Gandhi and the Gun - a short story

All heads at the South Delhi’s JET SET club turned. Smiles evaporated; laughter ceased. Everyone saw the stranger come, struggling for confidence and not quite finding it, his nose exuding an insecure challenge in its cliffy obstinacy, his lips trembling at the loss of words not formed. The worst was noticed next – he was naked. But was he? At this moment, he clearly was.

The man walked inside the prestigious club lawns, spread all around from the tall, barricaded wrought iron gates in a numbing green of watered grass – in stark contrast to the brown, untended grounds of the immediate neighborhood – and stood in a clear patch. He smiled, while I, and others, continued to frown, our eyes focused on him. The naked man’s slim, frail body stood like an autumn twig, unwary of the chill in the winds. The eyes glistened with the ecstasy of the finalist in a game, who having just lost, was refusing to take the brain’s signal seriously. The skin of his face was determinedly taut, indicative of, perhaps, the jubilation of a feat soon to be achieved.

It surprised me when the realization came: indeed, the man looked like the Mahatma, Mahatma Gandhi, I agreed with the person sitting beside me. Barring just one flaw – the timing seemed a century late. We all noticed the pistol, but the weapon in his hand looked nothing more than a toy that had gotten suddenly ambitious. Silence remained, for though no one was sure if it was real, no one was sure it wasn’t too. There were no clothes on his body; except a loin cloth. The feet were like a cluster of dried branches caught in a pattern at the end of his legs.

“I am here to ask you a favor,” the voice now rode high on a rising confidence wave he seemed to be braving. At this point someone coughed and a lady at the other end of the club cleared her throat simultaneously, as if in the waiting. A mobile started to ring, kicking off a Hindi film song. The owner, a fat guy who always wore black clothes and sweated profusely irrespective of the weather, cursed the timing of the caller and had to fight with the mobile a few times, pressing numbers on the keypad, before the squeaky voice of the singer, finally relented. The silence returned.

“I am not here to trouble you. I am here just to ask a favor”.

“Who has let you in?” The club owner, stepped forward, his forehead a playground for sweat beads running across, and a few just hanging there, happily reflecting the distant lights.

The man smiled and straightened the nozzle of the pistol towards him. “That is not something I would like to answer. It will waste your precious time. Everyone’s precious time... I am just asking for a favor. Is there anyone in this place who is ready to answer my question?”

Seconds crawled by. Soon they clustered into minutes as everyone waited. The owner wiped the sweat from his forehead every few seconds. The man patiently kept on smiling, the pistol looking clearly out of place in his weak hands. He was not a criminal, I was very sure, but since he had the pistol I kept my assumption to myself. Something was however bubbling inside, and I thought I should try and get everyone out of the crisis.

“I will do you a favor.” I was surprised to hear someone speak. The sound hung heavy in the air. People now turned towards the voice. I found them looking at me. “I will do you the favor you seek.” I heard myself repeat; the bubbles had all erupted suddenly.

“Thank you, sahib.” The man with the pistol turned towards me. His eyes now seemed to water even more. I think I saw a teardrop roll down. The thought was confirmed as more joined their journey along his unshaven face of about fifty. “You are welcome. What can I do for you?” I tried to sound helpful. I think I succeeded.

“First of all, I just want you to know that I am not a criminal. Do you believe me?”

“Then why are you moving around with a gun in your hand?” Someone shouted from the back. His eyes ran in a frenzy straining to find who said that. But he was not successful. Neither was I.

“Because there is no other way... You tell me, would you have ever given a second glance if it was not for this pistol?”

The old man’s words hung in the air like the rain that has been halted midair by an eternal power. After a few seconds the rain splashed and the eager club goers began to hope for more.

“Yes, I agree with you that you are not a criminal. But what is the favor that you came looking for?”

“I am a poor man sahib, residing outside the city. I have no home, so I and my wife with our three children live in a small tent made out of used cloth.” He took a long breath and continued, “I have been working for a construction company on daily wages for the last three years. You know how much daily wages are? I mean what we get and what we sign for?”

Now I could see the tears flowing like a stream on his face and his voice was riddled with hiccups. He continued when I nodded.

“The contractor who paid us was a very good man. He was kind and generous. I agreed that he should keep half of the money I earn so that it will remain safe. I was told I could ask for it when I wanted.”

He seemed to be choking now. I asked for some water and a waiter came with a glass. The man declined the offer. “I can’t drink here. This place belongs to you rich people. I will have it later. But thanks for asking.”

He continued, “Today morning when I asked the contractor for my money, he said he didn’t have it. I was surprised. He said I never gave him any and he owed nothing to me.”

The man now broke down. His tired, distressed body slowly sank on his shaky, slender legs, as he sat down, hunched, the pistol pointing aimlessly at the grass a few feet away from him. People sighed relief and a sense of regularity began to slowly emerge. The whiskey glasses began to clink again with ice as one waiter walked from the bar towards someone who had taken the pause seriously enough to signal him.

The man shouted. “I haven’t finished yet, ladies and gentlemen.”

With one sudden movement he turned towards me and asked, “Do you want to know what favor I want or not? Or you want to see blood?”

I nodded, unsure, how to respond. “Yes, I want to know.”

“I want to kill that man.”

“But don’t you think this is too big a price for him to pay?” I was not sure if it was right for me to question the decision of the old man. I swallowed hard.

His eyes seemed to focus in and out of memories, “No,” he said at last, “Because later, he sent guys to my house to kill me and my family.” The man was now shaking like a leaf stuck on a windowpane of a car in a storm.

“But you are alive. What about your family?”

The man was now suddenly silent. His cheeks grew in and out like a man’s after a sprint and his eyes burned like embers. I knew the answer. They were probably dead.

The sound of a police siren brought a silent cheer in the crowd. But the man seemed oblivious. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd.

“You cannot hide. Come out, you snake. Or I will come for you.”

The crowd began eyeing each other suspiciously. Whispers went back and forth like waves. The siren grew closer.

“I command you to come forward, you coward.” The man now seemed in a little hurry.

“I promised you I will help.” I shouted and pushed my best friend forward. “Here is your culprit, contractor for you… and now I know, an evil friend for me.” My friend lost his balance and fell at the old man’s feet. A smile lit his face and the eyes now shined like those of a victor’s. It was the smile I had been waiting for. The old man bent forward and picked up my friend by the collar. Though he was just half his weight, but the old man was able to pull the shaking body without any effort.

He put the pistol on my friend’s head and fired once. It was nice to see the preyed, preying on the predator. It was like reversing the God’s greatest stupidity, by righting a natural wrong. The sound echoed like the arrival of a festival. Faraway a jackal began to howl and a few peacocks sitting silently on the trees above us jumped from one branch to the other in panic. The old man fell down. It wasn’t due to happiness or exhaustion.

The inspector behind had fired in the nick of time; I realized as everyone around began to clap. The old man was bleeding when I got to him.

***

“Get up, you joker.” I shouted at the old man, smiling. But he continued to writhe in pain.

“It is the real police.” Someone shouted.

“Shit! Someone please call an ambulance.” I shouted back, tears now running freely my cheeks.

The entire film unit began to run in circles. But the Gandhi, the actor who had played the part of the great Mahatma Gandhi so very well, was gone. He departed with a final smile frozen on his face. I broke down, comprehending what it meant for me: no mentor in the film world, no free whiskeys at the sets and no cigarettes to borrow....
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A picture post and a few thoughts

Sorry! Been away for far too long, I guess. But couldn't have done better - a job to keep and a family to live with. Surprise, surprise! I love the latter, off course, but also like to stick around with the former.

Or maybe I was just plain too lazy to write.

Anyways, I think this is the right time to share a few off-the-cuff thoughts. Since 'to excel' is at the core of human aspiration ( at least I believe in it), I have been working mostly on my writing, to discover newer ways. I have come to believe that good writing is all about concentrated thought that has been intentionally lent a style suited to appeal to the senses of the seekers (readers). Mundane is what all of us avoid, like plague. That is common knowledge. I think the readers look for believable dreams, candid see-throughs from daily life, complete with dramatic ups and downs. They want to know what are they missing, what is happening around them out of sight, and how others are in greater shit than them? I think - at least at this moment - everyone wants to know and see more than what their surroundings permit. Now having thought aloud, it becomes obvious that I think writing brings with it a lot of challenge if one is hoping his work to be read. More on this soon. For the moment, though, let me share a few pictures.

The river Yamuna behind the Taj. Check out the gulls flying about and the fisherman trying his luck from a tiny boat.

That is Jeanie posing with a bunch of Oriental Lilies.

Liana with a big potato chip

I think Taj looks great, when you look past me.

Dad's pose makes him look stylish. Must learn!

The water colour image of the beautiful Taj (Picture by my daughter Jeanie)

Breakfast togather. What is wrong with me?

Thoughts on the run...

1. It is madness to talk sense to someone in power. He is blind in the head and his brain can't see the obvious. Lesson: Jettison logic, if you got to see yourself somewhere high up. Or crib!

2. Red is the only colour visible in this late October haze of Delhi. But is there anything unusual about it? The answer is no. I only hope it doesn't get muddier or smoggier. At least some people talk about pollution and many a school kids draw pictures for their school notice boards. The realisation is crawling, but it needs to be paced up before we all choke. Will we inhale more noxious gases this winter? Let's just wait and watch. I hope we pollute less, and make the meteorological inversion less harmful this season.

