Anger and bitterness are fully justified in the case of fans watching from a distance but not its physical or verbal manifestation when face to face with the actual player. The players are not performing monkeys or video-game characters who operate by pressing A or B buttons or various combinations to perform the appropriate action at exactly the right time. They are out there on the field, with at least the capability of doing something which the fans could not do themselves in a lifetime (Yeah! I know many Indian cricket fans would like to joke that they can field and bowl better than Ravindra Jadeja on current form but all of them know the reality) and that reason alone disqualifies the fans from the moral right to personally confront the players. Harbhajan Singh might still be the right authority to lambast the 'famed' Indian batting line-up for he did show on the Barbados ground that he could handle the Aussie pacers better than them, but not the over-enthusiastic fan who only chugs beer on the boundary ropes jiggling his pot-belly which might one day give Yuvraj Singh's a run for his money.

Which brings me to the subject of Yuvraj Singh. Wasn't it only 2007, just 3 years ago, when we were all agog at his magnificent 6 sixes in an over and then his battering of the Aussies in the semis to such an extent that the Kangaroos couldn't figure out where to hide? Even if he now has to field at mid-on instead of at point indicating his decline from an once excellent fielder and even if he has to grow a beard to conceal his double-chin, it is up to the selectors to drop him from the team and not a fan's prerogative to drop a beer bottle on his head. Whatever may be his 'lifestyle' problems, if he can regain his original form while out of the playing 11, there is nothing in the world which can prevent his rightful re-entry into the team given the magic he has in his hands. In the meantime, if people are looking to rough him up, it can only cause him further physical injury, not to mention severely dent his confidence levels. No bowler, batsman or fielder is going to perform better if the constant threat of being manhandled by a mob of irate fans hangs like a sword above him.

As for the final bit, the ultimate excuse for beating cricketers to a pulp, the supposed damage to the "pride of the nation". Where is the pride of the nation when there is a need to take on the eve-teasers of your mohalla? Where is the pride of the nation when corrupt municipalities siphon crores of rupees in broad daylight while roads stay broken, garbage stays un-picked and uninterrupted power supply is a theoretical concept? Where is the pride of the nation when thousands of fellow citizens are perishing in a civil war in rural India between the thieving 'haves' and the violent 'have-nots'? Where is the pride of the nation when it is being torn apart by religious fundamentalism, casteism and regionalism, and absolutely no one in the public sphere is man enough to speak up, examine both sides of the story and seek a peaceful solution for fear of the voters' backlash? No, we would much rather protest our captain Dhoni's 'inexplicable' support for a young Jadeja and paint the walls of his house black as it is the easier thing to do. Everything else preceding that requires a lot of patience and is actually of consequence to the future of India. Everything else preceding requires a lot of personal courage putting life and limb on the line as the 'enemies of the nation' you take on there are much more dangerous than the average Indian fast bowler (who can't even get a yorker in the right place) out for a drink with his equally harmless buddies. Everything else is where we see volunteers for the cause of the nation vanish into thin air. Cricket is at best a diversion from the real issues plaguing "the pride of the nation" and it would serve us all well indeed to keep that in mind.

Yes, I hated the Indian cricket team for losing like they did in this World Cup. It made me mouth unmentionable things about their pasts, presents and futures all day long but at one point I had to stop because it is just a game and they are just normal persons with vastly superior cricketing abilities. There are way more important things to worry and crib about in daily life than to spend hours plotting the assassination of batsmen who can't play the short ball. Winning does matter the most but defeat has its own invaluable lessons to teach. So, Mr. Indian-fan-who-tore-Ashish-Nehra's-shirt-in-a-bar-brawl (False hero for countless other equally ridiculous Indian cricket fans), get a life! If you are a real patriot, just wait for the 2011 World Cup, put on your India T-shirt no matter who is in the playing XI and go "Indiaaaa, Indiaaa, Clap, Clap.... Indiaaaa, Indiaaa". Pray like you have done a million times before that Dhoni's boys will rise to the chant and the occasion.

Adios, Senora Gomez

The potential advantages of my being able to speak Spanish first struck me when many a time on the crowded streets of Manhattan or Boston, I was hailed over by a lost looking face and greeted with a flurry of words in a language that made absolutely no sense to me. The soul desperately in need of help would take it for granted that I was a Latino without needing to confirm that. Snatches of the word storm blowing my way would indicate to me that he/she was asking me how to get to a particular address and that he/she was greatly relieved to have found someone with whom they could speak in their mother tongue. But being gifted with the road-sense of a 2 year old and my grasp on Spanish being restricted to "No enteyendo Espanol!"[I don't understand Spanish!], I was only of as much help to them as the next manhole cover. But being frequently mistaken for a Latino presented some really tantalising possibilities. "Hmmm... interesting. Very interesting!" I thought to myself helped also by the fact that I have alway wanted to visit Peru, Argentina and the Easter Islands on my own.

