If only I had some more patience

Why are women never satisfied with their haircut? Or is it just me? No, this is not a frivolous observation of a lazy bum. It is a serious concern. I just looked up into the mirror after washing my face, and i invariably frowned at the curls on my head. Is it about the grass being greener on the other side syndrome? Isn't there some very serious sounding clinical jargon which I can flaunt? Like I suffer from serious-compulsive-psychological-hairstyle-dissatisfaction-syndrome.

When I have short hair I wish it as longer. When I have long hair, I feel what the heck? this is so high maintenance, why can't I have a chic short crop? When I get to highlight my hair I wonder why I gave up the natural brown, and when I have the natural tinge on I think it is so odd.

So how are some women so smug with the mane they don?

Or do they have the perfect parlour? To be very honest I really do not have naything against my beauty parlour, the girls do a pretty decent job. And everytime after they shampoo, and give me a haircut and do the entire spa-hot steam routine topping it up with a blow dried set hairstyle I do tip them quite handsomely. I am happy with what just happened for a couple of hours. Believe it or not it happens every bloody time I go. I am happy for a couple of hours and the I realize that perhaps its too short, or perhaps its not uniform or some other oddity about it.

And never to save my life can I replicate that perfect styling they do. SO whats the point? I spend some good money, but I don't get what I want. People say, You have not changed your hairstyle in like forever or when was the last time you had a different haircut.. and my defensive answer is, I don't really trust strangers with the scissors on my head, and I would love to have long hair. Only I don't have the patience.

Going back to Eden Gardens

The last time I had been at Eden Gardens was to watch a match between India and Pakistan. It was a Test match and Shahid Afridi had bashed up the dignity of all the Indian bowlers left, right and centre. As in all Indian families, cricket is considered almost hermetic and the results dependent on totally irrelevant and illogical coincidences and superstitions. So since I had been on the field that day, everyone beginning from my parents to friends assumed that by a great turn of fate it was my presence; yes my presence and not the shameful presentation by our bowlers, which led to such a grand batting show by Afridi. Yes, I agree that I had been a bit, a tiny bit, loquacious about Afridi. However that could not have led to such results, rationally speaking. When it comes to cricket, none speak rationally.

Anyway that is not the point of this article. Last evening I went to Eden Gardens again. This time there was no national sentiments attached so I believe my family did not create a huge quandary just because it was not a match which India was playing. It was just another Kolkata Knight Riders match, and according to old school cricket watchers T20 is not cricket at all. It is a curious and vulgar mix of cricket with crass entertainment not the classy and king's sport which they would love to watch.

I don't care much for that, for me it was more going to Eden Gardens than watching a match. Honestly I had not hoped we would win. The fact that we did was great, but I had had no hopes.

However the spirit of T20 at the Eden was absolutely brilliant. The crowds going on an endless Mexican Wave loop, totally drooling at the cheerleaders, comely aunties breaking into a jig at every fall of a wicket, people accommodating totally irritable kinds on their lap so that they can watch the match, totally nondescript urchins doing an impeccable lip sync to Black Eyed Peas, trying to spot Katrina Kaif, shouting out at Kallis as if he were their school friend, hugging complete strangers after the victory.

There was just one not-so-feel-good incident which happened. The crowd at Eden has some great inexplicable, primitive almost hermetic relationship with the basic elements. Earlier there would torches at the home turf victory. Fire-checked. Now it is the water. After that famous World Cup debacle with SriLanka, taking bottles inside the stadium is strictly prohibited. Now they sell water in pouches. Yes plastic pouches with water, which people hold up to their mouth as if it were a conch shell they were blowing announcing the commencement of some epic battle lost in the sands of time. Now just as Manoj Tiwary started showering runs some smart guy had the bright idea of spreading the water around. InHindu tradition we have a tradition of spreading Holy Water on people after worshiping God, which is called "Shanti-r Jol" or "The Water of Peace. Now we did not really mind all the water being sprinkled on our heads that scorching March evening when someone got carried away and started throwing the pouches. Now a plastic pouch with water filled when thrown at random with certain amount of force and comes and hits a person can be quite a pain in the neck (as a friend of mine was to literally experience). So after this small H2O carousal, the policemen came into the picture and beat up a guy pretty bad.

Though some would say it was pretty harsh on the boy I think that was the only way you can control a crowd at Eden. So the water revelry subsided for some time.