3. Poverty: Is there a greater curse? I am certain there isn't. No medicines, no food, no entertainment ever happens for the poor. Sometimes, to seek these, if they must, a few cross the thin border of morality and crime happens. It makes them poorer, and their families more miserable. It distresses me immensely to see so many young boys and girls begging on the street crossings and so many better privileged ignoring them. If I ever pray, I will do so for the larger good of these young children. For the present, I must roll down my window and pass some food kept on the side seat for them.

Little mind, big problems

Can you shout and get God's attention?


This is like writing aloud - Frankly, I must say, I am angry, very angry.

Usually very guarded when it come to discussing religion - I am aware, it may not be important to me, but sure is for many - this time around, I guess, I need to unleash, even if it is just a little.

Yesterday, was a big day in my life. My daughter Liana turned seven.

We ( I and my wife) had made elaborate plans. Dad and Mom came down from Alwar ( about 160 kms south west of Delhi where they live). Brother in law came in from west Delhi along with his family. Our plan included recital of a poem by Liana after the cake cutting, which was to be followed by a riddle competition for all. There were prizes were to be given away and obviously Liana was very excited about the whole thing.

Earlier, my wife had given her all the fourteen gifts we had bought over the past one week or so. Anyway, just when all of us were getting warmed up to the party, the worst happened.

Someone had apparently fixed tents down below, near out society's pool, and the pooja (Hindu prayers) ceremony started. The coolest thing was, all the devotees were inside the semi open kind of a tent, and the blaring loud speakers were all out, facing the balconies of the flats where people like us live. Funny verses, film songs and the like ruined our party bone dry.

I tried all I could: Closing the imported sliding Fenesta wind shields on the balconies, adjusting the heavy curtains etc. but without much difference. The sound was so much that we had to cancel Liana's poem recital and she somehow managed the riddles. It went on for a long time and the maintenance staff also could do nothing.

My question is: Can you get any audience from God by ruining the peace of others?

The Dairy dives - 2

Well, I just thought I must continue to share my daily dives - some portions from it, at least. Below are a few gentler ones listed. It makes sense to me; I hope it does to you also.

1. A poem (definition): A good poem is the one that allows the reader to fathom an unrealised emotion.

2. Stories are of three kinds. Ordinary stories, that the writer tries telling himself, or a few known readers, trying to convince all the while that they need to be allowed to see clearly what he is trying to word. Good stories, that the writer tells for the present times, showing layers on people, or situations that they create, which he is sure has escaped the attention of others. Great stories, that seek to freeze the real picture of today, in a manner that future generations draw a parallel from, and grow siting on top, that unravel the present not like making a cabbage naked, layer by layer, but like a feeling of running a knife through it.

3. Beauty: What kicks boredom out of the window

The Shadow in the mirror, By Kulpreet Yadav

It is five in the morning. My head is aching. My breath is labored. My spirit is contained, chained. I am alive, but dead. Another person sleeps beside me. The bed sheet under her is crumpled. I look at her face. Her eyes are closed. But her face still seems to look at me. Her mouth is closed too. But there is a hint of a mild smile on the edges of her lips. She looks beautiful. She looks desirable.

It has been two years now, we have been meeting like this – spending afternoons in a hotel room. Weekdays, it is possible. Weekends it is not. Sometimes it feels good, almost great, and superbly addictive. But more often now-a-days, it looks like a useless exercise. She wants a child. I want an escape. The difference is too huge. How do I tell her?

There is someone at the phone. I pick up my cell. It is the office. There is a meeting in an hour’s time. I have to go in half an hour. I drain the remains of the beer from the glass at the bedside table and get up to dress. But the clothes are gone. How can this be? I nudge her. She moans in sleep. I push her hard. She opens her eyes, finds herself, perhaps, looking at an alien, smiles with a frown, and rolls to the other side. Clothes? Where can I find them?

I must rush to a shop. But how? The question is a self inflicted slap. I sit down. Sweat drops appear on the forehead. I call up the room service and ask for another beer. I must think now. Maybe the room service guy can help. I sure can tip him for the favour. There is a knock on the door. I jump up and open it. There is a stranger facing me. He is smiling excessively. Do they send salesmen in the hotel rooms also?

“Yes?” There is more alarm in my voice than the question. His smile is more even more effusive now. He throws his head back and laughs. I see him now better. He is wearing my clothes. I look closely at his face. My jaw turns that of a crocodile. My eyes pop out like fresh popcorns and forget to blink. My legs are shaking now as if I am dancing. The sweat is like a rain, each drop merrily jumping on my white-haired chest.

It is ‘I’ facing me. “Shit’, I somehow shout. The word echoes in the corridor and returns back to me in cascading whimpers. After a while it collectively crumbles down at my feet.

“I am the mirror”, he says. Now he peers at me, and his forehead wrinkles in furrows. He looks like an intellectual, eagerly awaiting the final call for a big award, maybe an Oscar or a Booker. I gather courage, somehow and look at him. There are bags under his eyes. Whiskey, I know. There is an ashen smear on the face. Cigarettes, I know. There is less hair falling on the forehead. Dandruff, I know. There is a glint in the darting eyes. Greed, I know.

“What are you staring at, my friend?” The bags push up the eyes.

“Nothing”. I am embarrassed. I look down.

There is a paunch. Beer and restaurant binge, I know. The hands are spidery. These crawl on the bare bodies of many women, I know.

“Why nothing?”

Now he has a pistol in his hands. I stare at him. I am frightened. It feels like a deer in front of a lion, waiting for the final assault. The bullet feels as it enters the body. There is now no fear. It feels less painful. Death could be such an easy escape, I never imagined. I am smiling, happy at the easy death.

I wake up. It is a dream. She is shaking me. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I am sad at being alive.

“I have good news.” She is blinking her eyes. Her head is tilted. I try to ignore her. But she is defiant in her declaration, “I am pregnant.”

@#$%&^*

The leather book dives...

Well, it is the camel leather notebook, actually. I bought it from Jaipur a couple of years ago and it has since become my favourite place to dive in, when I am just myself - say, biting my nails, shut alone in the tiny corner of my home, brooding, complaining, or just procrastinating. I really can't tell, how much is it going to impress you guys, but I think a few of these might end up making that oblique kind of a sense (whatever oblique-sense means).

1. Quiet: An oscillating mind demands a lot of quiet.

2. Sin: To sin is far more human than being afraid of sinning.

3. Success: It stinks unless, someone sees it the way it feels.

4. Poem: A good poem is like a boring joke that has decided to turn philosophical.

5. Original: Originality fails, fails, and fails... until it takes rebirth

6. Ambition: It rots without labour

7. Dream: My dream is her story

8. Desire: Biggest excuse to escape reality

9. Surprise: Innocence revisited?

10. Love: Mother of all inventions

---------------

A picture post...

I have my Brother in law to my right and my co brother to my left. We drank half the whiskey in the bar on the eve of my co brother's departure to the US.

This is one of my favourite picture. You see the river Yamuna through the wire fencing, the biker leads in the picture with the car overtaking the minibus. Above us the rain clouds are just getting ready to pour.

It sure can get tiring protecting the city's ATMs. I was glad to see someone taking rest on duty. I would fire him if I were his boss, though.

I had this wonderful opportunity to head the table at my brother Anil's birthday at a city club last Saturday. It was one of the most enjoyable parties that I have attended in a long time. But there was so much of food that we could eat only one fifth of what was served.

On the way to the office today, I wasn't surprised to see the water collected under the bridge on the Bhairon road. I think the civic authority needs a shake up. So hard, that their brains fall off and they affix new ones to do some thinking. Frankly, I have seen the same thing happening for the past six years. But everyone forgets when the rains are gone.

I am certainly not the Pranava Kumar for whom the envelope from Hindustan times was intended. I accepted it just because my name was in the list with the courier guy. I also didn't mind his wishing me good morning in the afternoon. But I sure came to know that HT has done some overhaul. I think the new paper has a good feel. So, regardless of the goof ups, I stay with HT. Here is also wishing them good luck.

Kasauli - Five reasons to visit this summer

Five reasons why one should plan to visit Kasauli in Himachal Pradesh, India. (For a more detailed account read my complete article at About.com. Click here.)

The Kasauli Brewery

One. Mr E Dyer who was the father of the notorious Brigadier General Reginald Dyer, the perpetrator of the Jalianwala bagh massacre on April 13th in 1919, set up the Kasauli brewery. The brewery was famous for making the "scotch of the east", Solan No 1 brand, besides the first ever Asian beer, Lion, that was brewed here. Yes, you got that one right, the first beer to be brewed in ASIA.

Two. The (in) famous President of Pakistan (earlier Pakistan Army Chief and later Field Marshal) Ayub Khan was a tenderfoot 2nd Lieutenant of the Indian Army, who probably did his first appointment with 1st Battalion, Royal Fusiliers at Kasauli, after passing out from Sandhurst Military Academy in the United Kingdom.

Three. To escape the gruesome summer of 2009. Picture this... A small army cantonment, three British made churches including one called the "Church of England" built in 1884, several British made green and white cottages, two malls catering for local and tourist needs, and plenty of calm, makes Kasauli the ideal summer retreat for heat and dust weary Indian families, desperate to cool their bodies in an idyllic, friendly landscape.

Four. For fruit wines and homemade Salami. I would strongly recommend fruit wine, made by a local brewery called Sutter House (now called Waterfall Wines), available everywhere. It comes in riotous colors and flavors like peach, strawberry, apricot, grapes, rhododendron and apple. The best part is the price. A bottle of 750 milliliters ranges from 130-300 rupees only.

Five. Last but certainly not the least. Khuswant Singh, the nonagenarian Sikh writer who famously holidays in Kasauli each year, says so.