So I set my mind (like an arrow headed to the bull's eye) to learning rudimentary conversational Spanish on a priority basis and bought myself a "Learn-it-yourself" Spanish language kit. Naturally then, more than 8 months came and went away after that momentous day before I finally mustered the will to open the CD pack and put the first CD into my computer. And the funny part is that from the first CD onwards, it seems to convey a highly pessimistic impression of how conversations with Spanish speaking women would go and the practice lines in the CDs are indeed a hilarious exercise in self-'fool'fillment (in other words making yourself sound like a fool). It almost seems like that the teachers of Spanish are sobering down your high flying expectations from a conversation in Spanish.

The CD lessons are purely audio based as they first run through frequently used phrases and short sentences making you memorize them by repeating them. This is followed by an actual conversation where there are deep long pauses between two consecutive lines where you can practice what needs to be said a number of times before the CD recording itself tells you what the right response is so that they can be compared.

There's one long one-sided practice conversation where the guy (played by me :P) goes on-and-on in Spanish spouting:

"Buenos dias, Senorita! (Good morning, miss!)

Como esta usted?(How are you?)

Soy el Senor Jones. (I am Mr. Jones.)

Soy de Chickago. (I am from Chicago.)"

Presumably due to the confusion writ on her virtual face, the next question which the CD asks me to put to her is:

"Usted entiende? (Do you understand?)"

Pat comes the recorded reply to this in a female voice from the CD leaving me a.k.a Senor Jones high and dry:

"No, entiendo un poco de Espanyol. Soi de Northe Americana. Soi de Los Ankhilis. Adios, Senor Jones! (No, I understand very little Spanish. I am an American from Los Angeles. Goodbye, Mr. Jones!)"

But halfway through this beginner's course in Spanish, the mock conversation which really takes the cake for me is this one.

Senor Jones (a.k.a Me guided by the CD's cue voice in English) : "Buonas tardes! (Good afternoon!)

Female recorded voice: "Buonas tardes, Senor! (Good afternoon, Mister) Como esta usted? (How are you?)"

Senor Jones: "No muy bien. No avlo ee no entiendo Espanol. (Not very fine. I can't speak nor understand Spanish)

Female recorded voice (in a reassuring tone): "No no senor, usted entiende ee avlo Espanol muy bien! (No, no Mister. You understand and speak Spanish very well!)"

Senor Jones: "Gracias! Ah, ess usted la Senorita Gomez? (Thanks! So, are you Miss Gomez?)"

Female recorded voice ( now in a rather scandalized tone): "No, no soi la Senorita Gomez. Soi la Senora Gomez. (No, I am not Miss Gomez. I am Mrs. Gomez.)"

At this point in time and imaginary situation, I did not need the CD to tell me what needed to be said from Senor Jones' i.e. my end but the CD advice did confirm what I already had said...

"Adios, Senora Gomez!"

And that was exactly where Chapter 4 of my Spanish learning CDs ended. I squirm at the thought of what further embarrassments lie ahead for me as I move to the Chapters 5, 6, 7 and 8!

Scoot

We are moving base. From a town I had lived in for the entire 15 year span of my school life to a place which always meant home for Mom and Dad but for me until recently had meant only a destination we headed to during our summer holidays at school. 3 years of working in Calcutta has given me a certain degree of familiarity with the city but home for me had always meant the little town of Bharuch in south Gujarat. Amongst the many things that will have to left behind as we re-adjust to a life in a big city will be a very dear possession which unfortunately no one in our family has any use left for.

Thankfully for me and my teenage years, Preity Zinta and Sania Mirza had not started advertising for the TVS Scooty yet, thereby saving lots of scrawny teenage guys like me who zipped around on it by the thousands from great embarrassment. I won't lie. I still positively adore the tiny little 59cc engine that the TVS Scooty originally came with when my parents bought me one in 2001 and the light frame body with tiny wheels which made screaming through stopped rush hour traffic a breeze. But I can surely say that if the 'Scooty = Girl Power' slogan were around when I was 16 years old, I would have begged, borrowed and stolen to make my folks buy me a motorcycle instead. But leaving hypothetical bad memories aside, let's jump to some real nostalgic ones. For us, the only real Scooty ad was the one with the Eagles song "Take it easy" in the background as a guy tried to teach his lady love how to ride the two wheeler.

