Fast forward

One day, my friend, you will meet her.

She’ll make your heart quicken a bit, she’ll make you happy.

It won’t be love at first sight.

You will enjoy her company, you will want to spend time with her.

You will seek happiness in her laughing eyes and comfort in her company.

She will always be there for you.

You will get married to her.

The marriage won’t be perfect. There will be fights. Which couple doesn’t fight?

But you will know, one day, that this is meant to be.

This, my friend, is your destiny.

Till then, keep searching.

Ek Chotti-si Love Story

The short version of the story:

Boy meets girl at the right time. Boy & girl realise they are right for each other. Boy and girl decide to spend their lives together. All friends celebrate.

The extended Karan Johar version of the story:

Boy and girl know each other. Boy woos girl with extended release versions of love movies till girl consents to see him. Girl & boy plan future together, till boy fails at task that girl achieves. Girl, being a mercenary b***h, dumps boy for being a failure. Boy vows revenge. Boy and girl still ostensibly keep in touch, with boy pretending to be friends.

Fast forward few years.

Boy succeeds beyond girl’s wildest dreams. Now, boy decides to put plan of revenge (PoR) into action. He woos girl’s sister by dangling the promise of a rich and happy life. Sister falls for wooing and they decide to see each other. Meanwhile, boy decides to visit girl to break the news and see her unhappiness for himself. Just to rub in his success and his love into her face.

Boy and sister make wedding plans. Girl decides to enter convent. Some friends celebrate.

While I am the last person not to appreciate the power of story telling, sometimes the simple story is the right one.

To two of the most wonderful friends I have, may your love story forever remain simple.

And to the Crab League, may you sit smug in the “glory of the best days of your life”, while the rest of the world sneers at your increasing insignificance. Kind of like Iran, down to the fundamentalist and ignorant crap you keep spewing.

Pocket philosophy

The bird of happiness nested in my hair,

Brushed away all my world weary cares,

Breathed the softest song into my ear,

Brought me everything my hearts craves.

The litte boat woven from beautiful dreams,

Rocked its way from rivulet to stream,

Oh! Steer gently the bend, little boat

You carry the peace I so long sought.

The boat sank one stormy day,

The bird? she flew away.

For without perch, without anchor,

Dreams and happiness disappear.

Stranger in a strange land

The beautiful vistas, the azure seas,

The rolling plains, the golden sands.

The stuff of your childhood dreams,

Then, why are you this stranger in a strange land?

Your heart knows no own hearth,

The search is quelled by no iron hand,

You sleep on the softest bed,

Still, you’re a stranger in a strange land.

The memories you swore forever to keep,

Ephemeral as the morning mist,

The words that you wanted to bury deep,

Wander in your mind, strangers in their own strange land.

A bone to pick

I never realised how easily you fall into old habits till I found myself putting the chicken bone on my mother’s plate.

That has always been one of my ‘thing’s, along with collecting a bunchload of random factoids, reading every single scrap of paper in the vicinity, obssessive cleanliness, a penchant for Terry Pratchett and being the man around the appliances at home. I like a clean plate. And when I was young, I used to pick off the bones and left over veggies from my plate and tip it into my mom’s.

And this time when she came with some chicken in tow, I ate the piece and tipped the bones into her plate.
And sat back expectantly, feeling 4 years old again.

The Agatha Christie Syndrome

One step. Into oblivion.

The waves rolled on, regardless of the life snuffed out on the rocks far far below the sheer cliff. Noone knew who she was. There was no convenient identification, no daytripper bag lurking in the sparse vegetation. It was how it was. It was how it was always meant to be.

The Constable of the village scratched his head in puzzlement. It wasn’t often that unknown bodies washed up on the shore of the picturesque Greek town. Well, it had ceased being common after HER time.

***

The Captain sipped his English breakfast tea and nibbled at his edition of the Times. One news item captured his attention and he read it slowly- his fingers & mouth sounding out the syllables. He did that when he needed to concentrate.

He made up his mind and called to his companion, “Say, ole chap. Check this piece of news out.”

The dapper Belgian detective settled down even more determinedly on the armchair, if it was possible. “Are you referring to the article about the death in the Greek island, mon ami? The one the police can’t figure out?  C’est terrible.“

The captain was going to his default state, like Nash’s equilibrium. He was flabbergasted. “How did you know?”

The egg-headed Francophile gave a Gallic shrug. (He was getting better at his French impersonation) “Ce n’était rien. You were glancing at your Greek print of the sword of Damocles and then fingering your tanline about your cuff. I intuited it was a death in Greece. And oui, the constable called me half an hour ago.”

The captain was sullen, “You always make it sound so simple.”

The moustachoied midget gave a supercilicious smile, “Mon ami, when will you learn it IS simple? Otherwise, could these English… DUNDERHEADS mke good detectives? Not as good,  évidemment, as I, but passable.”