A poor Dalit couple donate their dead four year old son's eyes

A poor Dalit couple donate their dead four year old son's eyes

The parents of a dead Dalit infant in a remote Uttar Pradesh village donated his eyes, making him the youngest such donor in the country reads Hindustan Times. Further it says,

The Dalit couple was overcome with grief, but at the insistence of Satyapal’s elder brother Harpal, 30, they immediately got in touch with Dr Ashok Jain and his wife Kusum, who run the Roshni Eye Bank in Saharanpur, about 100 km away.

“It was a difficult moment for us but we decided to keep our son alive by donating his eyes,” said Meenakshi, who had studied up to Class 10.

Apprehending controversy and opposition from other villagers, the family requested Dr Jain to remove Lucky’s corneas before daybreak.

In doing so, they not only gifted vision to an eight-year-old girl and a 55-year-old man, but also helped break several centuries-old social taboos.

In caste-conscious UP, Dalit organ donors are still a rarity. Then, there is a widespread belief among villagers that cornea donors are born blind in their next birth.

Man, I am moved. I wish I was a Dalit. As an Indian I think such instances must be recognised and upheld. I am glad Hindustan Times made this their front page story this Sunday.

Micheal Jackson goes with a white skin

As a child I was always excited at the prospect of listening to the great MJ. I remember looking at his picture on the cassette cover and hearing him play on my tape recorder in the early eighties. For me, he looked a shade darker version of us Indians. I am not sure if it was a dark man singing an English song that attracted me or just his impact-full voice. Now I know, perhaps, it had do with his voice. But nevertheless his colour too made an effect on me. Remember I said I was just a child. Then came this song about the equality of blacks and whites by him. I was disappointed. The sound came from from a mouth that belonged to a white skin. Was he upset being a black. Off course he was. Now I know. But hey brother, it would have been a lot more better if you had done a re-graft and left us in your original colour. Whether someone likes it or not, I must say let's be proud of what we are. In colour, in caste, in race and in language. Phew! I am sorry if my getting overboard has disturbed anyone.

On another note, this editorial in the New York times by VERLYN KLINKENBORG is a good read.

Post card from Amsterdam by a blog friend

My blog friend, who goes by the name J, is taking a road trip in Europe with friends. No no, I am not with him. I wish I did, though. Okay, he has posted a beautiful first hand account from Amsterdam. He concludes by saying... And then someone shouted… dude, where the hell is the red light district. And someone else said, we can still do it, we are still in Amsterdam aren’t we? as we stopped for a quick break in Antwerp. No questions asked, the last I remember was giving directions to my home, my mouth filled with dark chocolate.

I must say the trip wasn’t 100% successful, but I got my wish though… to sit in a coffee shop in the Dam caring two hoots about the world. Not-so-perfect getaway, but perfect in it’s own way. Next destination, Budapest in two weeks ;) Click here to read the full account.

Leila, Sheila and I. A short story by Kulpreet Yadav

Leila looked happy. Very happy!

She laughed easily and even threw in a few jokes. Inexpensive, now that the ones she talked about were exposed, I too enjoyed her jokes.

“That Sheila… she was the wedge. Didn’t I tell you?” She again burst out laughing, perhaps for the millionth time.

I smiled, as bravely as I could. The cheeks hurt. So I scratched the day old stubble in self-consolation. The shower of the salt and pepper tit bits that grew ambitiously, on most parts of my face, stung my fingers back in return.

Shelia! It was difficult to stomach her ridiculous competitive hatred for Sheila. In fact, I liked her more. She wore her body rather more delicately and seemed less possessive. In her company I definitely had more breathing space. But, why Leila then, everyone asked? I knew the answer, but lied. It was easy to lie. After all, who doesn’t need money?

We ordered another round of beer. It was our third pitcher. I looked at the watch. The happy hours had gone and I knew now every sip would be dearer. The small wallet in my denim trousers screamed. Any other order and I would not be able to pay. I hated myself for giving up the credit card.

“Í was sure you would some to me. But now that we are talking about it, tell me, is it not true that you were all head over heels over that bitch Sheila?”
The sting hurt me again. A couple of quick gulps of beer helped. I smiled as bravely as I could, turning my head from one side to the other.

“Hmmm…”

When she was gone, I called Sheila. “I am at the bank, you know. Making a draft for my dad” I had to. For I had felt her call silently purr at least five times in my pocket. “I was worried” Her voice hung in the ears long after. It disappeared only when Leila came back bathed in a fresh overdose of paint and spray. She looked hot.

“At least keep you mouth closed… You are embarrassing me”. She had to say it thrice, before the sound waves reached me. I shifted in my chair. The adjustment became necessary. The cell phone again started purring silently. I knew Sheila would come to know, her worries so damn close trapped in my phone, inches away from the place that was in riots. But how is that possible. Am I already drunk?

“Please promise me, you will never talk to that bitch Sheila again.”

I nodded hypnotized.

“Please promise me that you will also never talk to Anita”

I continued nodding. Somewhere in the back of my mind a skinny smiling face came, waved and ducked out of the view. It didn’t really hurt to let her go. On second thoughts, it did. But only like a slight pang of sadness. I dealt with this one rather well.

Leila ordered another pitcher. It sent my sprits down. But only for a few seconds. I got an idea. I nursed it for a while, sipping beer. Then, from the secrecy of the restroom, I called Sheila

“Sheila, can you please lend me some money…”

“About two thousand…”

“Shit!”

Leila naughtily winked when I got back. I scratched my stubble and smiled. The smile stayed for I don’t know how long. Leila kept on speaking animatedly, curling her fingers, pulling her hair, inspecting her fingernails and winking every few sentences. I thought, perhaps, this is her idea to energize for sex. Sex, yes that word made sense. In fact a lot of sense. I looked at her again with renewed interest. She sure looked desirable. There was clear proof; I shifted again in my chair.

At that moment the bill arrived. I got up, alarmed, unsure what to do. Running away made more sense but I knew that would be a blunder. Better option was to act. I gathered myself. Say something like, shit, I forgot my credit card.

Slowly, I opened the bill folder. The stamp of the words ‘PAID’ hit me like a cold shower. “Thanks Leila”

“For what?” She looked confused.

“Sahib, it your friend over there, who had paid for you.” The steward was saying. I turned. Sheila’s eyes met mine. She was smiling. I had never seen such an uninhibited smile on her. She got up, delicately, and came close to us.

I looked at her. Surprise, repent, attraction, a jumble of emotion stitched my mouth. Like a dope, unashamed, I looked at both of them, one by one. They laughed and walked out hand in hand.

God, Kerala and my Family

Guests in ‘Gods Own Country’, Kerala, India

(Click here to read the abridged version on about.com or just scroll down for the more detailed one..)

View of Kovalam beach from my hotel room

So says the promotional punch-line of the tourism department. The last time I was in Kerala was way back in 1991 when I was a bachelor boy brimming with dreams and making the most of a new found job. This time I decided to take my family there for a vacation. But it wasn’t me who had proposed a visit; it was this advertisement that had done the trick on my kids and wife. And as usual, I had just given in. Well, actually not really given in, but agreed instantly to revisit the place I had loved so much as a reckless guy in his early twenties. Let me share how it all started just the next day of our landing at the capital city Trivendrum, after a four and half hours single hop (Kochi) flight from Delhi.

The God or the Beach? Or Both?

Certainly only the beach… For, the beach is so scenic that it successfully shoves God out of the frame. It is my first morning and I am by the sea some15 kilometers south of the city at a beach called Kovalam. And I am thinking aloud: It is difficult to be at a good beach and think about the work you could not complete back at office. It is rather easier to let your soul get drenched wet instead, without having to lift your feet from under the swaying coconut tree you are sitting right under. It is even easier to let the beer silently bubbling in the glass by your side do the drenching from inside out.

A sea-side is the most perfect place to let the past drift away and to find the future perfect in a new found nearness. Having a family around adds to the fun as you end up chasing the kids on the sand long enough, fully aware all the time that you would lose. And when you get back, thirsty and heavy footed, the beer too is gone. You frantically, first look at your wife, who shrugs, and then at her glass which is empty too. You jump happily and order another round. Life is always so good near a beach on a holiday. As I look at it now my Kerala trip was along the predictable lines. Well, almost…

The God’s surprise

God always throws up surprises. So, he didn’t forget this one too. Kolavam, at first sight I must say was disappointing. Sitting along the crescent shaped cove hanging like an earlobe from the Arabian Sea; it’s the colour of the sand that surprises you first. It is a dull grey, almost black. Then you see unusually laid back trucks (yes!) and workers busy in rehabilitating the damage caused by the Tsunami five years ago. ( More informed people, though insisted that it is the construction of an artificial coral reef just about a meter deep from the surface, some 50 meters further out into the sea from the beach, that is the real reason for the beach resembling a construction site).

Leela Kempinski – God’s own five star resort?

Leela is one of the oldest five star properties on the Kovalam beach and as expected, quite pricey. But with my children summer holidays always falling in the middle of the off season, the recession too timing its ghostly presence about now and the rather ambitious overdrive of the hotel to cut its prices to woo customers, I was able to decide to take a 2 night package for just under 12000. Though food wasn’t a part of the deal and given the fact that we were more committed to eat out during our outings than at the hotel, in the end it didn’t actually work that way. The place at this cost is sure a steal. Not that alone made it likeable for us; the location, the food, the services, all is too good to ignore. I loved staying at the Leela. With the coveted 2009 award for excellence from the American Academy of Hospitality sciences under its belt, a private beach, efficient service and good food, our stay was as effervescent as it promised right from the start, if not that economical. Leela is coming up in a big way in many other cites as well, I understand and with the attitude on display that I witnessed, I think they will come out well.