The fun and real charm though was when the match ended and we cleared the stands. At a distant cha-waala's shanty at off Esplanade you could watch the lights at Eden; Like diamonds on the embellished tiara of the princess they shone. A stadium spectacle is a more ancient tradition than a proscenium theatre, and even more ancient than the movie theatre. Perhaps in its primitiveness lies its ability to bind people closer.

In a movie theatre the experience is collective but the performance itself is thrice removed. It is based on some story which has been acted in some studio whose one singular copy is being shone on this particular screen. The theatre, as in a proscenium where a drama is enacted is twice removed. However a stadium, like the Colosseum where Gladiators would fight, is the most ancient and truest performance/entertainment domain. Yesterday, at Eden Gardens what unfolded in front of us was not removed from reality. It was s sport whose every future second unfolded in front of us as much as it was unfolding in front of the players who were on the field. Sourav Ganguly or Rahul Dravid had no inside information on what was about to happen next. This inherent quality of sport makes it the most cherished of all entertainment mankind has known.The nail biting finish, the collective sighs and ecstasy is to be found nowhere else.

writing an essay

I have realized that after two years of pure trashy answer writing in an MBA program I have manage to destroy my skill of writing good essays. Something which used to be my forte in school.
A good, logical, reasoned and structured essay. You would read through it and it would not be puffy like cotton-wool, but solid like a wall. You could find no loopholes in it. The progression of the logic would be smooth. At no point would the reader feel lost and angry because he cannot make sense of what is going on. The purpose of the essay was to get the point across not fill pages with gibberish.
There are certainly palpable breakages in the wall. The skill is tarnished. And it is not like math, that I have forgotten the formulae and practicing five test exercises is going to put things in perspective. This is high art, and diligence is required. The language cannot be jocund and frivolous. It has to be serious and the tone should bind together the entire piece as one smooth string of pearls.
I am hoping to God that I get back my touch.

Forward, Ahoy

What have I seen of this world? Nothing. For the past 24 years of my life I have lived with my parents, in one city, interacting day in day out with a singular race of people.True there are so many languages and dialects in this one state itself, but this is not all. The country has so many more languages. I have never really lived somewhere else.

May be it is time I did that. May be it is time I went away from the protective upbringing, the loving parents, the always-watching-my-back friends, the comfortable confines of home. I mean, work has been a rude shock. There are so many brutal truths of life I am so blissfully unaware of. However the fact remains that life is cruel, and saying it over and over again will never really give me a taste of it. I have to go there and face it on my own, alone. So that next time around I do not coil back in a foetal timidity to my home, my room, under the warmth of my blanket, walking randomly on the streets of my city trying to regain my sanity by looking at a familiar skyline.

Shelley was lucky. Actually all the guys who graduated with Shelley were lucky, I talk of Shelley since he is famous and I like him. He had the concept of taking life easy. Also he had the luxury of a Grand Tour. I wish I could do something like that. Visit ornate cities and write poetry. I would love to go to Paris and sit by the Seine. Just sit there watching the handsome men and the lovely lights. Or in Egypt, at the feet of the Sphynx, and think of the pharoahs and how long long back in time these were built and wonder.

I need to just get out have a brilliant time before I fade into another ordinry life bound by the clock. I need to steal some time from my life for myself, for having that one flash of extraordinariness which I shall cherish for the rest of my life.

The Hangover

Yes, yes, this article is inspired by a hangover quite rightly as the name suggests. And I never saw it coming. Now like all people I am of the opinion that I am some sort of a superhero who can take any amount of stress, strain or alcohol.

Believe you me, though most people shall not consider it important to mention or even acknowledge, this is the case. But I am more upfront about the entire thing. This is a weakness all human beings are born with.

So there I was on a fun evening with two very special friends at Xrong Place, Calcutta. No, do not give me a spell-check on that dear, it is pronounced "wrong" but spelling begins with an "x" denoting a cross or quite simply one of the last letters of the alphabet.It is a metaphor for wrong, a simple and pretty metaphor. Anyway this was my first time there so I was amused.

Now I do not know how it came to be, was it the totally wacky sense of humour on the table that night or the almost dark lights, or the oh-so-to-die for sausages, or something else that led me to take a couple of strong drinks( Ok I am not mentioning how many, because the number is apparently demeaning, but I should get the edge of not being a very seasoned drinker!). At this point I was perfectly fine, I was clicking photographs, making merry jokes and laughing at jokes as well.