The sullen captain mumbled, “They should ask the man in Baker Street. At least he is one of us.”

The French (OKAY, Belgian) detective gave a characteristic shiver, “Quoi? NON, non, non, no NO. How can you settle when you have me in London? In any case, the other (sniff) man has had problems with sheer cliffs & water ever since… the incident in Switzerland.”

He continued, “I, however, declined to investigate.”

The captain was now puzzled, though still hanging onto some remnants of a sulk. “Why?”

“It’s obvious. Sudden death of person unknown under the sun in exotic holiday destination. This is a job for…

That old English biddy.”

***

The old English biddy was on her third cup of tea since morning. She delicately sipped the warm life-giving liquid holding theWedgewood cup between her thumb & forefinger (as recommended by etiquette books around the world).

She was entertaining her great nephew and his new wife today. Charles & Mary were so young… and so full of life. She would almost be tempted to call them naive.

Charles was fond of his aunt and was showing her off to his wife, “Mary darling, Aunt Jane is amazing. Looking at her, would you believe this dear old woman has solved 35 murders and all of them in this village or other exotic locales frequented by guileless English lunch ladies?”

Mary gave an apprehensive shiver and batted her eyes in fear, “This village sounds positively blood thirsty!”

The aunt gave a little laugh, “Child, it’s just your typical English village where people live.”

Mary cried out, “I lived in Naples for half my life and I never heard of 35 murders THERE!”

The aunt shook her head, “You must be lucky to be married and now have Charles for your protection.” She leaned in towards Mary, “But be careful. His side of the family was always a little… unstable.”

Charles squeezed his wife’s hand, “Darling, Aunt Jane is simply making fun of me. I would never kill YOU.”

Mary was a little alarmed by now. To distract her, the aunt said lightly, “Why just today I solved a murder mystery in Greece.”

“What happened there, aunt?”, asked Charles.

“Oh typical case. A woman’s body was found floating in the Mediterranean sea with no identification. Noone knew if it was a murder or suicide. I took 3 minutes to solve it.”

“What was it?”

The aunt took another sip, “I just like to call it the Agatha Christie Syndrome”.

***

Fini

Egyptian Epochs Part 2

Or Alexandria is like Cannes with acne. Thanks to Michael Palin I knew what to expect.

Alexandria was the French Riviera with tones of Bombay thrown in. After all, Egypt WAS India, wasn’t it?

“Ah, so you are going to Alex!”, my teammate said.

I was a little confused. “No, I am going WITH Alex.”

“Huh?”

“Alexandre.”

“No. Alexandria.”

“Ohhh. Yeah we are going to Alex.”

But, we are getting ahead of the story. Let’s rewind to the day I tapped Alex (the person) on his shoulder in the hotel lobby. That was the day I reluctantly bid farewell to my plans of seeing the Pyramids of Giza & Sakkara and the Cairo Museum (cue sobs) over the weekend and shifted my gaze to the lovely Mediterranean port of Alexandria. Yes, the one with the Lighthouse of Pharos. Yes, the one with the Library. Yes, yes, Cleopatra’s capital- and those of all the Ptolemaic Pharohs.

Yes. the. bloody. selfsame. Greek-styled. city.

So, what ruins does this historical city have?

Nothing, ladies & gentleman. Alexandria has NO trace of ANY history older than the 19th century. If you want colonial architecture, you are better off near Flora Fountain or CST, trust me.

The lighthouse? Thy have built a castle (aptly named Citadel) over it.

The Library. Burnt down gazillion times. The newest avataar was opened in 1999.

Okay, so you get the picture- there are more than shades of Bombay thrown in. (On an aside, I keep yelling “Marine Drive” when I am riding along the Corniche El Nil in Cairo. Sigh) Where’s the Cannes?

Uhm. It’s not really Cannes either. There’s a 20 km long Corniche (read Marine Drive again) that runs from the ex-lighthouse of Pharos to the new Palace of the now-deposed king. Fancy.

So, it’s an extra-long Promenade d’Anglais. Yes, it’s kinda Nice.

But, I am being extra mean to Alex here.

It’s a lovely, lovely port city. The sea flashes blue-green. The yachts are moored off the harbour. And all is well with the world.

Postscript:

Insert random Egyptian ruin #1: Pompey’s pillar. A large free-standing pillar that was once part of a Ptolemaic temple. It is also surrounded by ruins of a piscine and a Roman bath.

Insert Catacombs: Old Graeco-Roman-Egyptian tombs for noblemen.

Insert Fish Market: The food’s good.

Insert Citadel: The port looks positively serene.

Insert Montezah Palace: Lovely gardens.

This blog wasn’t meant to end this way.

I was planning to tell you about the train journey to Alexandria (TGV meets Venad Express), the taxi ride at 2 AM to the hotel in peak hour traffic and the monotonous chant of the disco-Koran till we almost went mad, the women jumping into the water fully dressed, the prettiest lighthouse in the whole of the Arab world, the party in the North Coast we almost went to and the 42 degree Celsius heat.