The God’s house and the Palace Museum

Though only 20 rooms of the place of the erstwhile ruler of Travancore, Maharaja Swathi Thirunal Balarama Varma, have been opened for public viewing in 1995, after being locked for almost two centuries, 60 others are in a state of disarray and therefore, obviously, closed. The palace has a narrow door from one of the rooms that took the king to the Padmanabhaswamy temple of Lord Vishnu. Even today, the time from 0700 to 0730 in the morning is reserved for the 100 odd family members and descendents who stay at Trivendrum. The place and the temple both are an architectural marvel. The temple can only be visited by wearing a mundu (Indian loin cloth) for men and a sari for women. I opted out while my family hired a piece each for 15 bucks and had merriment with God in his own house. Though I don’t believe in God but let me guess, if he is anywhere around, Kerala will sure be a good choice for him to stay.

The palace is spread over an area of about 22 acres and has in its rooms a dazzling display of Belgian crystals, Italian mirrors (with silver backs, not mercury, we were told by the guide) and Chinese gifts. The palace has a frieze of 122 wooden horses on its exterior and is therefore also called as the ‘palace of horses’. Inside, its floor is still original. Smooth and cold under the feet it was made more than 200 years ago using charcoal, limestone and egg white. The ceilings are mostly wood using teak or rosewood only. There are beautiful mirrors and paintings using vegetable dyes that still look as good as new. The king who completed it and got 200 workers to toil for four years could live only for one year in it and died at the age of only 33. The dance rooms, the conference halls, the meeting rooms, the puja (prayer) rooms are now all quiet but bear the testimony to the organized threshold of a king who was understandingly loved as much by all.

God’s creatures and their creative instincts

At the Trivendrum zoo

The former are plentiful in the zoo which erupted in my agenda due to the fact that my children discovered that there is one such. I crisscrossed the zombie zoo-lovers conducted pathways and smiled at the animals sitting unashamedly naked in captivity while my kids screamed in joy. But the latter was sheer delight for me while my kids moved rooms after rooms in the Chitra art gallery not-so-excited. The awe inspiring works of the Raja Ravi Verma are on display here. His paintings for those of you who know have unique vastness – from portraits to theme to common pictures depicting the life of the times he lived in, he has indeed given us a huge treasure of jaw dropping works. The ornaments and gold inlay work in cloth on his subjects are so vivid that it might put the real ones to shame. Then there are Dr. Svetoslav Roerich’s (Cine star Devika Rani’s Russian husband) paintings inspired by his surroundings in Manali where he stayed for a long time. Also there are a number of Chinese paintings and a few others by Indian artistes.

Kochi – The historic gateway to India

In the background are the Chinese fishing nets

It was at Kochi that Vasco Da Gama first landed in 1498. In fact his body was laid at rest at the St Francis church for about fifteen years after which it was transported back to his native Portugal. The Chinese came here too, to trade spices. The tradesmen of Kublai Khan taught the locals a new and innovative way to fish. Called today the Chinese fishing nets bang at the mouth of the Kochi channel these are in use even today. Next arrived the Jews who stayed on for centuries. There is a Jewish Synagogue in the city and a street by the side of it called the Jew Street. It today has neat rows of shops manned by friendly faces who sell mostly antique furniture and spices. I bought white pepper, cardamom, vanilla pods, star anise, cashew nuts and sambhar masala.

Backwaters in the Vembanad lake and its Godly labyrinth

The traditional Kerala lunch abroad the hired houseboat

We had to travel about 70 kilometers south of Kochi to a place called Allepey (Alapuzzha) to board the house boat we had earlier hired for our family. After an hour and half drive by road we arrived at the starting point of the traditional Kerala race (Vallam Kali or the snake boat race) that takes place every year during August looking at a wooden boat that was berthed alongside many others. Inside it had two cabins and a forward covered enclosure ahead of the superstructure that was going to be our sitting out deck area. The only catwalk (passage) that ran from forward to back, alongside our two cabins, had a wash basin in the middle and a kitchen at the far end. Poorer by five and half grand, we were left by the owner (one Mr. Biju Thomas) in the hands of a three crew for a day and night floating about in the backwaters, a must-do on every travelers agenda who comes to holiday in Kerala. It seemed fun at the beginning. We took pictures, watched the locals washing their clothes in the narrow waterways through which we were steered, ate a just about okay local lunch. But soon thereafter the heat caught on to us. The Air-conditioning, we were told was only for the night. So the excitement began to grow thin on us after a few hours. At about six, we were brought back to the same place at about six and told to relax until the wee hours on the next day, when the boat will set sail again for breakfast at sea. There were mosquitoes outside but we had no choice as sitting in the cabins without cooling was next to impossible. Fanning ourselves with newspapers and smashing mosquitoes in-between, we watched a Shahrukh Khan starrer on a 14 inch television on the deck. Finally at nine in the night when the Air conditioning also refused to start, we realized it was enough and headed back to the cool interiors of our room in Kochi. So here is the lesson learnt: Do not go backwaters cruise in any of the ten hot months. December and January would definitely be better fun. And yes, don’t forget to take a guide along. The boat crew doesn’t understand either Hindi or English.

Cruising the backwaters

In Kochi, I figured out more on the Vembanad Lake, the longest lake in India. Spread over 1500 kilometers its wetlands weave an intricate labyrinth of channels and waterways that sustains the unique flora and fauna making the locals depend on this confluence of fresh water from the lake and the salt water from the Arabian sea. One can see numerous waterfowls ducking and emerging every now and then around the boar looking for their daily meal. Over 20000 are expected to be in the lake which is about 14 kilometers wide at its widest point.

The Real Banana Country

The colours of Bananas

Bananas come in many colours. Shades of green and yellow have been a familiar enough sight, but to see a banana that is red in colour was indeed a surprise. Called Kappa, it comes at eight bucks a piece as against two for all other shades. I bought a few. With the pulp pretty in light pink, it tastes quite like a banana – silly, we had all exclaimed, for a banana is expected to taste like a banana – but leaves the sampler with an instant feeling of fullness and gratification. I boarded the flight back for Delhi the day after the poll results were announced. Like me most Indians saw sense and reason in the result. No banana country this, I thought all the while cruising some 30000 feet above the peninsular India on my way to Delhi. It was the closest I could get to God, but perhaps not as close as the Gods own country, Kerala, got to him. My family joins me in authenticating that Kerala is indeed God’s own.

Marigold Art Gallery, Claridges, New Delhi - Home to Contemporary modern European paitings and sculptures

Marigold Fine Art Gallery is located at The Claridges Hotel, New Delhi. Boasting of a collection of high-end, as well as affordable Contemporary Modern European Paintings and Sculptures by renowned European Artists, it is fast becoming a fascinating new destination for the art lovers.

In a breathing space of splendour and elegance, it displays a varied collection of Paintings, Sculptures & Lithographs by great European Masters like Salvador Dali , Pablo Picasso, Arman besides other well known artists like Stéphane Cipre, Jörg Döring etc.

I recently got to chat with Gavrav Assomull, the CEO of the art gallery. I discussed with him the value of art with respect to the recession and the awareness of the European arts here in India besides other things. By the time you are through with the interview it will dawn upon you, as it certainly did on me, that why is Marigold set to go pacing up in the future. To borrow from Picasso, 'Painting is just another way of keeping a dairy'. And all of us need diaries, don't we?

Kulpreet Yadav (ky): There are too many art galleries by the name of Marigold in India and abroad. Why this name? How does it establish the link of European work and India?

Gaurav Assomull (ga) : The reason for the name Marigold is because one of our companies is called Marigold Group that deals in Luxury. As art is hubo luxury, it would certainly fall under this category. Being the only gallery in India dealing in European art, with names such as Dali, Picasso, Warhol, Monet, Matisse and Botero, we are slowly putting ourselves on the map and are aiming to be India's leading European Art gallery.

Having had 2 exhibitions in the space of 6 months of opening our permanent gallery space in Delhi, we have had 2 sell out evenings, which was beyond all our expectations due to the current economic situation. However we are expanding and are very optimistic for the last quarter of 2009. We will be launching at the luxury Emporio DLF mall in June, which is part of our expansion programme as well as a permanent space in Mumbai come Jan 2010.

ky: Do you think the Indians will be interested to buy the works of European artists here in India. Is there so much awareness?

ga: Indian love new things. Based on the last 6 months, it is very clear that there is a market and there are people looking for this kind of work, however we have not even scratched the surface yet. As for awareness, the big names such as Dali and Picasso are known, however from our side, we have to take on the challenge of educating the Indians and exposing them to these great works.

ky: Delhi is flooded with art galleries. Many of these are not doing good business. Few say there is lack of awareness. Do you wish to comment.

ga: Indian art has taken a big hit in the last 9 months, therefore people are little scared to both buy and invest in Indian art which is understandable, with the economic situation, it is not suprising that business is slow. However we are doing good business and are very happy with the way things are shaping up. We have reached leaps and bounds in the last 6 months. For a young gallery I believe we have got to where most galleries are after 2 years.

ky: Recession: How is that affecting the gallery? Some time back there was a news that recession is making new faces appear at the Galleries to go for high value collectibles. Is it true?

ga: Our Price brackets are what you call affordable art. 2 lakhs- 25 lakhs is 90 % of out stock, therefore we are not experiencing too many problems at all, as we are delivering a new product at affordable prices of very high quality and scarcity.
I am sure that 18 months ago would have been a better time, but why look back..

ky: Where does Marigold art Gallery see itself down 5 years from now?

ga: 5 years, from now I hope to be established as the number 1 European Art gallery in India, with outlets and galleries throughout India.

ky: As CEO Gaurav is a tad bit young. Does it get in the way of business, because few take youngsters seriously in the acquired art
of selling high value art.

ga: Age is a number, how you prevail yourself is how you are judged. I understand I am young, however i take my work seriously and keep it strictly professional. Building trust and confidence with my clients and potential clients is important.