It was when I stood up to visit the washroom that suddenly the guy at the other table with the beer bottle seemed to be doing a somersault. Now, given a normal situation people do not perform somersaults in restaurants. So I concluded, this guy must not be doing this, but I am seeing him do it. The entire bloody room seemed to be swimming. There were waves, and the tables and chairs and people were all swimming. At this point I just sat down and declared "Guys, I don't think I am feeling great" ; to which my jolly friends replied something, I do not know what.

I remember some talk of a drive which I refused. Then I was home. I remember I talked excessively. Definitely by my standards. There were too many things going inside my head.

Do not talk so much, Ma will get it that you are drunk.

Talk, at least it's making you feel better.

Why on earth is the TV not on the table?

Ok, I am not feeling good.

May be I should have some water...

Man, this is not happening to me, this can't be.

Anyway so I went to sleep, thinking this shall be the end. However this was not the end. I woke up, perspiring at 3 in the morning, thirsty. If I have to point out one day when I have really understood what feeling thirsty meant it was this day. I must have drank an entire bottle of water and yet I could feel a desert right from my navel to my throat, one long arid road which could do with a monsoon.And a nauseating stench from my mouth. Yuck! Went and caught a sandwich at 4. Thank God my mother was asleep at this time, fast asleep.

Next day, office, I wake up with a bad bad headache. So this is the stuff hangovers are made of! I needed one good bath in cold water on a winter morning to at least feel human again.

crescent in the sky

I saw the solar eclipse. I was told not to. But I donned my sunglass and looked at that brilliant diamond ring, prettier that any mortal rock can ever be.

The excitement all round was palpable. Be it a man of science or an illiterate brute, every soul was caught up in the sheer joy of looking upon the marvelous drama being enacted in the high skies.

I remember in 1996, when I was in school, Calcutta viewed a total solar eclipse. Oh! that excitement, that adrenaline rush, that almost orgasmic beating of the heart when I held up a photograph negative against my eye and in the middle of the day the sun was nowhere to be seen. There were mixed reactions ranging from gasps of enthusiasm to heaving of terror among the numerous neighbours of mine all of who had gathered on their terraces to witness the phenomenon like us.


The only other time I have perhaps felt close to something like that would be while snorkeling in the Andamans. Swimming among the corals and actually touching the colourful schools of fish was a huge high.


What is it about that crescent in the morning sky? Is it our habit of seeing a circle in it's place or is it our God-fearing hearts or something greater than this universe which strikes such awe?

Rocket

Stray dogs are not necessarily my favorite animals. Actually I am quite uncomfortable around any sort of animal, wild or domesticated. Like, I absolutely detest cats. I think they are wily, crafty and sly beings who are always up to some tantrum or the other.

There is this sad looking black dog in front of my office which had a pup a couple of months back. As is true with the little ones of all species, the puppy was excruciatingly cute. A small bundle of black and white, a tiny snout with a brilliant pink nose, a pointy tail wagging all the time and a milky paunch. My office colleagues readily adopted the tiny vermin feeding it tit-bits at all times. Sometimes it was a biscuit or a loaf or something else. And as is true with all adopted creatures, the dog was also given a name: Rocket.

Now Rocket played with my friends all the time. Any chance that the guys would get to escape to the smoking zone; they would sneak out and play with Rocket. Rocket could be seen rolling on the road at the direction of someone’s shoe, or run up to another if he whistled. Soon he acquired different skills and my friends were more than eager to show off which trick was taught to Rocket by whom, and how well he had learnt it.

It is quite amusing to watch this entire teacher-student role play taking place in front of you as the guys take pride in each trick Rocket can master as their personal achievement.

Rocket has grown up now. He is not a bundle of fat but a teeth-baring, rib-displaying gangly thing. It is still up to the tricks but now it has to fend for himself. The sad looking black mother of his does not find food for him any longer. Rocket has fallen in the Darwinian cycle of survival wherein he needs to beat five other dogs on the road for everything.

My colleagues still patronize him with scraps and leftovers but the grown-up dog’s tummy is not satisfied by such paltry offerings.

Today Rocket killed a pigeon. A thriving, cheerful pigeon was thrashed and life squashed out of him within a matter of minutes. Rocket thereafter cunningly moved the lifeless being from the road to a sidewalk with the feathers strewn all over the road. The sensibilities of most of the erstwhile patronizers of Rocket were deeply hurt. One felt nauseous and threatened a reprimand and another said he can’t play with the little bugger any longer.