Maybe later.

Next up: “How many chickens for her?” and other top Egyptian pick up lines in Luxor & Karnak.

Egyptian Epochs Part 1

“Cairo is like Bombay”, I decided the moment I walked out of the aircraft. The air had the same spicy tang that greets you in India, the heat was like a warm blanket- just uncomfortable enough to want you to take a bath, like, immediately. The airhostess had handed me an Arabic disembarkment card. Apparently, she’d thought I was coming home too.

Things were only getting more recognisable by the time I went into the Arrivals Hall and saw a sea of expectant faces greeting me. I had a happy feeling that any moment I would be accosted by a taxi driver who would proceed to fleece me of the few Egyptian pounds I had.

And there he was.

“Madam, where do you want to go?”

“Four Seasons… uhm… Nile Plaza”

“Four Seasons, yaani? Ninety-five L.E.”

I did some mental arithematic and decided it wasn’t too bad if he was bent on fleecing me.

“Okay.”

He looked surprised. Mentally, I was laughing. There is something hilarious about a cheap Indian tourist being swindled by some other nationality.

“Cairo is like Bombay”

Maybe not, Cairo’s traffic can make Bombay go to a corner and whimper. And, then, for good measure, yell for its mummy. The taxi guy made his way through a three car wide pile-up at the toll gate (which, coincidentally could accomodate only one car at a time) in super quick time. I was peering through my fingers, half fascinated by how the cars whizzed past without seemingly ever using their indicators.

I was relieved when we reached the hotel (which, in turn looks like the Leela Kempinsky in Bombay) and couldn’t wait to open the door… right in the face of an Alsatian who was enthusiastically sniffing the car to check for contraband.

Whoops. I am not sure I was paying enough to permanently disable one of their sniffer dogs.

“Cairo is like Bombay.”

They screened my bags. They flashed big smiles at me. They didn’t wish me good day when they left the elevator. I even watched the Simpsons on the T.V.

Next up: Alexandria is like Cannes with acne.

A long time ago

They were young- their lives stretched before them. They were sensitive and idealistic. They felt like, just sometimes, it was them against the world. They shared dreams and despair, laughter and life.

Till it all changed. When one of them wanted to settle down and the other didn’t. When one asked for an answer and the other just wanted to run away- far away.

Things changed between them. She found other things to do, other friends to meet, other more pressing engagements. His words grated on her nerves, everything he said she shrugged off as just another one of his anachronistic phrases. She realised she was being unfair, but she couldn’t help it.

Years afterward, he points out to her that she isn’t getting any younger. If she doesn’t find someone soon, she will always be single.

She neglects to tell him, she sometimes thinks that her married life will mirror their friendship. And that tires her. She would rather be the beggar-woman and single, than be the queen and married.

Inspired by: Queen Elizabeth I & Lord Darnley

He loved her intensely. That was plain for the world to see.

She had only place for one great love in her life. And that was herself.

And yet, they built symphonies in stone for her. They still do.

Inspired by: The other Elisabeth- Empress Sisi of Austria & Emperor Franz Josef

Royalty and love just don’t seem to mix, do they?

Anusmaran was…

What was splashed everywhere

A perpetual giggle fest.

I’d been planning to go to London for work and just drop into the Hilton and meet up with old friends, but the work didn’t happen. Loathe to change my plans, I still took the Eurostar to Ole Blighty and met up with Baby Fighter to go for our reunion.

Baby’s been busy in his first year at London- he’s become the secretary of the Alumni Club (Not surprising- he never can take a day off from being super-enthu.) He often blames me for the same failing, so it hardly came as a surprise that we were amongst the first on the scene at the Hilton on 16th May.

I had a huge grin on my face.

There were a dozen guys from senior batches setting up the projector and setting up the banner, but I had made myself pretty useless in one corner.

People were filling up from the Batch of 2008 and I was really delighted. It felt like I wasn’t living in Europe cut off from my friends and we were regaling each other with stories.

Sheru apparently knew who I was only from my nametag. He’d spent the first 10 minutes merrily ignoring me. I got my revenge all right- he kept referring to his current employer as a “boutique M&A firm specialising in technology.” He really sounded like a consultant avoiding mention of his current client! The comparison hurt his i-banker ego a bit.

By the time the reunion started, we went and occupied the front table. And proceeded to make a ruckus fit to wake up the Devil himself. There were around 12 people crowded around a 8 person table and we were hooting and laughing the loudest.

Videos were aired- some brought a lump in our throat and some made us laugh till we cried.

Damn, I want to go back to IIMB.

After a full round of introductions from the approximately 80 people around the room (batch of 1983-2010), we had a flood of IIMA, IIMC and IIML junta for the pan-IIM alumni reunion.

And that was great too.

All in all, a disjointed post, but ye dil maange more Anusmarans!

Cheers!