Curfewed Night by Basharat Peer - Book review by Kulpreet Yadav

Curfewed is perhaps an erroneous word made up by Basharat Peer for his maiden non fiction, Cufewed Night (Random House, India 2008) to convey a point. Once into the book, you won’t find his stance out of place; in fact you will find it purposely relevant. Since Kashmir has become a wronged reality, why shy away from it. So, how right he is, to use a wrong word for a place he belongs to – and clearly dearly loves – that has seen nothing right for a very long time indeed. On target? Fair enough!

For most Indians, Kashmir is like a dream, an obsession, a God like head that sits atop our great nation which can’t be traded for anything. The deep rooted hatred of Indians for Pakistan, who seems to be infatuated by their love for the land, too, just like the Indians, doesn’t seem to make the ordeal of the innocent Kashmiris, any better. As they pray, hoping peace will return some day, the soldiers from India, Militants from Pakistan, Kashmiri boys who routinely become militants by crossing LoC, informers, State Police and the Paramilitary seem to be existing just to have enough reasons for the conflict to go on. It is tragic that one of the most beautiful of the places on the earth has to put up with so much pain, insoluble grief and abject misery.

Basharat takes the reader through the Kashmir he has seen since his birth, through penetrating observations and a reporter’s pragmatism. He has studied school in Kashmir (Anantnag), politics at Aligarh and Media in the US. There is pain in his voice for all that the Kashmiris had to endure, revelations in his narrative of a place that has been loved by so many in the past and a passion in his story that dreams a future of peace and happiness. He has travelled far and wide in Kashmir and other places in India to understand the pain of the people, to be beside the graves of the strugglers gone by and has listened to the torture tales of the captured militants. The militant for him is not an enemy; he is sometimes a next door neighbor, a school friend or just a relative. Basharat’s Kashmir is a beautiful place but certainly not a paradise it used to be. He describes the people as simple human beings who love their feasts, live amicably with the nature and wish to lead ordinary lives, watching Hindi films and dancing to the tunes of its hysterical songs.

The book is sure to bring a tear or two in the eyes. It is not the kind of book that hits hard. It is the kind of book that gets under the skin and stays there as a silent reminder of the pain many fellow human beings have had to face. Basharat has closed his story with a wave of his hand at the visiting POK Kashmiris who crossed the LoC in 2005 when the bus service to Muzzafarabad and Srinagar started after half a century. There is hope in his voice. I think that sentiment makes him closer to his Indian counterparts; people like us who are equally hopeful. I have never been to Kashmir. It is not that I am scared. It is just that I don’t feel like. This is not to be construed as a disowned neglect for the place. Far from it, I also want to be there one day. I am also hopeful, that a day like that will some day take me there.

Book Review – ‘Calling Sehmat’ by Harinder S Sikka

Book Review – ‘Calling Sehmat’ by Harinder S Sikka

Harinder S Sikka’s maiden novel, Calling Sehmat, is based on the basic premise that Kashmiris are as much Indian in their hatred for our western neighbour, as anyone else. The Indian-ness in them is so profound and committed that they are ever prepared to go to any extent to prove their love for their motherland, India. It is not hard to imagine from where this basic assumption of the author comes from. A retired naval officer, Harinder’s one sided obsession with Kashmiris may be shared by many Indians, including myself. The story takes a young and beautiful Kashmiri student in Delhi, Sehmat, away from her love to get married to a Pakistani Army officer who happens to be also a son of an ISI General. The purpose, understandably, is to spy from the household and pass on the information to the Indian intelligence. One such input warns the Indians of the presence of the Pakistani submarines in the Indian Ocean just before the 1971 Indo-Pak war – something that helps the Indians to help make a more accurate strategy which leads to the sinking of PNS Ghazi and the attack on the Karachi harbour. After the war, a pregnant Sehmat returns to India only to turn delusional as her college love takes her son away for a proper upbringing. A miraculous wanderer finally is able to revive here to normalcy by offering spiritual talks, much of which Harinder claims he has borrowed from Dr Brian Weiss’s ‘Many Lives Many Masters’.

The strength of Harinder’s narrative is that it is very straight and doesn’t allow too much of a room to the reader to wander – perhaps due to his Naval rearing. The description of the 1971 war brings about a much needed naval focus which many Indians may not be completely aware of. This, he claims, is the only part in the book that is not fiction. I read the book just after Basharat Peer’s ‘Curfewed Night’, which, though autobiographical presented a totally different picture of the Kashmiri’s heart. I feel Harinder braves the impossible, making his characters to fathom seemingly impossible abysses of realizations that readers sometimes find a tad too difficult to fathom. But then, as I said, he is a brave writer who chooses, perhaps consciously, to lend heavily on his fauzi upbringing. I for one will be looking forward to read more from him, to see which way his adventure takes him.

Recently published information and articles by Kulpreet Yadav

Though I have largely been busy giving finishing touches to my second book, there have been a few developments that I wish to share with my blog friends.

Donation to Writers Workshop: I have always been hugely impressed with Prof P. Lal and his running of the half a century old publishing house in Kolkata called Writers Workshop. I bow to his creative spirit and the rare determination to run the publishing house against all odds. The decision to give an annual donation to writers workshop has therefore been, for me, long in the the waiting. Read about it by clicking here.

Sommelier India magazine's anniversary Also, my fascination with the wonderful world of wine continues. In the latest chapter, it was a delightful experience to be part of Sommelier India's anniversary celebrations a few days ago. Read from here.

Organic wines and India: Since the whole world is going the organic way, I embarked on a research about it's relevance to the world of wines, particularly from an Indian context. The article can be read from here.

When I grew big enough to understand love and Valentine’s Day...

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin – it’s the triumphant twang of a bedspring. B.J. Perelman

When I grew big enough to understand love and Valentine’s Day, it somehow kept eluding me. Some sparks flew a few times in school and college but didn’t last long enough to catch a fire. I tried to woo girls on Valentine’s Day, but didn’t succeed. I ran behind them with flowers, read horribly written poems to them, cracked jokes… but it all fell on deaf ears. And the ones who tried to see me woo so hard, my blind eyes perhaps could not see. They for their share, dropped big enough hints, passed messages, held on eye contact long enough, but failed. My friends told me this later.

Then I got married – Arranged, Indian istyle. Clueless what to do on the first Valentine’s Day, I did the same mistakes again. But, hey, no failure this time. And thankfully no one else to deal with. So I bought her watches, jewelry, perfumes, cards, dresses… all these years and the love held. It has been fourteen years since we have been married – happily – and life seems to be promising enough for many more. People say life is full of compromises. I don’t believe in it. I feel life rocks if you believe in loving and giving. Someone always comes around the corner who will bounce back with equal force. So, guys, hop across to the nearest florist, buy a dozen roses, pick up a bottle of good wine and some chocolates and reach there at her doorstep. Then say it. The day might have just gone. But the truth is, everyday is a Valentine’s Day, if you are willing to see it that way.

A Picture post

I thought it would be a good idea to share some of the recent cell phone pictures taken by me, floating around Delhi. I must admit that I have played with colours of a few.

This is the Indian fruit tree called Ber (Zizyphus Mauritiana). The fruits green in colour now in March, will soon turn yellow-red and become a great treat for the people...

Oriental Lily blooms at my home... hint for guys struggling to be good lovers: Chocolates and jewellery are all passe, try to pick these and see the effect. It's works guys!

Bebinka has always been one of my favourite puddings. It is a layered rice cake dripping in a heavenly syrup of Jaggery. I was lucky when my brother got me one from Goa recently.

This was a great wine (see details here) that I shared with my wife on the Valentine's at Home. Costs Rs 1290 at Khan market in cash. If you choose to use your card, the shop charges an extra 20 rupees. I know because I had to pay. I liked the wine and have got my tasting notes ready to be posted on my wine blog. Will do it this weekend.

1911 has been a favourite bar to visit at the Imperial for some time now. I spend lazy afternoons there reading the book on the hotel and sipping beer. Like last weekend in the picture.

The awe-inspiring lady at a park near my home...

Lodhi gardens is also home to some of the most beautiful of Delhi birds. I just love the sight of confident looking white breasted Kingfisher, always seriously searching Indian Babbler, perky Lapwing and the ever agile Red-vented Bulbul.

Valkyrie - Movie Review

Valkyrie is based on the July 1944 plot to kill Adolf Hitler. It is a true story in which German soldiers, frustrated with their Fuehrer, conspire to kill their supreme Commander. The man who is singularly responsible for the form of world we live in today. At the face of it, it looked like a water tight plan. The officers, along with their political friends, trick Hitler into signing a document called Operation Valkyrie, which authorizes the Berlin Reserve police force to take over the country in case of Hitler's death. In the centre of it all is Colonel Claus Von Stauffenberg (Tom Cruise). The plan goes well. The blast takes place as planned in the war briefing room of Hitler at a location in Russia. The reserves are mobilised. The SS are taken in custody. But then the news floats that Hitler is not dead. The small changes are undone in minutes and all those involved are arrested. Later, as it is a well documented historical fact, all of them are executed.