The first time I saw the blue variant of the Scooty at the showroom where my parents had taken me, I knew I had to get that shade and that shade only. Co-incidentally my present Bajaj Pulsar 180 is almost exactly the same shade. Scootys were already a dime a dozen in our school parking lot with Santosh's (The original Scooty guy of our batch) grey pioneer and then Sidharth's white one. Blue was the way to go and though I had ridden pillion quite a few times, I hadn't made the progression to the driver's seat yet. Dad took charge and rode the brand new machine all the way home as I sat all excited behind.

Evening was when my sister showed up, much more excited than me and informed me that she knew how to ride it as she had already done so a couple of times on her classmate's vehicle. Not only that she also convinced me to sit behind her to prove her point. Big mistake! Within seconds of starting within the compounds of our flat buildings itself, she managed to graze my knee against a solidly parked Enfield which looked in no mood to give way to a puny Scooty. From then on I decided that if anything, I would learn to ride the thing all by myself rather than put myself in harm's way thanks to my erratic teacher. If my sister still wanted to crash our spanking new Scooty, she was free to do so but she could very well do it without the benefit of having her brother play an accident victim in that disaster too.

A few days of riding the back alleys gave me the confidence I needed to venture onto the roads. The first trip I made was to Santosh's place and I still remember my terribly aching hands at the end of the short trip, one which my Scooty would make a gazillion times later but by which time I had figured out that the secret of riding any vehicle comfortably was literally "taking it easy" handling it like an ally, like an extra body part and not gingerly as if it were a live bomb or something on those lines.

Since that day, the blue Scooty has been an integral part of so many memorable snippets of that period of life. Three guys (on a couple of occasions even 4) making its little engine groan under all that weight as it still bravely chugged along carrying us returning from an after-school cricket match, located on the NH-8 highway in the middle of nowhere as our school was. The GNFC ground evening commute was where my Scooty and other's would work on a first come-first serve basis (almost like a cab but without receiving any fare) to any friend/friends who had just seen us drive up and was/were not eager to make the long walk from the gate to the lawns where the stumps being carried were to be set up. The drive into school on winter mornings through the open highway was an exercise in physical endurance, as the very tip of my nose would be freezing yet there would be no let up on the buzzing 60-65 kmph speed which in those days seemed decent enough. There were the late night trips to the highway side dhaba Nyay Mandir as a sudden munchies attack got to us as a group and the ganging up in front of the Relax/Relief/Shalimar halls as we all bought tickets and laughed in chorus at the Hindi dubbing of whichever Hollywood monster/disaster movie we had bought tickets to.

Then there were the evening buddy get-togethers in front of the Anni paan-shop near Hotel Shital, as all of us watched with bated breath for the few hot girls of JP college about whom word had spread around. They never ever did come that way down the thoroughfare to the railway station but that still didn't stop us from waiting in vain. That we were engrossed in all kinds of guy talk any which way helped prolong our stay at the aforementioned Anni's even with the lack of supposed 'greenery'. Once in a while, the rain would catch us out by its sudden arrival but the dash back home riding through the waves of showers and the puddles was always rejuvenating no matter what may have been the preceding mood.

The best trips made by my Scooty were to the Narmada bridge on the highway in the evening as we would drive up the wrong side and park our two-wheelers at the very beginning of the bridge. Then our group of buddies would walk all the way to the middle of the long bridge down the footpath to where there was always water of the river flowing below it irrespective of the season. The heavy traffic of loaded trucks and buses kept vibrating the bridge in such a violent way that we feared that one day the bridge might just snap. The difficulties of lighting a cigarette in the unrelenting gusty breeze from the Narmada would be overcome with great difficulty but that still didn't prevent the river breeze from smoking away half of our cigarettes. We would look down into the dancing patterns of the incessantly moving waters leaning over the parapets in the fading light as we discussed the latest developments in our individual lives looking out for someone to slip up, say more than he intended to and then collectively take up his case.

I may not even get a chance to say goodbye to my first motorized ride, a little engine with a big heart. By the time I get back to Gujarat to wrap up our assets there, my reliable two stroke powered friend might already be in somebody else's possession. Like many a dearly loved object from my past, it too will only reside in the sunny portions of my memory for all the good times that I shared with it. On some days, there was no better way to boost my mood than to twist that little throttle and hear the little fella' sing all of its 59 cc out loud as it rushed forward putting in a genuine effort to speed up.

Those days and that image of the TVS Scooty are long gone, but I have no real reason for prolonged sadness even though these days there are a number of things which I just can't identify with. That's because I have got an emergency plan in place after recent traumatic events. A couple of days ago, as I was dragging myself on foot to the local bazaar, I saw a girl zoom past me on a full fledged motorbike! So launching a Scooty in baby pink wasn't enough, now you want to prettify motorcycles too? I have decided that I will buy a gun and keep it oiled & ready. The day I see the advertisement "Bajaj Pulsar - Definitely female", I'll go right ahead and shoot myself in the head!