In today’s times when the young generation has no clue of the ‘pains and scars’ of the World Wars, the making of this movie is a brave initiative indeed. The movie is well directed by Bryan Singer (Superman Returns, being his latest in 2006). Tom Cruise with one eye covered and sporting a different hair style is good, though at times I got a feeling that he appeared to be a little stiff. But then the times were such. This is perhaps the thirteenth attempt to capture the essence of the Jul 20, 1944 plot to kill Hitler. The number might be thirteen and many might be saying it is not a great movie, but according to me it is a must watch.

Random jottings...

The Economics of Public losses...

The world seems to be war-devastated. Except that there is no real war this time. It is actually the economic crisis that has caused the devastation - largest of the world's banks have collapsed, business houses are weighed heavy under unsurmountable debt load, surviving a job seems to be the single biggest daily ambition of millions, the stock market's bear seems like a snail that has eaten it's own head, and the buyers everywhere have simply vanished. Governments are busy doling out large chunks of public money to the greedy private players who unethically lost money to hopeful investors. The real question today: how will the modern world deal with this devastation? And if it does, how long before the crisis is made history.

Well, I am no economic wizard. My only investments remain in a single savings account ( it rarely has more than the minimum balance) and the paltry sum in the office Provident fund. But as an educated human being it is something that bothers me a lot - appalling as it does, to witness the catastrophe. The vicious circle is foolishly simple - business houses seek people's money promising good returns, sponsor politicians, who in turn, bail them out using public money. In short, whether you put your hard earned money in taxes or put them in banks/stocks, the politicians and the businessmen will always ways to use it. Phew! I wish these guys were less predictable. I think I am fast loosing faith in the moral lessons taught in school. And I am sure, I am not alone.

The eyes of hope...

A few days ago, a boy of about eight tapped on my car window at a traffic signal in Delhi. He wasn't begging. Holding national flag in one hand, his expression however seemed so. Ten rupees he seemed to be saying but the music and the closed window however kept him muted. I looked into his eyes. Somehow those transparent, almost stoned eyes have stayed with me since. I wish I had bought the national flag that day. I have been looking for him since then. There are many others at the signal except him. I hope I didn't deny him last meal, or his last drug shot.

The voice in need...

Have you ever noticed how a person sounds when he needs something from you? Next time someone calls you asking for a favour, try to spot the excessive submissiveness in the voice. Call him later, fake a unknown name, and then ask for a favour. The voice won't sound like his. In the world obsessed with needs, the human beings change dramatically when asking or giving. But we all know this, don't we?

Flash Fiction: Scribbling on a Paper napkin in a bar...

Julio and the storm: This is the Flash fiction I wrote on a paper-napkin a few days ago during a party at a city bar.

The city slept. Everythig looed perfect as Julio finalized his plans. A smile played on him as he walked to the Imperial hotel. The stolen watch jingled in his pockets. Fresh soap mingled with overpowering cheap perfume seeped through his new clothes, reflecting solicitously. A pair of shiny white shoes took the twenty four year school-dropout past gleaming cars into the lobby. An hour later, smelling different, but in the same clothes, he walked out. He could no longer feel the watch. The white lady, Sarah Jones, is dead, he murmured into his cell. Petrified, he saw Sarah Jones, smiling from across the road. She was holding a cell. Julio felt her disconnect in his ears. He knew he had been tricked. Behind him, a police jeep siren grew like a hungry wave in a sea storm.

Happy New Year 2009

I am my Dad opening a bottle of sparkling wine on 31 Dec 2008, my Dad's birthday, at my home at Delhi, India.

A year has come and gone
Run away, without looking back

Left a new year trembling

Facing joyous humans at midnight

It sure will be afoot soon

Won't though promise you the moon

But will kill you with a winning smile

If you get up and let you thoughts really fly...

Delhi and the Satellite Towns – A Harmonious Daily Intoxication

Delhi and the Satellite Towns – A Harmonious Daily Intoxication

By Kulpreet Yadav

Harmony and intoxication might as well sound like a wronged irony for you. But living in the city I truly love, I allow my senses to see it another way. Like when you say, the drink was stiff, but well rounded. So, the kick was well received. Anyway to make it simpler, let me hop on to the point straight from here. I am talking about the happy marriage of Delhi with the satellite towns that make Delhi a NCR.

If Delhi arrests you with Lutyen’s never-easy-to-understand labyrinthine roads shooting obediently off beautiful, landscaped and flowering roundabouts, the NCR with its skyscrapers, order (okay, chaos is being taken care off) and glitzy malls set amidst planned beautiful colonies sets your spirit free. To compare the satellite towns with the British made and Mughal sprawled amalgamation of Delhi therefore makes for a curious experience.

Let us try to see it in a little more detail. While Delhi offers calm and solace in a friendly environment of monumental relics hideously seeking attention among varietals of trees and flowering shrubs, the extravagantly opulent infrastructure of the satellite towns offers entertainment and business which the modern-lifestyle-infused soul seeks. And for someone like me, who has to drive everyday from Indirapuram in Ghaziabad to the office at India gate circle, it is transcendental bliss. Having dined at a plush restaurant with my family over the weekend in NCR, the drive across the Yamuna, alongside old fort beckoning an early morning welcome on Bhairon Singh marg, and the flowering trees bowing to greet the satellite town dwellers like me from the east with a smile on the Mathura road, the transition is both relaxing and soothing on the soul.

Delhi, at least most of which I frequent, seldom hurries me up, but strangely, I still complete my tasks on time. And when I am done, to catch a breath, the wondering peacocks surrounded by peahens set the clock backwards. Still later, finished early, the sunset over India Gate is awe-inspiring. It’s like history going down the horizons after a lazy, unhurried day with the Rajpath gently rising away on the Raisina hill, bisecting with pride the north and the south blocks in the distance blurred in haze and finally merging with the Rastrapati bhawan.

An exotic, riotous and extravagant interplay of seasonal blooms, perennial greens intermixed with numerous climbers in the so called lungs that are interspersed in the city, and a wide variety of pecking, flapping and flying birds that are dependent on these bursting spurts of volcanic nature all around, makes for the most inspiring and calming dazzle of flora, fauna and avifauna. It is like a timeless jungle adapting to the evolving need of the human civilisation – perfected to a blend that sustains each other. Well, almost… Whether or not flyways and new roads should eat away the forest bit and ruin this equilibrium is off course in the hands of the experts though I often wonder if they are experts enough. But I am sure they must be, because all this has survived far too long, and will survive the future too – a reason for us NCR dwellers to celebrate and enjoy. Until then I am sure the epileptic fascination for Delhi will continue to dominate the senses of the satellite dwellers and keep them intoxicatingly hydrated.

A few recent incidents that will shape India’s immediate future…

Future is in the present. It is now. Only we can’t see it… But if we try hard enough, perhaps we can...

Well, it might as well sound like a prophecy mounted on my suddenly realized obsession to crystal gaze, but, in a way I think a lot actually happens in the world that had earlier left a trail behind as a hint. Those who had seen it coming, rejoice in a self-salute of their preparedness, saying, ‘Yes! I told you so, Brother’ and those who had failed to see the point just end up biting their finger nails. Fair to say then, the ability to analyse the happenings-on seriously, gets one better prepared when the consequences finally hit. At this stage, let me leave you with the things that climbed my conscious wall these past few months and is likely to shape the future on India.

The Regional Addiction

If you choose to ignore the fact that the Shiv Sena appears to be like that cat from the kindergarten story who taught all the tricks to the lion, including how to climb the tree, you, by a reasonable sense of judgment must be quite wrong. For, the party suddenly finds itself staring at an insider who is wearing their own clothes. Sad, it feels, the clothes fit the insider quite well. In other words the Sena’s alter ego seems to be fully equipped with the tricks of the trades. And the unexpected but conscious acceptance of the people to recognise this newly-attired-man as a man of their cause is, perhaps, Shiv Sena’s scariest bad dream. And no prizes for guessing that they might as well be right.

I am reminded of my days in College in Pune back in the late eighties when the sainiks had just leant the tricks of terrorizing people by resorting to vandalism. The power visible in the eyes of people of the chawls then who had suddenly tasted violence (nobodies of the society given the garb of a tiger to wear, someone had said) in the form of a sparkle had in fact set the course of the otherwise tolerant society, downhill. But such is the ambition of the human race to survive that in the end it survived the chaos quite well and was comfortable and standing upright until a couple of months ago. For, thus far, the damage done has been nothing more than names of a few stations and buildings changed. The city too has painfully lost its name and I think a fraction of its character. But still things were still pretty much under control, despite the onslaught. Until, this new ambition came along. I guess it is about time someone took note of the fact that Regionalism is a menace that will, at this rate, eat away the fabric of this wonderful nation.

"I have seen great intolerance shown in support of tolerance." Was something professed by the British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge more than three centuries ago. Our politicians need to know this I guess. But will they?

Medals ahoy!

Our guys have for the first time come home from Beijing Olympics with three individual medals, including one in gold. Plus there were a few near misses. I reckon, this is a new ambition of a younger India who is not scared to take on the world. Surprisingly, the ambition is common to a vast spectrum and is visible in the achievements of India in various other fields as well. Be it Global acquisitions of our business houses lead by a team of younger suit-clad-businessmen or the Fashion tailors (pun intended), or even the sportsmen who came from the hinterland with no facilities to clinch medals with their sheer will power and a hunger to win, I think the trend bares the young India’s ambition. A lot has already been written in newspapers and magazines and debates have plotted and suggested the best way forward, but I have a humble point to make. Please for God’s sake, don’t let too many old fashioned people take too many decisions. Get the team of trainers and the mangers age down by many notches. And then ask what the young generation wants. Just give them what they want. And then trust and wait. We need to build up from here and target at least three times in the next Olympics.

India On Moon

But poor still are poor, screamed many headlines. I don’t agree with the late night whiskey drunk edit writers in their saying this. Why? Simply because you treat different aliments, differently. Poverty and hunger are a problem that needs to be addressed and the Government is doing it on priority. But the effort is short of the requirement. Right, I agree the edit writers have a point there. But does this mean we allow the ambition of our scientific community to languish in abandonment. Wrong. The mission of moon in terms of cost is just a fraction of the amount as compared to what is earned during the Cricket premier league. Shall we say, because people in India are hungry that we stop playing cricket? Come-on, the edit room guys need to be serious in their analysis. I think it is a brave new step that India has taken and needs to be applauded. After all, space is the final frontier for human race to conquer and India certainly should not be left behind.

Short skirts and long heels

The Indian girls are taking their image too seriously. Not too long ago the dress code for the Indian girls was something like this: Saris for mothers and wives, salwar kameej for the common office goers and jeans and a tee for college girls. Not any longer friends. I am not sure if you all have noticed the slow but sure transformation of the India girl. Now it is salwar kameej for housewives and mothers (sari is somehow being preferred only for weddings), skirts (long or short) for office goers and its flimsier variants for the younger ones. Let me speak my mind on this: I think the girl’s sense of dressing is coming to terms with both their sexiness and their Global ambition. Well, seeing the positive-ness of the points I mentioned, I think you all guys will agree with me that it is something which needs to be appreciated. Specially, when it treats our senses the right way too... I want comments here.

Meeting Shridhar Raghvan

Meeting Bollywood's most promising Screenplay writer

I met Shridhar Raghvan last week in Mumbai exactly after twenty years. In fact, I had lost contact with him soon after college until someone equipped me with his latest contact details. That was sometime in the beginning of this year. With bated breath, I waited riddled curiously with the nature of response. Thankfully, the conversation took no longer than a second to find itself fondly recalling old days and anxiously asking each other who all were still in contact. I was eager to meet him. But work kept me busy here in Delhi.

Then last week I got an opportunity to travel to Mumbai for a day. We met near the airport at a bar as soon as I landed. Shridhar Raghvan turned out to be the same old college boy. Right from the first sip of the Vodka, we caught on as if it was just yesterday that we had parted. John Lennon had once remarked during the making of the song in 1967 by the same name " Oh I get by with a little help from my friends". Frankly, I too, for whatever I am today in the creative business, I have a lot to thank Shridhar about. I remember besides Lennon, we shared stories, cigarettes and vada sambhar at our college canteen during those beautiful days. The only difference, I chose a career which was in many ways anti creative (though I still love it due to my addiction to the thrill and adventure it treats me with), while he is still stuck on to his belief. Already winner of a national award for the movie Apharan and famed with the success of the movie Khaki, he is presently busy with the movie Chandni Chowk se China which has Akshay Kumar in the lead.

It was absolutely fascinating for me to hear words of praise for my book 'The Bet'. He is very confident that the book qualifies for a good movie adaptation . He also feels that it might even work as a TV serial as well. At a time, when I am just about to wrap up my second book, I think the information acted as a catalyst that allowed me to take the extra last peg. Thanks Buddy, wishing you a lot of luck and looking forward to a closer collaborative association. Cheers!

Title: The Lonely Mall and Maya (A flash fiction)

It is eight in the evening. The mall is crowded. Maya is absent, but the coffee still tastes good. Happiness is perplexing. I must repent, I admonish myself. But the inner voice is revealingly unconvincing. The girl on the next table is staring. But I know better - she is also talking on the cell.

Suddenly, the place begins to shake violently. The chandeliers in the atrium are menacingly dancing in preparation to fall down. All are running for cover heading for the faraway corners. But the girl is still is busy talking on the phone. My coffee is placid in the cup. I slowly turn the cup and it flows on the table. A chandelier comes crashing down. It falls next to me killing a rat that just happened to be running underneath. Now I see, there are many rats. More than humans. Some men too look like rats and many women are like rats wearing lipstick.

The girl has now hung up and is alarmed at the surrounding. Run, I scream at her. She is looking at me now. Her eyes are reflecting the glass beads of the broken chandelier. A smile hesitates to come on her face but disappears. I am sad, I have spilled my coffee. There is no one at the counter .I can't offer her a cup of coffee. Or cold coffee with ice cream. I am sure she would love that coffee with ice cream. All girls do. Even Maya is very fond of it. I walk up to her. Her eyes are now moist. Another chandelier falls down but misses us. I pick her up in my arms and walk up to the counter of Barrista.

It is not too difficult to make a cup of coffee. Thankfully the machine is still working and the power is miraculously alive. She is looking at me with her hand on her mouth. Now there are no tears. She is smiling when I hand her the glass of coffee. Suddenly, there is a spark and a spray of light beam and then total darkness. Her lips find mine. The place is still violently shaking. I am sure it is end of world. I kiss her and am surprised by the familiarity. My hands begin their hungry prowl. I am mesmerized with the known rise and falls. I know, at last, I have yet again found a new Maya.

Let's heal Darfur

Alex Kamunyu is a brave young man who is determined to make a difference to the millions of humans who are suffering in Darfur, Sudan. He runs on the roads of Johannesburg to raise awareness and has a website to garner support of the world community. Here I quote from his website:

…Since the start of the conflict, many lives have been lost -- mostly women and children as well as destruction of property and the wanton raping of women and girls. It is estimated that more than 250,000 lives have been lost and more than 2, 5 million people have been displaced. By far, this is the worst humanitarian crisis at present. The USA describes the situation in Darfur as 'slow genocide'...

At the moment he is determined to taking a minimum of 1 million signatures of all those people who choose to recognize the atrocities being perpetrated on the innocents. I urge all readers to jion in. Because he then intends to print these out and submit bound copies to the following stakeholders:

1. United Nations Secretary General – H.E. Ban ki Moon.

2. Chairman of the African Union – H.E. Jakaya Kikwete

3. President of the Republic of Sudan – H.E. Omar El Bashir

4. Prime Minister of the People's Republic of China – H.E. Hu Jintao (China has been accused of supplying small arms to the Sudanese government which in turn are used by the Janjaweed ( Arabic for 'armed men on horseback') to cause conflict in Darfur.

It was a moving moment for me to receive a request from him a few weeks ago to use the poem that I had written after reading Ban Ki Moon's article in Washington post last year. I readily accepted, off course. According to him it appropriately captures the situation that the people are in. Read my poem from here.

Can there ever be a sound advice for writers?

When it comes to writing fiction, everyone has a different opinion on how to go about it. Having read a lot on the subject, I still reckon it is best to react to one's gut feeling. At least that is something I have always been doing. Can't say, how much I have succeeded as my first book did only mediocre business if sales is the only indication to go by( as per my publisher), but I still feel that by sticking to what you are possessive about, you have a more reasonable chance to chisel your skills. In other words, you choose, consciously, to stick to originality and that is what ultimately sells.

I was going through what others have to say on the subject, but I think I can summarize what I feel, as follows:

Intrigue, surprise and delight are the three pillars that provide a sturdy platform on which any fiction writing can comfortable balance. That is my take on the subject; just to share my idea about the method.

Some pictures...

Miles and miles to go before I stop... National Highway 24 as it looks on a lonely Sunday morning running away from Delhi.

Few can beat my co-brother in hosting parties overflowing with good food and great drinking options. Just take a look at the picture above. This before the whole fare was laid down. Absinthe, Scotch, Bacardi, Beer and chunky eats. Must mention, there was dinner also later in the night. Join me in saying cheers to Sanjay. God bless you. Happiness always!

Not many might believe that the picture has been taken using my Motorola cell camera. I am not an accomplished photographer. I just try my hands with the aim to capture a frame that tickles the senses in that curious sort of a way. But great results, I think. Agree?

Lodhi garden , in the heart of Lutyen's Delhi. The tomb rising with blunt penetration against the azure sky, soothes the temporal bliss that is life, I reckon. See the tree bowing down in the foreground.

Some guys will never learn, I guess. In the case of Buller wines, it seems to be a good enough excuse. The girl seen here is displaying a lively cleavage caught between two bubbles. The picture was taken from the company's stall at a food and wine event at Pragati Maidan. What say?

You know, the interesting part is that the company's website, doesn't show any of these excesses. Then the question is why this special treatment for us Indians.

Salman Does it Again

Salman Does it Again

I was fascinated to the limit of creative numbness. I think the greatest strength of the book is its uninhibited prose that leaps out to the reader with an authoritative, new-fangled firmness and leaves him happily caged in a new world order from where even the basic understanding of the scene all around is interestingly altered

Meanwhile, Rushdie has disclosed that he “wasn’t confident at all” when he wrote Midnight’s Children.

“It was all just a trick. My first novel [Grimus] had done less than zero and had been trashed. I had four or five other unpublishable novels, so I felt like a failed writer. At the time Ian [McEwan], Martin [Amis] and Julian [Barnes] had had great successes. All my contemporaries were like Ferraris, leaving me at the starting grid,” he said in an interview in Guardian.



But it’s like Déjà vu for many like me. We had almost seen this coming. Perhaps it was inevitable.

36 % of people voted for Midnight’s children. The voters also included an overwhelming number of youngsters. It puts to rest the views of a few critics who have publically documented older people going for his book more than the youngsters. It seems that the ‘young-disconnect’ theory was only in their minds. I guess Rushdie’s acceptance is beyond the dividing lines of age, religion, culture or race. ‘Best of Booker’ has proved the point.

Salman Rushdie is a big guy. He has success, women and lots of money. His intellectual strain is worth cloning many say and the air he breathes is creatively rejuvenated when exhaled. I have grown reading his books. I guess an entire generation has. Frankly, I haven’t read all of his books but I think Midnight’s children happened to be the first one. I must have been in college at that time. The impression that I got still resonates vividly in my conscious. The book had spun a virtual world around me. I had begun to see and feel the world through its characters. Then I read it again, about six or seven years back. I was fascinated to the limit of creative numbness. I think the greatest strength of the book is its uninhibited prose that leaps out to the reader with an authoritative, new-fangled firmness and leaves him happily caged in a new world order from where even the basic understanding of the scene all around is interestingly altered. Yes, this is the way I would like to describe his works.

Read my other article about Salman here (though it in a different context altogether). I am leaving the readers with a part from the interesting stretch (The complete stretch makes the whole book, actually…)

…moments of solitude in the gloomy spidery corridors of the landowner's
mansion he was gripped by an almost uncontrollable desire to turn
and run away as fast as his legs would carry him. Unnerved by the
enigma of the blind art-lover, his insides filled with tiny scrabbling
insects as a result of the insidious venom of Tai's mutterings, his nostrils
itching to the point of convincing him that he had somehow contracted
venereal disease, he felt his feet begin slowly, as though encased in boots
of lead, to turn; felt blood pounding in his temples; and was seized by so
powerful a sensation of standing upon a point of no return that he very
nearly wet his German woollen trousers. He began, without knowing
it, to blush furiously; and at this point his mother appeared before him,
seated on the floor before a low desk, a rash spreading like a blush
across her face as she held a turquoise up to the light. His mother's face
had acquired all the scorn of the boatman Tai. 'Go, go, run,' she told
him in Tai's voice, 'Don't worry about your poor old mother.' Doctor
Aziz found himself stammering, 'What a useless son you've got,
Amma; can't you see there's a hole in the middle of me the size of a
melon?' His mother smiled a pained smile. 'You always were a
heartless boy,' she sighed, and then turned into a lizard on the wall of
the corridor and stuck her tongue out at him. Doctor Aziz stopped
feeling dizzy, became unsure that he'd actually spoken aloud, wondered
what he'd meant by that business about the hole, found that his
feet were no longer trying to escape, and realized that he was being
watched. A woman with the biceps of a wrestler was staring at him,
beckoning him to follow her into the room. The state of her sari told
him that she was a servant; but she was not servile. 'You look green as a
fish,' she said. 'You young doctors. You come into a strange house and
your liver turns tojelly. Come, Doctor Sahib, they are waiting for you.'
Clutching his bag a fraction too tightly, he followed her through the
dark teak door.

Builders build houses and fools live in them





It must be so.

Frankly, I don’t know how to deal with people who cheat habitually but profess exactly the opposite. The builder who made the society that I am living in at the moment certainly is one such. Preaching a catchy slogan ‘We deliver what we promise’ the builder (Mahagun) promised the innocent public delivery of modern apartments. But instead what we got in return for our hard earned money was one hell-of-a-hole-stacked-in-a-wall with falling plaster, leaking basement, crowded open area and generally substandard infrastructure. Soon after moving in I had written an article for the Hindustan Times consciously choosing not to use the builder’s name. I don’t think, now in the hindsight, it was a very good idea. See the article here.

I moved in my flat in April last year and since been surprised at the lack of interest shown by the residents to take up these issues with the builder. The attendance of the residents during the weekend meetings has been slender. Until last Sunday when at last, the people of our society woke up to a rare solidarity for the common cause and were truly up in arms against the builder. See the pictures above.

Soon the police had to be called and a case was registered against the builder for the failed promises and far from satisfactory maintenance standards of the society. A couple of TV channels too followed to record the resident’s concerns. Looks like now at last the builder will finally pull up his socks, connect better with us residents, leave the business of running the society to the duly elected RWA (a long pending demand of the residents) and part ways smilingly. If he is good businessman I see him going away after shaking hands with our RWA. But if he is not, we might have to invent more ways to step up the pressure.

A Donkey and a Car



Ask the people of Afghanistan the value of a donkey and they will be ready to pay you more money than a car. For, utility of an asset defines its value.

But not here in India…. Stray animals in our cities reflect the apathy we have heaped on them. It echoes our diminishing civic sense (if there is one such at all). We have conditioned ourselves to happily ignore these guiltless creatures of God. Today an entire society is living blindly in a crowd of germinated and discarded animals. Our eyes turn blind when we see one run over on the road. I feel time has come when someone – and constructively, maybe without the NGO badge – does something to lessen the plight of these neglected animals.

A few good captures

Good pictures are wondrous interludes between oscillating mood caught in a temporal chasm, and the world that is pregnant with intuitive fluidity, creative enough to consider capturing that very moment in the frames of a camera. Some recent mood-naps as stilled by my camera are posted down-under with notes



Cat napping and a bunch of flowers smiling. This is one of my favourite pictures of all times. It was taken during spring last year on the way to Rumtek Monastery on the outskirts of Sikkim. Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function, says an anonymous quotation. Need I say more?



The baked ground…
After the Monsoon’s pee
Shining moments…
Green happiness and
Camels in a queue

Drive alongside the Rajasthan state highway on the way to the Sariska Tiger sanctuary. Did you guys know that tigers are back in Sariska? My newspaper unfolded this great news about a week back when they got a pair from Ranthambore. Roar…



That is my favourite sofa at the end of a good day. Ditto at the start of a great day.



A blonde places her order using SMS at a New Delhi bar. Was she Australian? Just kidding man...How can blondes be so dumb? And this is not a joke...

Have a great weekend folks.

Creative Works and College get-togather

Raghu Rai’s picture of Calcutta Dock



Calcutta has remained an artist’s paradise. For it has the most amazing of people, bounteous natural beauty, and historically – as they say – opinionated populace. It is also that part of the country where the amalgam of the Indian faces takes place as the inhabitant race changes from being straight featured to the rounder ones. Mixed with this is the fact that it was the British administered capital of India for the greater part of their rule. Not to forget that the imbroglio of misery and the rampant struggle for survival afforded the people the best of country’s freedom voices, most melodious and dove eyed of all the nautch girls with legendary status, the most accomplished of artisans and the best of playfulness of words in its writings. Once the British abandoned the port city for Delhi early last century, it left the people with lot of ideas to survive but without a clear way ahead. It came much later in the form of independence but the creative populace fell prey to the leftist philosophy. The city and the state remained stagnated thus and were christened the ‘dying city’.

Notwithstanding the pathetic condition that the city had to do with, the people have remained amazingly present in all spheres of our society displaying their willingness not only to survive but also to excel. At the time I read Amitav Ghosh’s fiction ‘The Hungry Tide’ I lived in the shadow of Calcutta. I spent considerable time traversing the winding water lanes of the various Hoogly channels and the labyrinthine waterways of the Sundabans. People have an amazing ability to survive – in the face of tempestuous weather, treacherous waves, snooping tigers, eroding islands and falling fish catch.

For me, pushing a boat out to sea from amidst a mix of sea, metal and bilge all around, all by a single soul demonstrates a rare will to survive. Hey Mumbaikars, the Calcuttans might not be too vocal about their spirit, but they have very much of it. Believe me or see the picture above.

Yusuf Arakkal's Charpoy, 1989



Yusuf Arakkal’s paintings demonstrate his deep concern for the society.

He puts forth despair as the central theme around which – rather in support of which – he makes a web of dark moods that somehow resonate intimately with the viewer, willingly filliping him forward so as to invite a deeper dwelling, till such time a more serene and truthful face of the Indian society emerges.

The one above is called charpoy (The Indian Cot), 1989. The boy and the girl in the picture are intently studious in their existence; defiantly living the moment, not a wee bit concerned that the restful abode they might have to lie upon when night falls is broken. According to me the painting spreads the charge with which life can sustain itself in the face of most common of existential miseries.

Ganging together


Seated left to right, Abhijeet, Rajeev and Shekhar. Standing from left to right, Naini, me and Mustafa

Reliving college days might be a distant dream for some but not for all. I am one of those few lucky ones who get the best of everything, every time. Well almost… Only if I chose to ignore the anger the adventure got my wife into. Though I did try, but folks, not coming home after a party (so what even if it was approved by the lady herself) doesn’t speak much of a husband. One who has to be more disciplined, more caring, more responsible…. I am sure most good guys can figure it all out. Meanwhile I am trying. I am sure the lovely lady will come around. She always does.

Anyway, the gang got together after 20 years (yes, you read that right) last Saturday. Six of us - besides me, two from Delhi (one, a businessman and the other a senior Army officer), two from Pune (one entrepreneur and the other vice President of a leading company) and one from Chandigarh (a showroom owner). The ladies were not in attendance. We wanted to relive the college days, remember. The best of Scotch and Vodka peeled the age away and once again we were the same kids studying in the Nowrosjee Wadia College in Pune. Sometimes I wonder how easy it is for us to fall back on yesterday’s emotions when life had more promises and a deeper meaning. It was an evening well spent, with folks who were the best of friends and gave me some of the best life’s memories. Now the wife…